Sword's Call (26 page)

“No.” Jorrin’s tone was so vehement his father’s eyebrows lifted. No one was going to talk him out of going in the great hall.

He
would
save Cera.

Braedon sighed again as their eyes locked.

Jorrin didn’t give a damn if his father thought his emotions would inhibit him.

Rescuing Cera was the
only
option.

“Fine. I’ll grab the lad and contain him. The rest of you attack.”

“That’s better,” Jorrin muttered.

Braedon looked like he’d add something, but then just shook his head.

“I shall not be able to control Trikser when we enter the hall.” Hadrian swiped at the sweat on his bushy brow.

“Order him to stay by my side. I’ll take him to Cera, free her and get her a weapon,” Jorrin said.

Hadrian exchanged a look with Braedon, but nodded at Jorrin.

Jorrin narrowed his eyes and swallowed a growl. He didn’t need his father’s approval. He needed to get into the great hall.

“I want the one who has my father,” Avery snarled.

“I’ll stun the lad and quickly rejoin you,” Braedon said.

Jorrin and Avery drew their swords in answer, and Hadrian broke his physical hold on Trikser, bringing his wand into view.

The four companions exchanged one last look and charged into the great hall.

Chapter Twenty-one

King Nathal was a big man. However, at the moment he’d never felt more insignificant as he sat upon his large white warhorse, Destroyer.

His army was still out of sight as he looked down upon the large Province of Tarvis, disguised by magic and geography.

The foothills would keep them out of sight as long as they desired, but it didn’t make him feel any better about the task he had to carry out.

On his right, Lord Dugald Dagget sat on an ash-gray stallion almost as large as Destroyer, the sun glinting off his embossed chest plate. He wore the colors of his Province, the dark brown breeches and bright green collar peeking out from his armor. The hues were also present in the Berat seal on his shield and saddle. His shoulder-length dark hair was mussed from the helm tucked under his arm instead of being worn. His hazel eyes were sharp as he surveyed the scene before them.

Nathal had always been fond of the Duke of Berat, but he missed Falor Ryhan. They’d grown up together, trained together, been made knights together.

He looked to his left, the usual spot of Lord Everett Lenore, another boyhood comrade, and was once again reminded neither of his friends rode at his side.

One he had to rescue; the other he would never ride with again.

Not to mention the missing fourth of their boyhood tribe, the captain of his personal guard, Sir Murdoch Fraser. Gone on a mission to the penal colony of Dalunas. It couldn’t be helped, but
damn
.

He had good men at his side, no doubt, but not the ones he desired.

Lord Paxton Gallard, the Lord of Ascova, rode on his left astride his dark bay gelding. His short black hair hidden by his helm, his armor was just as elaborate as Nathal’s, the etched scrollwork showcasing the talent of his head blacksmith. The man’s work was sought out all over the continent. Rarely was it matched.

The deep red of North Ascova was woven in with the navy blue of South Ascova and present in Paxton’s breeches and tunic, as well as his double-colored gauntlets. His naturally golden skin and dark eyes were typical of Ascovans, though he was a bit pale, owing both to age and their present circumstances.

By donning both colors, the duke represented a unified front of his once-shattered Province. Paxton, oldest of the three men, but also a man Nathal had long considered a good friend, also had his eyes glued on Tarvis below them.

“Do you think my Tristan was able to accomplish his goals, my liege?” Dugald asked, taking Nathal from thoughts of his companions and their vast histories together.

“Let us hope so.” Nathal nodded for effect. He hadn’t received any word from the lad in more than a sevenday.

Dugald was worried about his youngest son, and admittedly, so was Nathal.

“Yes, or our children shall never see their wedding,” Lord Gallard said.

His youngest daughter, Aimil, had been betrothed to Tristan Dagget from the cradle.

Nathal could remember signing the agreement as though it was only yesterday. Both third born.

“My Aimil has had her heart set on him for quite some time,” Paxton said with a small smile the king was able to mirror.

Arranged marriages were quite common, but it was much better when some love went along with the bond. King Nathal himself was not embarrassed to be widely known to adore his queen. “I hope we can get Tristan out of this alive so he will not disappoint his young bride.”

