The Sword and the Dragon (The Wardstone Trilogy Book One) Read online

  Flick was opposite her, across Trent’s body. He pushed the two sides of the gash together and held them in place, while Shaella’s magical glow moved slowly across the wound. Gerard watched breathlessly. He was awed by the spectacle. He couldn’t decide what impressed him more: the fact that he was a witnessing actual magic, real magic like the stuff in Berda’s stories, or the fact that it was Shaella using it. No wonder she knew he had used the ring on Dennly. He smiled at the thought, knowing now that she had kissed him that first time on her own.

  As the light from her palm passed over Trent’s gut, the wound grafted itself together. It scabbed quickly under the light, and before the glow had left, a fat pink scar formed there. It was as if a whole season’s worth of healing was happening in a brief instant.

  Cole must have heard Gerard’s breath catch. His long neck craned at an almost impossible angle, and his eyes locked on Gerard’s briefly. Gerard shuddered. The man’s eyes seemed cold and empty.

  Cole spoke a few sharp words to Shaella. She continued what she was doing for a moment, and then the glow suddenly disappeared. She responded harshly to Cole. Gerard couldn’t hear the exchange, but he sensed that it was about him.

  Her tone softened as she spoke a few words to Flick, then she rose, and came towards Gerard, with a forced smile on her face.

  For a fleeting moment, her eyes seemed as dead and lifeless as Cole’s had. Gerard dismissed it as his imagination, or a trick of the wavering firelight. She looked fine now, save for the blood that stained her arms to the elbows. She smiled up at him, while biting her bottom lip. To Gerard, she was beauty incarnate. Her eyes became pinpoints of seduction, and even had he wanted to, there was no way he could’ve resisted her at that moment.

  “Come,” she softly commanded. “We don’t have much time.”

  She led him to the water, a place far enough away from the camp that the firelight didn’t quite reach them. The Moon was dim, but Gerard had no trouble seeing her milky white skin, as she unlashed her leather armor vest, and shrugged it away. She rinsed her arms in the water, and then unlaced her leather britches. Her breasts were apple sized, with puffy pink areola, the size of a coin. Gerard felt the hardness of her nipples through his shirt, when she pressed herself against him. Her arms went behind him, and pulled his shirt up. She giggled when it caught there. He had to fumble with the lacings to get it clear of his head. When he finally had it off, and could see again, she was moving away from him, back towards the water. She had taken off her pants. Her perfectly formed buttocks jiggled lightly as she went. The sight of it, made him so hard, that he could barely unlaced his britches.

  He joined her in the river. She was at a place that was neck deep. It was cold, and he would’ve grown soft, had she not taken his manhood in her hand, and begun to squeeze and pull at it under the water. She kissed him, and with her free hand, she moved one of his hands to her breast. Her nipples were like tiny pebbles. He moved his other hand between her legs and felt her heat, even in the chilly water. He wanted more than anything to be inside her then. He was completely under her spell.

  She found that she wanted him there too. So much so, that she had to force herself to distance the moment in her mind. He had a purpose to serve, she reminded herself. He was a toy. No, he was a tool. She would be done with him before long, and continuing this would only serve to make it harder to lose him later. He was different though. There was something about him. He wasn’t a boring noble-born prude or an ignorant farmer. Nor was he a gruff and hardened fighter, or an oily thief. She had never known this type of man. He, as boyish as he seemed at times, was a grown man. The proof was right there in her hand.

  Gripping him, the ache to have him inside her filled her mind again. The way his fingers moved deftly inside her was driving her mad with desire. His kisses were hot, and his tongue insistent. She felt a wave of relief, mixed with regret, when he shuddered against her. He wrapped his arms around her, and clinched her buttocks tightly as he came. His intensity caused the tremors in her belly to quake through her as well. When she finally found herself again, she had to force the anger out of her expression. What was she doing? She didn’t have time to feel for this man. She didn’t have time to feel at all.

  “We must go now,” she said, rather flatly, into Gerard’s dreamy daze.

