Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

  Dedication

  This book is for my family. Your love and support mean everything to me.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Author Information

  Publisher Information

  Chapter One

  Lord Ander Alghasi Monteni dabbed his brush in paint and began noting highlights in his subject’s hair. The blue would bring out the glossy black of Shan-il’s hair—so unusual, like no one else’s in Northgard province. Lord Ander had painted his tutor a handful of times, fascinated by the man’s coloring and the flat planes of his face.

  “You’re very dull today,” Ander said, drawing a highlight in the painted fall of Shan-il’s hair. “Do you not have any lessons for me?”

  Shan-il laughed. “A boy of fourteen is asking for lessons?”

  “I don’t mind your lessons,” Ander replied, with the ghost of a smile on his face. “Except for the mathematics, that is—and the natural sciences . . .”

  “You know a rigorous education is needed to prepare you for the office you will fill someday.”

  “I know; my lady mother repeats it endlessly. But surely there is no need for me to know the kinds of rocks that make up the mountains or the breeding habits of icetigers.” He paused. “Especially the breeding habits of icetigers.”

  “Yes. There have been no icetigers for a few years. But you are of Northgard, my lord. What would your lord father say if I taught you nothing of them?”

  Ander dropped the paintbrush. “He would have no right to complain.”

  “Lord Ander, you may be the King’s heir, but you are still Lord Zelan’s stepson. He has every right to insist you learn of the tigers, and the wolves as well.”

  “No icetigers for years, Shan-il! The last was killed the year I was born—its pelt was sent to King Martan and lies in the Great Hall at Sugetre Castle. And still every day my stepfather is on the Hunt, looking for icetigers that will never come. He will not stop.”

  “Lord Ander, you know why he cannot stop.”

  “I know. He is Collared. His binding forces him to Hunt. You have told me that is not his fault, but the King’s. That doesn’t mean he has to force me to be like him.”

  Shan-il stood up. “I don’t think he has much choice anymore. He has been Collared for thirty years or more. After such a time, I doubt he can separate his own will from what is imposed upon him by the Collar.” The tutor paused and turned his head toward the door.

  The door opened fast, and the man who burst through it moved fast as well, his gaunt face tense with anger. “Ander! Why are you not at the stable, ready for the Hunt?”

  “I am not needed for the Hunt, father. There are no icetigers!” Ander knew his tone of voice would irritate his stepfather, but he could not help himself. He was sick of being called away from painting, reading, studying, mage training—even training in the sword—to join the fruitless Hunt.

  “Jashan’s eyes, you damned runt, you’ll ride with us or you’ll not see a paintbrush until your uncle dies. You are my stepson by law, no matter you are Sharpeyes’ heir, and you will obey me!” Lord Zelan grabbed Ander’s arm and hauled him out of the room. Ander protested, pulling back, but his stepfather was strong in spite of his age. After a few moments of being pulled down the stairs, Ander gasped out an oath and yanked his arm from his stepfather’s.

  “All right, I will come, then! But it is useless, and you know it!” This attempt to wound his stepfather fell on deaf ears.

  “You are a stripling of fourteen. You think you know what is useful or not. I’ll tell you what is not useful, and that is your playing with those paints like a child in a nursery. Shut your mouth, get your weapon, and get on your horse before I throw you over her saddle.”

  The four Hunters who would accompany them were already mounted. Their saddles bristled with spears and arrows. There was no expression on their sun-browned faces as they watched. Ander mounted, his mouth clamped shut. Mortified, he felt a stinging in his eyes and forced it back, stiffening his spine and staring ahead between his horse’s ears. He knew these men, Zelan’s Hunters—hard men, mostly silent, blooded many times against the icetigers when they had still roamed the area. Their presence took years away from him, making him feel awkward and immature.

  Lord Zelan mounted and called to the dogs to follow. Hunter Innes drew up beside Ander’s horse and held out a leather flask of water.

  “You’d no time to get your own,” Innes said.

  “It would be a long ride indeed without it,” Ander said, trying to keep his voice steady. “My thanks.”

  “Hunter Shar has spare trailbread, if you want it.”

  Ander looked ahead to where grim Hunter Shar rode straight as a pillar, eyes ahead. All at once he felt better. “Later, please,” he said. “Give Hunter Shar my thanks, Innes.”

  Innes nodded.

  “And, Innes, you will show me Grim’s new litter tomorrow, as you promised?”

  “After your sword lesson,” Innes said. “I will bring them to the ring. Hon Islarian wants one of them, I think.”

  The Hunter rode ahead. The man was inordinately proud of his hunting bitch and the quality of her litters. Grim was almost too old to bear, now; this might be her last litter. Ander thought of taking one. It would please the old Hunter to have offspring of his Grim at Sugetre Castle with the future King. Ander was scheduled to depart for there in a few short sennights to continue his education amid the toils of palace politics.

  Soon he would be able to leave Zelan alone, running himself ragged as he sought out remnants of the species that had once threatened Righar’s northeastern reaches. There had once been a need for a Collared Lord at Northgard. But the need was gone.

