The King's sword

“Heyyyyy,” The changeling’s purple eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are no royal guard. You can’t sentence me.”

“He is and he can. And I would help him do it.” Keegan spoke from behind Ronan before the blacksmith could answer.

The creature took a step back and Ronan couldn’t blame him. Keegan Yore was built like a bull and intimidating as hell. Ronan glanced toward the horses to find their movements had settled. He watched Ahearn closely and finally the horse, after a long stare at the stranger, moved back out toward the grass he’d been first chewing on. The other three horses followed suit.

“He’s just a bit of thing. We can spare a few pieces of meat to him if a meal is all he is after,” Ula called and Ronan frowned. It seemed she always spoke when he’d rather her keep quiet.

“You will eat and then you will be on your way,” Ronan added in a low voice when the changeling darted forward at the invitation. Mikel, licking his lips, nodded quickly that he understood.

“What do you think?” Keegan put away his blade and stepped to Ronan’s side.

“I think neither of us will get much sleep tonight,” Ronan answered, returning to his spot near the fire. He watched Mikel ease down next to Ula, his purple eyes round as fat began to drip from the meat to hiss into the flames. Arien said nothing for a change, eyes locked on the little man. Ronan could read the suspicion in the boy’s eyes easily and he smiled. The boy had the instincts of a wild thing, and Ronan supposed that being on his own for so many years had made Arien a bit wild anyway.

Mikel the Hort proved a pretty nervous little fellow. If he wasn’t moving his hands, his foot was wiggling. He fidgeted, smoothed back his hair, straightened his clothes, and looked about him with wide eyes at every little sound the trees offered in the darkness.

“Not many changelings wandering around in this area.” Keegan did not sit, but stood slightly away from the others. “Are you lost?”

“No.” Mikel shook his head, gaze darting to Ronan. “I would tell you my story if that one wasn’t a guard.”

“It is a temporary title,” Ronan offered and it seemed to satisfy Mikel.

“I’m a loner. I brave the world on my own. I live off the fat of others and make my way where I please.” Mikel beamed as if proud of who he was.

“So you are a thief.” Keegan did not look impressed.

“A very good one.” Mikel nodded, small chest puffing up with pride. “I know of no other who as good as I am.”

“Steal from us you shall not have to worry at how good you are for I shall cut you open,” Ronan warned, thinking that the threat sounded ridiculous in his voice. The changeling, however, seemed to take the warning very seriously. He nodded, crossing his hands in his lap, as if to keep them in view of everyone. And he made haste to leave after eating his fill just as he was told.

When Ronan finally lay down to sleep, tucking the King’s Sword beneath his arm, he contemplated the fear he’d seen in the changeling’s eyes. He did not like making others afraid of him. It had been the title of guard, he reasoned silently. No one dare go against one of the King’s guards. They were the enforcement of law, the ones who could take whatever was yours away, including your freedom.

Closing his eyes, Ronan desperately wished that no one had ever heard of his handiwork, that he’d never been selected to make the weapon in the first place.

The thin blade arched up and sliced through the night, metal whistling against the darkness. Fiona’s fingers loosened and then tightened on the leather grip of the hilt and she swung the weapon again. Her body glided around, following the movement of the blade, so that it seemed as if they were one, each led by the other.

“Your skill improves, Fiona,” Diato observed in a low silken voice that made the Serpentine Warrior’s skin ripple with disgust. Slowly the woman turned to face the captain of the Merisgale guards. He leaned against the trunk of a tree, arms folded over his chest, legs crossed at the ankles. She’d long sensed him there but hadn’t looked in his direction, hoping he would leave if ignored long enough.

“What do you want?” She gritted her teeth when a thin black brow arched. Yes, she knew what he wanted. It’s what he had always wanted from her. But she would not give it to him. Not ever again. Slowly, he straightened and stepped toward her, eyes never wavering from hers.

“I must ready myself for the journey, Diato. I have no time for your silly games.” She felt like slapping him when his gaze finally lowered to sweep over the length of her body. Still, she felt her insides grow warm and cursed herself for the reaction her body betrayed her with. When his gaze lingered on the slight gold coloring that circled her throat, she swallowed. She remembered all too well the way he’d traced that ring with his tongue.

“It shall be an easy enough task for you, easier than most you’ve done for a King before.” Diato’s hand reached out, fingertips grazing the bared skin of the warrior’s stomach but he jerked it back quickly enough when her forked tongue darted out to sting his knuckle.

“You would do well to remember your place, warrior,” he warned rubbing his knuckle, eyes hardening for a moment.

Fiona inclined her head. “Of course, Captain,” she answered acidly. It was like him to command her when it was convenient for him.

Diato’s frown deepened. “You were not so spiteful before, Fiona. As I recall you were eager for my touch.”

Fiona had no control when the color of her skin darkened and divided into black, yellow, and red stripes. His words were more lethal than any bite she could deliver him. They cut to the heart of her.

“That was before I found you with your touch in the belly of another.” She narrowed her large yellow eyes dangerously. Diato laughed but took a step back. At least he was not stupid. Fiona was a Serpentine Warrior, a breed of changelings that were trained to kill. And they were good at it. Fiona was one of the best.

“I treated you poorly, it is true. But it does not change my affection for you. And I believe there is something left in that snake heart of yours, Fiona. Could we not begin again? Start anew?” His voice wove pain around her and her color shifted again, returning to the normal sun darkened tone of her natural body. She tossed her ink black curls, cutting her eyes at Diato’s handsome face. She wished suddenly that she were a mammal changeling where she could grow claws and scratch out his silver eyes.

“There is nothing new for us, Diato. And I have no time for you now.” She saw him wince but he did not press her. Instead he sighed and turned on his heel, leaving her to continue her practice.

She watched his shadow slowly disappear into the others that surrounded the castle of Merisgale. She wanted to call after him but she bit into her lips instead. He would bring her nothing but pain. She knew that.

Whatever had been between Fiona and Diato should be left in the past. It had been his mysterious nature that had drawn her to him but it was that same secretiveness that really drove them apart. Well, Fiona amended silently, that and the fact he’d bedded nearly every maid of the King’s court.

Life was easier with no relationships. She was a warrior. She had obligations that ran deeper than any silly infatuation. And that is really all it had been. He was good looking and had not slighted her because she was a changeling. Not to mention he’d been a fine bed partner. But there had been no more than that. She’d bared her soul but he’d kept himself reserved, allowing her only a part of himself. She had realized after six month of being away from Merisgale Castle that she had never truly known who Diato Gostle truly was.

He had not completely left, she realized. He was out of sight but she could smell him lingering and feel him watching her from the shadows. Bastard. Her slender fingers gripped the hilt once he was truly gone and with a deep grunt, she heaved the weapon and sliced through the air. She did not want to think of him any more. Instead, she forced her thoughts to why she had been called to Merisgale to begin with.

The dark forces had been busy. The guards sent to retrieve the King’s Sword had been killed. Now, a blacksmith carried the weapon toward Merisgale. She would meet him in Fullerk and escort him the rest of the journey.

“Would it not be easier just to obtain the sword and come back alone?” Fiona had asked the wizard who was to be the next King.

“No,” Thestian had replied. “Ronan Culley would not just hand it over to you anyway if he means to follow through with this mission.” Fiona had offered no argument. A wizard knew best. She would do as he bid of her.