Sword of Jashan (Book 2) (10 page)

If only Lord Callo would stay to be at the reception tonight, Ander knew he would feel much more at ease. But Callo said he had something of great importance to do, and it could not wait. Callo, Kirian and Chiss were leaving before noon. Ander forgave him; after all, Lord Callo had ridden out of his way and stayed with them for sennights to warn Ander about the danger he stood in from his uncle, King Martan—how could he quibble at a minor omission now?

He finished his morning routine, gathered his drawing supplies, and ran down the stairs. The manse was very quiet today. He heard no voices as he passed the breakfast room. He went out the door into the brilliant morning sunlight and came face to face with Shan-il.

Shan-il’s face broke into a grin as soon as he saw Ander.

“What?” Ander asked.

“You should see your expression.” The tutor’s black hair shone in the morning light. “Don’t worry. I am not here for lessons today.”

“I thought I was done with lessons.”

“What, because you are fifteen? No, my lord, I will be following you to Sugetre in fact. You never get finished with lessons. At least, not for years yet.”

Ander looked out toward the training ring. He saw a glint of light there, as of low, slanting sunlight on a blade. He lifted his drawing paper, showing it to Shan-il. “I will see you later, Hon Shan-il.”

“Wait. Where are the guardsmen your lady mother assigned you?”

Ander shrugged. “I am only going to the ring. I think Lord Callo is there, training for a while before he leaves.”

Shan-il looked down toward the ring. A crease appeared between his brows. “Yes? I really think you should take your guards if you will be at the ring with Lord Callo.”

“I am only going to draw him. Besides, Shan-il, surely you don’t mistrust Lord Callo?”

“I don’t know him well, that is all. Go ahead, my lord. I will send your guardsman.”

“Well, if you must.” The edge of anticipation was wearing off the day. He did not want to have a guard lurking in the corner of his eye every time he turned around. Yet, he knew he would have guards around him the rest of his life. He sighed and took his leave of Shan-il.

His feet were wet with dew by the time he had walked through the grass to the stone bench near the tree. He moved around for a few moments, working to get a clear view of the man practicing in the ring without having sunlight glaring into his eyes. Then he sat down and began to draw.

Lord Callo was deep in the ritual, his sword spinning and catching the sunlight. His arm flexed through motions of attack and defense. He moved with an athlete’s grace, but fast enough that Ander had difficulty putting anything down on paper. He struggled with this, discarding several ruined attempts, before he saw the guardsman Obin standing against the rail, watching Lord Callo and himself at the same time. A sudden irritation took hold of Ander. He put his charcoal down and walked over to the ring.

“Good morning, my lord,” said Obin. “I am sorry I was not here before. I never thought you’d be at the ring this morning of all mornings.”

“Yes, well, I wanted to draw.” He glared at Obin. “Alone.”

Lord Callo finished his form and walked over to the rail. “Good morning, my lord.”

“You are up early, Lord Callo,” Ander said.

“This is the best time for the ritual—with his sun just up, on a day like today. But it is cursed humid already. It will be unpleasant on our journey. Good morning, Hon Obin. Where is Hon Islarian?”

“I have not seen him.”

“He is usually here,” Callo said.

“Lord Callo—would you like a practice match?” Ander surprised himself with that request. He shoved his drawing paper and charcoal stick into Obin’s reluctant hands. “I am ready.”

“I see.” Callo grinned. He was all light today, without the brooding tension Ander had noticed in him sometimes. “All right, young lord. Get us some practice swords, will you? If it meets with your protector’s approval, that is.”

The guard shrugged. “With wooden swords, yes, my lord.”

Ander ran into the shed that stood within a few yards of the ring. It was used to store the practice swords and shields, various items of wool padding used for protection in training, and basic first aid supplies. Sometimes Islarian worked in here, sitting on one of the benches and instructing boys in how to care for their leather armor and weapons. Ander paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness of the interior. His eyes began to discern the bulk of the stand that held the wooden swords. He stepped toward it, tripped over something large, and went down.