  Today the Hunt rode toward the farms and wooded areas of the south, where the predators had always been rare. But too long without a sight of their lord, and the little towns grew restless. The southern villages wanted to see their Collared Lord protecting them.

  It was a long ride as the late afternoon turned into the dusk the tigers and wolf packs had always preferred. The line of trees backed away to leave a cleared margin beside the path. Lord Zelan set a moderate pace, and Ander grew bored. He left the watch up to the Hunters, and thought instead of his portrait of Shan-il. This was the best he had done; he knew it. He believed he was catching a light of intelligence in those dark eyes that had escaped him in his other attempts. Perhaps if he could convince Shan-il to sit again tomorrow while it was fresh in his mind, he could accomplish more.

  He shook his head and pulled himself out of his thoughts. He had fallen a little behind. Hunters Innes and Shar lingered near him, but the other men and the dogs were no longer visible on the trail. They had moved ahead toward the village. Ander put his heels to his mare’s side, and the mare began walking faster. Ander looked around at the trees, realizing it was near dark. Hunter Innes had lit a road-lamp that illuminated their immediate surroundings. It made the foliage behind it seem even blacker.

  “Riders, Lord Ander,” Shar said. Ander pulled up and l
istened. It sounded as if there were quite a few horsemen, maybe half a dozen. His nerves prickled. His guards pulled closer to him, loosening their swords in their sheaths.

  Out of the darkness came the riders, appearing suddenly out of the gloom. As near as Ander could see in the night, their gray surcoats showed no badge of any liege lord.

  “Who’s there?” Innes challenged.

  There was no reply. Some of the new arrivals pulled their horses back behind the leaders. Then the new men were riding the Northgard group down, two riding abreast in the close quarters of the tree-lined trail.

  Ander swore and dragged his horse’s head around. His heels drummed on her flanks, urging her away.

  “Get back!” Shar yelled. Both of the Hunters shouldered their mounts in front of Ander, swords drawn to defend him. Metal clashed. Ander pulled his mare away, in the direction his stepfather had gone. But there was already a man cutting off his retreat, grinning at Ander’s effort, his sword ready. Ander grabbed for his own sword, praying to Jashan for aid against the massive warrior.

  He heard a panicked shout as one of the horses went down. Hunter Shar was trapped under his mount, screaming as the beast rolled over him. Innes now faced two opponents. His sword flashed in the erratic light of the moving roadlamp, but it was only a moment until he was disarmed. The sword went flying off into the woods and one of the attackers rode up and slashed the Hunter’s throat.

  “Innes!” Ander screamed. Blood sprayed as the Hunter’s body fell too slowly from his horse to lie in the dirt.

  Ander shoved down his grief and raised his sword to meet the massive weapon of his attacker. Their swords rang together. It was a good strike, but the older man laughed and shoved his horse toward Ander’s, trying to use his weight advantage to force Ander’s arm down. Ander struck again, aiming for the opening in the man’s mail at his throat. For a moment he thought he would succeed, but then his blade was struck aside.

  Ander stared into his enemy’s grinning face. Someone shouted behind him; he was about to get overridden from the rear. He pulled his mare’s head around, trying to find a way around the man, maybe ride away into the woods. Two of the attackers rode past him, heading in the direction Lord Zelan had gone, cutting him off from help.

  Ander’s attacker drew his sword arm back for the strike.

  Ander had never before used the color magery in violence, though he had been taught to do so. He had only a second to act. He called on Jashan and felt the magery blaze up inside him. Always before, he had controlled the fire; he had spent much of his training learning to control it. Now he loosed his will, let his barriers fall, and blasted all the energy he could at the attacker.

  Light leaped from his hands. It lit up the trail and the faces of the attackers and the lower branches of the surrounding trees. His attacker screamed and fell, arching backward as he hit the ground and color magery swept his fallen form, stopping his heart. Ander felt a blow and a sharp pain in his side. He jerked away as a second man pulled back his sword from his strike; pain bloomed up and down his side. He tried to gather his strength, tried to concentrate on the magery, but it slipped away from his control.

  His attacker drew back his sword for a second strike. Ander tried to slide down the side of his horse and perhaps get into the woods. His foot caught in the stirrup. He threw his arms over his head in a useless attempt at protection, struggling to focus his magery.

  The dark shape of his attacker was suddenly limned in light. The man screamed and fell backwards. Ander’s vision was scorched by the light of color magery; all he could detect were dark shapes, moving in on his attackers. One of them dragged the man back away from him. There were sounds of a brief, brutal fight: grunts, the crack of a bone snapping, and then a liquid gasp. Someone swore behind him, and there was another metallic crash of weapons.

  Ander’s sight began to clear. He pulled his foot away from the stirrup and slid down from his mare. Someone else was next to him. He whirled, ready to fight, but it was a woman who grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the battle on the trail.

  He let her pull him between the bushes, with his hand held tight to his wound to stanch the blood. On the trail, there was another flare of color magery. He heard someone scream. As he half-fell to the ground, he heard the beat of hooves coming fast on the trail from the direction his stepfather had gone.

  “Sit still,” the woman whispered. “Are you all right? You took a blow.”

