The Kinshield Legacy (38 page)

What the hell? How would he have known that unless... Risan. Gavin hoped to hell the blacksmith was still alive.

“I must say I’m surprised,” Toren continued. “You don’t strike me as a man capable of stringing two thoughts together, let alone understanding something as profound and complex as the King’s Runes.”

“Been talking to the blacksmith, eh?” Gavin took the glove from under his saddle. “Is he in there? I heard a scream.”

“A scream? Oh, that. I apologize for alarming you. My companion has been shrieking with laughter.”

“Where’s Stronghammer?” Gavin started pulling the leather glove onto his left hand.

“That hardly matters now, does it? But that sword he made for you is unnatural. If you were going to live long enough to see it, I would advise you to throw it into the sea like you did Ravenkind’s precious bauble.” At Gavin’s raised brow, Toren smiled. “Yes, Kinshield. I know quite a bit about you.”

“Speaking of baubles,” Gavin said, “I’ll take Calewen’s Pendant back now.”

Toren raised his brows. “You lost it? That’s a shame. What makes you think I have it?”

“You sent the wench to steal it from me.”

Toren laughed. “Gavin, really. If I’d wanted to take it from you, I could have just put a sword through your chest. But I’m like you — a warrant knight, not a thief.”

“You’re nothing like me,” Gavin spat. “I branded her in Sohan. She told me all about it.”

“She’s a whore and a thief. Of course she’d lie and blame someone else. If not me, then Domach or Calinor.”

Gavin relaxed his gaze and watched Toren’s dull gray haze. The colors were starting to make more sense.
Ill intent. That’s what the gray means.
“Are you telling me you never seen it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

A murky cloud grew on Toren’s haze at the level of his forehead. It hovered for a moment and faded away.

Gavin climbed down from Golam’s back. “One benefit of solving the runes, Meobryn — I can tell you’re lying. Tell me where Stronghammer is.”

Toren smiled patiently and shook his head. “My client pays for my discretion as well as for protection. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Throw your weapons to the ground and take a brand for the—”

“I had nothing to do with Stronghammer’s abduction,” Toren said, raising his palms.

“The brand’s for the theft of Calewen’s Pendant.”

Toren stiffened. “You can’t brand me. I hold a warrant from the Lordover—”

“I was hoping you’d refuse.” Gavin drew his sword.

Daia pulled her mount to the left side of the black coach and stopped. “Sithral Tyr, step out of the coach.”

The Nilmarion squeezed out, closing the door quickly behind him. As before, he wore black head to toe, but now a pair of scabbards hung at his hip. He held his hands up. “What have I done?” he asked, his empty eyes wide with mock innocence, his accent lyrical, charming.

“Where’s Risan Stronghammer?”

“Who? I’m sorry, I don’t know that name. I recognize you, though. You’re the young lady I sat next to at the Lucky Inn a week or so ago. If I remember correctly, you... oh. Yes, I remember now where I heard that name. The tale about a Farthan blacksmith solving the King’s Runes. Don’t tell me you believed that ludicrous tale.” He laughed.

Daia climbed down from her horse and drew her sword. “Where is he?”

Tyr gestured to the empty coach. “As you can see, he’s not here. You’ve made a mistake.”

She’d heard someone call her name. “Who’s in there?”

“No one’s in there,” Tyr said. “Now, if all your questions are asked and answered, I’d like to be on my way.”

“Open the door. Let me ascertain that all’s well, and I’ll let you proceed.”

“Be my guest,” Tyr said, gesturing toward the door. He stepped away from the coach and held his palms up.

When Daia reached for the door handle, she heard a ring. From the corner of her eye, the flash of steel glinted in the sunlight. She turned, angling her blade toward him. He held in his hands not one sword but two.

Toren drew his short sword and stepped into a defensive stance. While Gavin’s blade was longer, it was also heavier. Against an equally matched opponent, he would tire sooner. Gavin lowered his sword to his favored mid-guard position and flexed his gloved hand around the grip.

“You’re making a mistake, Kinshield. You’ll lose your warrant for this.”

“Killing you’ll be worth it.” He beckoned with his right hand for Toren to come.

Toren jabbed lightly with his sword, like a poke with his finger against Gavin’s chest an insult to provoke an attack. Gavin flicked the tip of his sword, deflecting Toren’s blade to the outside. His ears rang with the shriek of steel kissing steel. Toren parried hard, yanking Gavin up close. Toren’s breath smelled like a fly-swarming slop bucket. Gavin threw a right hooking blow to Toren’s jaw. Two battlers pushed back to sword distance.

“Damn, Meobryn. Ever hear of a teethbrush?” Gavin asked.