He rolled away from the bulk on the dirt floor. His mind identified it as a body before his eyes could really see it. Then he made out the sprawled form of his weapons instructor, eyes wide open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. His tunic was saturated with blood and torn away from his chest, so that Ander could see the ugly wound where someone had stabbed up and under Islarian’s ribs to pierce his heart.

Ander yelped, but the sound was cut off by a hand that clamped over his mouth as another yanked him to his feet. “Not a sound,” growled a deep voice. “Or I’ll take care of you right here like I did him.”

Ander shut his mouth. His heartbeat took off and started racing in panic. His captor took the hand from his mouth, allowing Ander to gasp for air, but held a knife against his throat. Now that his eyes were fully adjusted, he could see two other men. One dragged Islarian’s body against a wall while the other stood, body flattened against the wall near the door, and looked outside.

“Where’s the other one?” demanded Ander’s captor.

“There’s two now,” whispered the man at the door. “The lord, and another one. They’re talking.”

The third man edged toward the door. He held a huge knife. “He’ll come in, in a minute, to find the boy.”

“The tall one is not to be touched,” Ander’s captor hissed. “Remember our orders.”

“I remember ’em as well as you. Mind your mouth, idiot. The kid’s a mage, remember?”

Ander had just barely remembered this himself. He began to reach for the color magery, but the cold line of the knife at his throat dissuaded him. His captor meant business; the knife was actually scraping the skin of his neck, ready to bite. There was no way he could call up the energies before the man could slit his throat.

“Together,” his captor said. “We’re going out, heading for the others. Move fast. They won’t dare attack us as long as we have a knife at his throat.”

Ander thought this was true. Past the slamming of his heart against his ribs he began to think of what Lord Callo might do, what Obin might do. His brain began to work again, slowly. He said, “Let me tell them not to interfere. I don’t want them hurt.” The knife caught him a little. A drop of blood trickled down his neck.

“Just shut up and do what you’re told.”

Ander felt a hand in the small of his back, urging him forward. The hand holding the knife at his throat gave him some room—just enough to move forward. He could no longer feel it on his skin, but it was still there. The strange men were all behind him, using him as a shield. He passed the door frame and stood once again in brilliant sunlight.

He could mark the instant they saw the men with him. Lord Callo’s sword was in his hand and he moved toward the strange men before Ander could draw a deep breath. Obin crouched and moved, fast and deadly. Then Ander’s captor shouted: “Hold! If you move I’ll slit his throat!” Both men froze.

Ander’s captor put the knife closer against his throat. “I mean it. Move and I’ll kill him. You two, take their swords and get them into the shed.”

The two intruders threw Lord Callo’s sword and Obin’s short blade out of their way, into the dust of the ring. Lord Callo was still, tension in every line of his body; his captor was wary, yanking Callo’s arms behind him and pulling out a leather cord.

“Not a move, color mage,” Ander’s captor warned Lord Callo. “If my man sees even a spark, I swear the young lord will be dead.”

So they knew Lord Callo was a color mage. Ander’s last hope fled. There would be no defense from that quarter, not while Lord Callo’s eyes were fixed on the knife at Ander’s throat. He would not use the color magery and risk Ander’s life. Ander felt his captor’s grip on his upper arm, strong as iron. He realized he was holding his breath, and gasped after air. The knife rasped against the skin of his throat.

The other two men shoved the guardsman into the shed. Ander stumbled as his own captor pulled him away, toward the line of trees on the far side of the meadow. Callo’s guard pushed him in the same direction. The morning sun, still at a low angle, shone into the first few yards of the forest and reflected off something metal. There were more armed men among the trees.

Ander wondered desperately where the Northgard patrols were. There had been no sign of a force of this size. The King’s men must have moved fast and stayed in the wooded hills, waiting to ambush him. Or, perhaps this was Sword of Jashan, and his own patrol had betrayed him—could that be? Ander heard a door close at the manse, heard someone call out. He prayed no one else would come down here and risk getting killed on his behalf.

Obin and Callo had vanished into the shed. Ander’s captor prodded him in the back with another weapon, roughly urging him on. Ander tried to think of something he could do, but nothing occurred to him. His brain could think of no escape.

Then the fear struck him.

A corner of his mind wondered why the panic had waited so long to strike. Then, all at once, he could not think at all. A whimper escaped from his throat, and his legs began to shake. Heedless of the knife at his throat, afraid of something far worse, he turned.