  He didn’t want to let go of her. He felt that he would’ve drowned himself in the lake then and there if she only asked him to. Confused by her blank expression, he reluctantly released her, and followed her out of the water.

  They rode through the night again and all of the next day. Dennly, and the other Valleyan, hadn’t returned the previous night, so it was only the six of them heading south down the river road. The swell of the river was so wide, that Gerard lost sight of the opposite shore that first night. He had a hard time thinking of that body of water as a river. The shoreline forced them on a south easterly course for some time. The Belly was a massive swell, but eventually, its width narrowed again, and the road resumed its place at the flowing river’s side. It was nearly full dark at that point, so Shaella stopped them for the night.

  Throughout the day, Shaella hadn’t said a word to Gerard. He had watched her though. She had a firm command of the group. Cole and Flick sometimes bickered with her, but would obviously follow her to the ends of the world. Ultimately, they were all so obedient, that it seemed to Gerard that she had some sort of spell cast over them. None of them seemed weak though.

  Cole and Flick were both imposing and strange. The robes they wore were split up the front and fastened together with little bone buttons painted black to match the material they were made from. Under the robes, they wore loose fitting pants and vests, made of the skin of some scaled creature that Gerard had never seen before. The scales looked small, but they were bright and glittery. The two magi wore boots decorated with more pieces of bone; they seemed too large for their feet.

  Greyber kept to himself. It was clear that he would have no problem wielding the huge two-handed sword that was slung over his back.

  Apparently, Seawardsmen didn’t wear clothing above the waist. At least Gerard could never remember seeing one do so. The tattoo-covered warrior wore ordinary deerskin britches, and good, Valleyan horse-hide boots, just like the ones Hyden had bought for him. Steel-plated gauntlets covered the big man’s arms, from wrist to elbow, but otherwise, he wore no armor.

  Trent had looked deathly pale throughout the morning. His chain mail shirt was laid across his horse’s back, behind the saddle. Through the tear in his shirt, Gerard could tell that his wound was no longer bleeding. By evening, the man had regained some of his color. Now that the camp was set, he seemed even better, as if the light of the cook fire had finished the healing that Shaella’s magic had started. He made a jest over Greyber’s so-called road stew that caused the big man to smile through his gloom.

  Gerard was so tired from the long ride, that he didn’t have time to wonder if Shaella would come to him in the night. He thought about going to her briefly, after he’d eaten a share of Greyber’s concoction, but the thought was consumed by exhaustion and the warmth of the food in his belly. Only moments after he had eaten, he fell into a deep heavy sleep.

  The next morning, Shaella woke him with a kiss, but it’s sweetness was lost in the commotion of the breaking camp.

  He was starting to feel as if she were ignoring him. The feeling grew stronger as the day wore on. He caught her eyeing him once, but her strange expression only caused him to worry more.

  Finally, late in the day, he used the power of his ring to get her attention. He silently told her that she should come and kiss him. The wonderful feel of the ring’s magic in his veins was nearly eclipsed by her sudden appearance at his side. She guided her horse alongside of his, and then she leaned over, and kissed his cheek.

  “You’re wicked,” she whispered to him. “You need not use your great magic to get a kiss from me, my young warlock. Just ask.”

  He wanted to feel her agai
nst him, to smell her hair while he held her in his arms; to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin.

  “When are we making camp?”

  She blushed, despite herself, at the obvious undertone of the question. She thought she had distanced herself beyond such foolish feelings, but apparently she hadn’t.

  “We’re not stopping,” she decided, as she said it. “We’ll ride, at least until we cross the Everflow River into Wildermont.”

  His expression showed his disappointment. His look touched her deep inside, and that scared her. She was supposed to be a sorceress of the dark. She was supposed to be cold and ruthless, like her marsh-witch mother had been; like her father was. But hadn’t her mother loved once? A wicked enough thought crossed her mind. Didn’t a cat love to taunt and tease the mouse, before devouring it? Gerard could be her mouse. She leaned in close to him then, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “We will be able to lodge at an inn when we reach Castlemont. We can have a private room all to ourselves.”