Toren swung, his blade aimed at Gavin’s throat. Silver flashed and clanged and screeched as their blades met and swept against each other. Toren was stronger than Gavin had given him credit for. This fight wouldn’t end quickly. Gavin blocked Toren’s overhead swing with a hanging guard. He swept the blade around his head for a strong slice to Toren’s face. Their blades clashed, shrieked, clashed again. The battlers’ labored breathing grew louder. Gavin’s muscles began to burn. Toren swung a downward blow at Gavin’s chest. Gavin parried it aside and swung at Toren’s arms. Toren parried, then lunged at Gavin’s chest. Gavin blocked, thrust at Toren’s face. Both men grew sluggish, their breathing ragged. As they danced and swung, parried, jabbed, their free fists and feet struck out, along with a hissed breath, a grunt, a snarl of anger.

Toren stepped back and held up a hand. “We have time... to kill each other... No hurry... Let’s pause... for a minute.”

Gavin made no move to lower his blade.

“Kinshield,” Toren huffed, “allow me... one honorable trait. I am no coward.”

Gavin tipped his blade back to rest on his shoulder. He wouldn’t have asked for a respite, but he was glad to have one. Toren bent over, propping his left hand against his thigh, and looked past Gavin.

Steel rang against steel behind Gavin from the left. Daia and Tyr. The weapons clanged again and again, the tempo furious. Damn, how could she keep up that pace?

Toren’s eyes went wide and he grimaced as though in sympathy. Gavin turned to look, unable to resist.

Tyr slashed at Daia with two blades. She was so busy parrying his attacks, she couldn’t offer an offensive strike of her own, but her speed and skill were impressive. Gavin heard her grunts of exertion and knew she was tiring. He had to hurry and get to her.

“Awright, Meobryn, let’s--” He turned in time to see Toren’s foot swing up. Dirt and sand flew into Gavin’s face. His eyes blazed. He shut them and backpedaled away, moving his blade to guard. Through his closed lids, he sensed Toren’s haze closing the distance. “Cowardly cur.” He couldn’t sense the blade in Toren’s hand, nor the hand that held it, just an egg-shaped mist. Gavin pivoted on his heel, holding his sword in front of him, as blind to the fight as though he could see no haze at all. The cloud before him flashed and he jerked back. Toren’s blade whistled past his chin. He thrust his sword at the haze, felt it parried to the side.

And then a violent agony seared his chest.

Chapter 44

Daia whipped around in time to parry the sword-edge that whistled toward her. In his right hand, Tyr held a scimitar, and in his left a short sword.

Daia backpedaled as Tyr chased her, his swords glinting as they sliced at her. She parried like she’d never done before. The Nilmarion, lithe and quick, centered his eyes on her chest as he came after her. His dual swords whistled as they sliced the air. At first, Daia thought she was out-matched by his two blades, but she quickly noticed a pattern. His strikes were slicing, never thrusts, and evenly spaced. He swung the short sword more as a shield than a weapon, giving him time to whip the scimitar back again. She might take a cut, but she could get in with one strong thrust and be done.

She counted his strikes, learned his pattern. With every slice, she was better able to predict where the next would strike. Her blade blocked it, her rhythm matching his. But she began to tire and Tyr showed no sign of slowing his pace.

Someone cried out. Gavin’s voice. With a glance, Daia saw him take Toren’s sword in the chest.
GAVIN!

Suddenly nothing mattered but getting to him. She timed Tyr’s strikes. As he pulled back with the scimitar, she started to lunge with a thrust to the heart.
That’s what he’s waiting for.
She dropped to a crouch instead. As though anticipating the lunge, Tyr pivoted to his right. Her sword would have sailed by him, exposing her back as she stumbled past. But she was not where she should be. She spun toward him on her haunches. With all her strength behind it, Daia drove her sword upward. The blade lagged as it cut into his side and slid up under his ribcage. Without waiting for him to die, she yanked her sword free and turned, looking for Gavin.

The blade scorched Gavin’s insides like it was being forged in his chest. He crumbled to one knee. The sword ravaged him once again as it slid out. Gavin coughed a spray of blood, tasting its bitter tang. He stuck his right hand between the fasteners of his cuirass and pressed against the wound, hot and wet. He pushed back to his feet and staggered. The sword fell from his hand and landed with a whisper in the weeds by his side. The ground rose up and hit his knees. Black spots whirled before his closed lids.

“Sorry it had to end this way, Kinshield,” Toren said. “The King’s Blood-stone will probably stay in the tablet for another couple hundred years, but it wasn’t going to be you anyway. The throne belongs to someone... else.” He laughed. “Anyone else would suit me fine. Anyone but an ignorant peasant.”

Gavin hung his head, gritting his teeth against the burning in his chest. He took in shallow breaths. “Stupid... bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Toren was a fool for standing there taunting his opponent rather than finishing the fight. The burning began to lessen. Gavin bent down and groped for his sword.