The knife was no longer there. His captor backed away. Ander could see the whites all around his irises. The man moaned something over and over—a prayer, perhaps. His hands were trembling so hard that Ander could see them shake.

Lord Callo stood near the doorway to the shed. His amber eyes were fixed on Ander’s captor. Someone shoved past him from the interior of the shed, making the
righ
lord stumble a little. It was one of the intruders, scrambling away in desperation, his face white as paper, the blade in his hand useless and forgotten. Ander heard a wail of terror from Obin, similarly afflicted.

Ander’s captor flinched away. Then he was on his knees. The knife fell from his hands into the dust. He shook as he scooted away from Ander.

Ander himself, filled with a terror he had never before experienced, shrieked and tried to run. He tripped over his own feet and sprawled flat on the ground. There his panicked brain gave up, and he froze in a misery of fear.

Someone ran away, toward the woods. It was the second intruder, scared out of sense. The first had not reappeared out of the shed. Ander did not know what was so terrifying, but his heart was beating in a rapid pace that made it hard to breathe.

A hand appeared in his field of vision, pulling up on his captor’s tunic. It was Lord Callo’s hand; he hauled the intruder to his feet and pulled him away from Ander.

“It’s all right,” Lord Callo said in a flat tone of voice. “Ander, it’s all right.”

Just like that, the fear was gone. Ander sat in the dust and stared at Lord Callo. Obin ran out of the shed and struck his sword against the metal disc at the ring, raising the alarm. In just moments, men began to muster from the Hunters’ quarters and from the house.

Lord Callo whipped a leather cord around the intruder’s wrists. He extended a hand and Ander grasped it, letting Lord Callo pull him to his feet.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

His former captor pulled experimentally at his bonds. “That’s two of us,” he said. “What in all the hells was that?”

“Shut up,” Obin said, coming back to relieve Lord Callo of his prisoner. He shoved the man away from both of the
righ,
letting the man trip into the dirt again. “Get on your feet, you damned slime.” When the man struggled to his feet again, Obin yanked him away.

Mounted Northgard men were streaming toward the tree line where there were signs of a hurried retreat. Ander took a deep breath. It seemed he was safe after all, though he had no idea how. He looked up at Callo’s face. The man looked exhausted. He would not meet Ander’s questioning gaze. Ander walked over into the ring and picked up both of the swords that lay there, returning Callo’s to him hilt first.

“Thank you, Lord Ander,” said Callo. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. But Islarian is dead.” Ander heard the quiver in his own voice and took in a deep gulp of air, trying to stop the trembling that now threatened to overcome him.

A small group of mounted men pulled up before them. “My lords. Are you both all right?”

“Somehow, yes,” Ander said. He cast a sideways glance at Lord Callo, who had not responded.

“We must get you up to the house,” the man said. Without waiting for a horse to be brought, the man began to lift him bodily up onto his own horse. Callo helped, shoving Ander up. Then they were away, Ander grabbing onto the man’s mailed body to keep himself from jouncing over the horse’s rump, feeling like a child again but grateful to be on his way to safety. Two other horsemen galloped beside him, blades drawn, looking to the outside to protect him from further attack. From the corner of his eye Ander saw battle joined along the tree line, horses surging toward each other as the men on their backs raised spears or swords in attack. A surge of fire told him there was a color mage there; it must be Lord Zelan, unless Callo had already made it down from the ring to the tree line.

The main door of the manse swung open. Guards manned the gate, bristling with weapons. One of them put a hand on his shoulder and hustled him inside. He would have protested but he was too glad to see the heavy door close behind him. The interior hall was dim, shuttered for defense.

“Lady Dria Mar is on the top floor,” a man told him. “She is waiting for you, my lord.”

“Thank you.” He began to take the stairs two at a time, anxious to look out the west-facing windows and measure the status of the fight taking place by the trees.

Upstairs, Lady Dria Mar sat in a group of others who had been directed there for their safety. She wore a scarlet tunic and a gold underdress, in the city style. Gold clips kept her nest of black curls tight to her head. She smiled when she saw Ander.