  He smiled at the prospect of having her alone like that. He could only imagine the possibilities. It didn’t matter though. He could wait forever, as long as he knew she would be there when the wait was over.

  “What’s it like?” he asked.

  At first, she thought he was still being lascivious. Then she recalled that he was from the mountain clans and had never even seen a real town, much less the grandest city in the entire realm. He was asking about Castlemont, the capital city of the Kingdom of Wildermont. She smiled at him as she answered.

  “We will be at the town known as High Crossing soon. That is where we will cross a river called the Everflow. The river separates the Leif Greyn Valley from Wildermont. High Crossing is more of a village than a town. As we pass through, imagine a place more than a thousand times as big, with buildings built on top of other buildings, and towers that reach all the way up into the sky, like the Spire.”

  He asked about the people and their ways, and she answered him as best as she could. Money, it seemed, was what made one strong in the kingdom cities. He understood. It was just a larger, more permanent version of the Summer’s Day Festival. He couldn’t wait to get there and see it all for himself.

  Night settled on them quickly. The sky was gray and cloudy, the early summer air thick and warm. The bridge that Shaella had spoken of seemed to come up out of nowhere. It was wide enough for two wagons to cross at the same time.

  The roar of the dark river that churned swiftly under the span filled Gerard’s ears. The bridge was a lot longer than it had looked at first. It took a few minutes for the horses to trot all the way across it. The bridge didn’t cross the Leif Greyn. It spanned a smaller river that met the bigger flow there. Gerard could only imagine the skill and the time it had taken to build such a thing. It amazed him. Even in the dim light of the few lanterns that wavered at intervals along the span, he could see that the stonework was carefully crafted. The flowers and leaves carved into the retaining wall that lined each side of the bridge looked almost real, and the gargoyles that held the lantern poles seemed to snarl and growl as he passed them.

  “Why are there none of these buildings on the other side of the river?” he asked as they entered the village of High Crossing.

  “We just left the sacred valley,” she answered. “It’s still considered sacrilege to build or claim land there; but this side of the river belongs to King Jarrek. Welcome to Wildermont.”

  Just then, a dozen or so armored horsemen emerged from the shadows. Gerard didn’t even hear the jingle of their tack as they moved to block their passage.

  Light could be seen coming from a few of the windowed buildings that lined the road, but most of the structures were only hulking shapes in the darkness. A nervous looking man brandishing a torch strode out of the building nearest the end of the bridge and motioned for them to halt. Cole, who had been leading the group while Shaella rode with Gerard, turned and looked back at her sharply as he reined his horse in.

  “A copper a man, or a silver for the lot of ye to pass,” the old toll man called out. The presence of the soldiers on the road lent confidence to his voice.

  Shaella spurred her horse up to the old man.

  “Here!” she snapped, as she flipped him a silver coin. “If King Jarrek is too poor to make change, then I’m the Queen of Westland,” she added with a chuckle.

  Cole and Flick both gave her a warning look.

  “We would have you come with us!” a commanding voice boomed at them. It was the Captain of the Redwolf Guard troop, who was now completely blocking their way.

  From his place at the rear of their group, Gerard saw Greyber’s hand reach up over his shoulder to his sword’s hilt. He looked again at the men blocking the road. Bright polished plate armor and shiny chain mail reflected back at him in the torch light. Above the soldiers, a stalking wolf’s silhouette danced crazily in the wind on a fluttering crimson banner. Even the horses they rode were strapped with leather and steel. The idea that Graber would even think of drawing his blade against men such as these, made his stomach clench. What was about to happen here?

  As beautiful as Shaella was, and as much as he wanted her, and as much as he wanted to be on this grand adventure, Gerard suddenly found that the only place he really wanted to be was home.

  Chapter 19

  Lord Gregory spent the whole of the day learning why the plant Vaegon prepared for him was called Squat Weed. He had to make for the bushes so many times throughout the day, that he was walking bow legged, and crying openly from the soreness. Worse than that, up in the northern reaches of the Leif Greyn Valley, there weren’t very many bushes. Modesty wasn’t an option, when the only features of the landscape were rock-strewn hills and shin high grass.