Young Lady Gallard was one of his Riders. Ranked Senior, like Cera, and one of his best archers, as well.

“I have faith in my son,” Dugald said.

“Aye, Dugald, as do I—else I never would’ve allowed his undertaking of this task, no matter how close he was to Falor.” Nathal tried to smile at him.

Something flickered in Dugald’s hazel eyes, but was soon gone. The tall duke was once again battle-ready, looking down at Tarvis along with his companions. He was a good man, adored by all five of his children.

Not as close to either Paxton or Dugald as Nathal had been to Falor and was to Everett, he could still rely on both dukes. Neither had hesitated when he’d called upon them. Both meant more to Nathal than merely their positions as leaders of two of his Provinces. They were good men, who loved their families and never failed to do what was right. And putting Varthan down was
more
than right.

Hoof beats pounded toward them.

Nathal turned Destroyer, hand on the hilt of his sword, his two companions following suit. He didn’t relax until he recognized the buckskin mare heading toward them at a speed that made his mount shift nervously. Patting Destroyer’s neck, he felt powerful muscles ripple under his fingertips.

Another pang hit. Murdoch should have been riding toward them on a huge black stallion, long red hair flying.

“Your Majesty, my lords,” Sir Leargan Tegran said, inclining his head when his mare had reached them.

One of Nathal’s personal guard, Leargan was an adequate fill-in for his longtime friend. He was very fond of the dark-haired young man, who’d been raised in his castle’s household as a ward, brought up destined for a knighthood—which the lad had achieved two turns ago.

Nathal had kept Leargan close to his side since they’d left Terraquist.

Rather un-king like, but Nathal had ranted about Murdoch’s absence the day they had prepared to leave. His captain had been gone for most of the sevenday.

Even if Nathal had sent his fastest messenger to retrieve him, Murdoch and his men couldn’t have gotten back in time.

He’d had to leave without him.

Murdoch would hate missing this mission. He’d never been fond of Varthan, even before he’d betrayed Nathal.

“Leargan. What news have you?” Nathal asked.

“Myself and two others have checked the Province. It’s as Lord Lenore’s messenger reported. They’ve successfully evacuated the entire Province.”

“Were you intercepted?” Paxton asked.

“No, milord.” Leargan inclined his head to the Duke of Ascova.

“What did you see?” Dugald asked.

Leargan looked to the king for permission, and Nathal nodded.

“We didn’t travel beyond the gates of Castle Lenore, but from what we were able to see of the courtyard, Lord Lenore’s guard did not survive.” Leargan’s dark eyes widened, his young face flushed and he squared his mail-covered shoulders. Emotions flickered across his face. The seal of Terraquist—a fierce lion surrounded by a bright blue shield painted on the knight’s chest plate—caught Nathal’s eye. If the lion could have roared in agony, he would have.

Pure anguish threatened to overtake Nathal. His stomach roiled, he sucked in air. He’d known each and every one of Everett’s men. He’d trained them, shaped them, and even appointed at least two of the knights to Everett’s personal guard. Like all his knights, he viewed them as his children.

Their murders made Varthan’s betrayal hurt all the more.

“Bring my mages,” Nathal ordered, his tone rough.

Leargan nodded curtly as their gazes locked. “Right away, your Highness.”

Paxton let out a litany of curses. “What of Everett himself?”

“We’ll find out, Paxton, but instinct tells me if Varthan has Falor’s daughter, Everett and Emeralda are alive.” Nathal made eye contact with his friend.

The lord’s dark eyes went black, his naturally golden skin paling. “Let us hope Lady Ryhan is also alive.”

“Oh, of that, I have no doubt.” Nathal gave a small smile.

Even as a small child, Ceralda Ryhan had been a spitfire. Nathal was proud to have her as a member of his Riders. She had a wide variety of skills to her credit.

“There are no guarantees,” Dugald said. “We never thought he’d go after Falor and his family.”

Nathal nodded reluctantly. “Aye, but I
can
guarantee that Varthan will not live to see the gallows. He
will
be a casualty of this battle.” Both his companions nodded, and Nathal’s grip on Destroyer’s reins tightened. Although he could not see them, his knuckles were white inside his Terraquist-blue gauntlets. He forced himself to relax his grip and turned, once again, at the sound of approaching hoof beats.