  “I am bleeding.” Ander heard his own voice quaver, and was ashamed of his weakness. He took his hand away from his side and rubbed his fingers together; they were covered in blood.

  “I need a light,” the woman said. It was black in the woods. The roadlamp had gone out, and the light of color magery had vanished.

  Ander could hear Zelan’s voice shouting on the trail. It was not a battle cry; instead, his voice was raised in anger.

  “I think it is over,” Ander said.

  A man’s voice called from the trail. “Kirian? It is over. You can bring him out.”

  The woman put a hand under his arm and helped lift him to his feet. Once standing, he was a full head taller than she was, but he still leaned on her in the dark as they stumbled through branches back to the trail.

  There was more light on the trail from lanterns someone had brought from the village. Five bodies lay on and near the trail, as well as a grunting, terrified horse with a gash in its belly. A thin man held one of the attackers still, a knife to his throat. Lord Zelan and his remaining Hunter stalked toward a tall man with his straw-colored hair drawn back in a warrior’s tail.

  “Who the hell are you?” Zelan shouted at the tall man.

  “Callo ran Alkiran,” the man replied. “I think you are Lord Zelan of Northgard?”

  “You came upon us just in time,” the Hunter said, reminding his lord of where thanks were due.

  Zelan gestured at his Hunter, who went to take custody of the remaining attacker from the narrow-faced man who held him. The Hunter searched their attacker, going through pouches and armor looking for any other weapons.

  “We killed one of them who came after us at the village,” Zelan said to Lord Callo. “The other got away. Where you came from, I have no notion. It seems extremely convenient.”

  Ander lost track of the conversation as a curtain of grainy darkness began to sweep over his vision. He grasped the woman’s sleeve. “I’m bleeding,” he said again.

  “Unknown God, of course you are,” she said. “Sit down. My lord! This boy is wounded. I need light over here.”

  Someone brought the lantern. Ander squinted against its light and lay back, allowing the woman to pull his tunic away from his side. He waited for her reaction so he could gauge how bad the injury was, but her face was impassive as she examined the wound.

  Then Zelan was looming above them. “Let me help him up. I need to get him to Littleseed for proper care.”

  “I am a Healer, my lord. You will do better to let me make sure the bleeding is stopped before we try to take him anywhere.”

  “How bad is it?” Ander gasped as she applied pressure—more than she needed to, he was sure.

  She smiled at him. “It is not so bad. You were lucky.”

  Zelan peered over Kirian’s shoulder. “Ha! That’s nothing more than a scratch, boy. Any righ could bear such a cut. Wrap him up and let’s get to the village.” He stalked away.

  Ander squirmed away from Kirian’s hands. “If my father won’t thank you, I will, and also Lord Callo. You have saved my life.”

  Callo bowed in his direction. “I am glad we were here. Let us go to this Littleseed and get your son tended under proper conditions, Lord Zelan. I take it that is the village we passed not long ago?”

  “Your man should keep a close eye on your captive,” the servant told Lord Zelan. “I believe I have seen this man’s face before. You will want to question him.”

  “I thought he looked familiar, Chiss,” Callo said. “From the city guard?”


  The thin man nodded.

  Lord Zelan almost sputtered in his confusion and anger. Ander spared a spiteful thought for how ridiculous the old man looked, and then felt ashamed.

  Kirian had been wrapping Ander’s side with a strip of cloth she had obtained from the Hunter. Now she tapped him on the shoulder and held out a leather flask.

  “Drink, Lord Ander,” she said. “Then on your feet. You will do fine until we get to this Littleseed. Just go slow, and have someone help you mount.”

  “You are a College-trained Healer?” Ander asked, sipping the lukewarm water from the flask. He had noticed the woman carried no Healer’s bag.

  “I am. My name is Kirian, if you did not hear it earlier.”

  “I am very glad you are here, though I have no idea how or why.”

  The old Hunter walked over to offer an arm for Ander’s support. With a nod of thanks, Ander accepted the Hunter’s arm. He felt shaky, from the effects of the wound or from his use of color magery, he did not know.

  What kind of heir would he be to the legendary Sharpeyes, King Martan, strong in arm and in his magery, if he couldn’t weather what his stepfather said was a scratch? With this thought, Ander mounted his mare and urged her on. The fallen Hunters and the dead attackers lay sprawled across the trail. He clenched his jaw tight against the onset of tears as he thought of the fallen Innes. He knew Lord Zelan would send men back from Littleseed to bring back the honored bodies of the dead Hunters, and to bury the attackers somewhere in the woods. He slumped in the saddle, afraid in spite of what his stepfather had said. After a few moments he began to feel lightheaded.

  The trees thinned out. The farmland belonging to Littleseed stretched out dark and lush with the summer’s crops before them. Beyond the fields was the village itself, just a few huts and a central guesthouse visible in the black night only because of the candlelight in their windows. Ander followed Zelan toward the low building in the middle of the village. As they approached, a woman of middle years walked out from one of the huts closest to the guesthouse. She held a lamp.

  “Is it Lord Zelan, then?” she asked, holding the lamp up to illuminate their faces. “And five others?”