  The people of the Skyler Clan pitied the Lion Lord. The Westlander had thrilled them with not one, but two great Brawls in the last few years. To see him in such a state was heart wrenching. They, without a doubt, respected him, and if Hyden thought to help the man, they wouldn’t intervene. But for reasons other than the fact that his frequent stops were slowing their progress, they decided to leave Hyden, Lord Lion and the elf to travel at their own pace.

  “That Guard Captain was paying far too much attention to our friend,” Vaegon said. He and Hyden were walking side by side, leading Lord Gregory, who was slumped in his saddle.

  “Why do you insist on talking about me as if I’m not even here?” Lord Gregory shot weakly. “It’s maddening.”

  “The men of the kingdoms think in different ways than I do,” Hyden replied to Vaegon absently.

  His attention was focused on Talon. The bird was trying to chase an insect that was darting through the air in short, zagging spurts. It seemed that the bug was mocking Talon. Talon couldn’t change direction as quickly as the insect could, nor could he stop and hover. He could barely fly, and the poor bird was growing frustrated. Finally, Talon gave up and flew off in a different direction, leaving the irritating bug seemingly forgotten.

  “He will tell his superior officers that I’m alive and where we’re going,” Lord Gregory spoke again. “It isn’t wise to...wise to…Oh blast that fargin stuff you gave me, elf! Help me down again! Hurry now!”

  Vaegon did so. He turned his back to the Lion Lord and watched Hyden watching Talon as Lord Gregory noisily handled his business.

  Talon hadn’t lost interest in the bug after all. It had been a trick. Hyden was absorbed in the ordeal now. He could feel what Talon was feeling, but only in the back of his mind. Still, it was exciting to feel the bird’s eagerness to get his taunting prey.

  Talon was higher up now, circling, watching and calculating. Suddenly, he dived, wings back, neck outstretched, eyes focused sharply. He was coming down fast and at a sharp angle. The insect buzzed along from place to place, lazily now, since it no longer felt the presence of the pesky and clumsy young bird. It had no idea that its doom was swiftly swooping in from above. Talon adjusted his little wings a bit, and then t
hrust out his claws. In one fleeting movement, he came out of the sky, and snatched the insect. It hadn’t had a chance. The bug was crushed in the bird’s grip instantly. A few moments later, after munching his prize, and swallowing it down, Talon reared back his head, and let out what was intended to be a proud, fierce shriek. It sounded more like a long, thin squawk to Hyden, but he didn’t dare laugh.

  “Is there no mercy left for me?” Lord Gregory wailed miserably from where he was squatting down in the grass.

  “He needs a lot of water now,” Vaegon said. “Much more than we can carry.”

  “One of the streams that flow into the main river isn’t too far,” Hyden told him. “My people will cross a lot farther upstream. When they do, they will leave the Redwolf soldiers they hired behind. If we go across now, we will be able to avoid crossing paths with that greedy captain you spoke of.” The last was directed at Lord Gregory.

  Vaegon nodded his agreement.

  “In the lore of my people, there are stories of men like you Hyden Hawk, men who bond with the creatures of the world. Those types of men grow to be very powerful, and their actions tend to have a great impact upon all of the lands.” The elf paused searching for the words he wanted. “Are you – No – Do you feel such a power brewing inside you?”

  The question caught Hyden off guard. He thought briefly of the old fortune teller’s words and the words of his grandfather back at the harvest lodge.

  “I feel Talon’s instincts in my mind sometimes, but nothing more.”

  “I would rather you left me for dead,” Lord Gregory interrupted.

  He was back on his feet, walking with his legs stiff, and making an obvious effort to keep them from rubbing too close together. His buttocks were raw and chafed, and one of his shoulders was swollen to twice the size of the other. He was so pale, that if he stood still long enough he could pass for a stone statue. All in all, he looked to be on the verge of death, which truthfully he was.