Leargan led two other riders.

Nathal was quick to recognize two of the four mages with them. Rory Leodin, most powerful of the four, sat on a black stallion and inclined his head to the king and two lords.

His strawberry blond hair shifted in the light breeze, his light green eyes keen with interest. Both the colors were a contrast to those of Terraquist blue that covered him from head to foot.

Between him and Leargan sat Edana, Rory’s twin sister, and the only female mage in Nathal’s entourage. She was a dainty little thing with bright red-orange hair and big, dark green eyes. She looked even smaller astride her huge red roan stallion, but Nathal had no concerns about her abilities as either a horse master or as a mage. The cape around her thin shoulders was also the bright blue of Terraquist, but her tunic and breeches were black, the color Nathal had most often seen her in.

The siblings were half-elfin and had come to Nathal seeking protection from some rustics, most likely outlaws, trying to kill them just because of their heritage. That had been ten long turns ago, when they were small children. The king had been happy to shelter them, and ended up keeping them in his service when their talents had been discovered. Fortunately, they’d agreed to stay in Terraquist. They were both valuable members of his army.

Edana had keen senses, even sharper than her brother’s.

Nathal turned to her first to gauge her reaction of the scene below them. He made eye contact with her as she smiled, sitting taller in her saddle and tucking an errant strand of bright hair behind her long, tapered ear.

“I sense very little magic at work right now, my liege. However, there are very powerful magical beings inside the castle . . . not all bad.”

“Tristan is there,” Nathal said.

“No . . . it’s not only Lord Dagget,” Edana said, her face contorting. She glanced at her brother.

“I sense him, too,” Rory said, and Edana’s shoulders eased.

“Who?” Nathal asked, forcing his impatience away.

“An elf . . .” the siblings said at the same time.

Nathal exchanged glances with the two lords and met Edana’s unusual emerald eyes, “Evil?”

“No.” The word was rushed. “More . . . one like us.” Edana looked at her brother, eyes wide. “Also a source of good magic . . .”

“And I sense an empath . . .” Rory added, cocking his head, confusion written in his expression. “He is not elfin.”

Edana nodded. “Both very powerful.” She exchanged another look with her brother.

“Allies?” Dugald asked.

“They are not evil.” Edana nodded.

“What of Lady Ryhan?” Paxton asked.

“I sense her, which means she’s alive,” Edana said. “I cannot tell you more than that. The Lenores are alive, including the heir. I see his magic as well.”

“Shades?” Nathal asked.

“There are three . . . but . . .” Edana made a face. She closed her eyes, small chest riding and falling as she relaxed.

Her brother grasped her arm and shook her in her saddle.

“Edana, no. He’ll see you,” Rory said.

She blinked large green eyes and stared. “But that’s the thing,” she whispered, as if she was speaking to herself. “He’s not what he appears to be . . .”

“Tristan?” Nathal asked.

“No. Not the healer. The shade,” Edana said, her tone sounding like she didn’t comprehend her own words.

Nathal sighed, but knew from experience she needed to work it out in her mind before she could present it to him.

“I’m not afraid he will sense me, brother. He’s not evil.”

“A shade who is not evil?” Paxton sputtered, disbelief in his tone as he looked over the young half-elf.

“Yes. Rory?” Edana reached for her brother’s hand.

Rory smiled and intertwined his fingers with hers.

Nathal had seen it dozens of times. They were going to probe. The young half-elfin mages had better not get caught.

He had total confidence in their skill, but Varthan had the best of his collection with him. If a shade with sensitivity to equal Edana’s was inside, she’d better be damned sure he was not evil. Nathal scratched his head. Paxton was right, a non-evil shade was laughable.

Watching them, Nathal was glad Leargan had brought the twins, instead of Afton and Dagon. Though his other two mages were very skilled, Edana and Rory worked better cohesively.

Two sets of wide green eyes opened and refocused on their companions.

Although it was only minutes, Nathal released a sigh and sat taller in his saddle.

“We remain undetected,” Rory said, expelling his breath. “I don’t think he sensed us, but I agree with my sister: the shade is not evil.”

“Did you gather any more information?”

“Yes, Majesty.” Edana looked at her brother so he would continue.