A. Searle - The King's sword

When Ahearn began to stomp his front hooves on the ground, his breath snorting heavily from his nose, Ronan withdrew a dagger from his boot. He might not know a lot about horses and magic but he knew that every living beast reacted on instinct. He wasn’t going to be taken by surprise just because he didn’t pay attention to the instincts of that powerful horse.

“I thought you knew nothing of using weapons.” Keegan produced a larger blade and stepped to Ronan’s side.

Ronan ignored him and took a step forward, still unsure if he could trust Keegan Yore but hoping the man would stand at his side to face whatever was beyond the circle of light cast from their fire.

His heart thudded in his chest. Keegan didn’t call out. He didn’t move and Ronan realized the horseman was waiting for him to do what he would.

“Show yourself!” Ronan bellowed, surprising himself with how threatening he sounded. A shadow moved, darted through the trees and then grew still again. Ronan glanced back at the others and then stared. All four horses had placed themselves around Ula and Arien. They were protecting the weakest two of the group.

“Remind me that even a blacksmith needs a good horse when this is over.” Ronan followed Ahearn’s gaze and stepped in that direction. Keegan followed without answering.

“As guard to the King of Meris, I command you to show yourself at once. If you don’t, you shall not be given another chance at freedom and I’ll sentence you to death.” Ronan prayed that he did not sound like an idiot. He’d heard in a tale as a boy of a guard having the power to sentence those who went against the King’s business. He’d hoped there had been enough truth in the tale to make his threat believable.

“Don’t kill me!” A head of snow-white hair poked out from behind a tree. “I have no weapons! I mean no harm!”

Ronan squinted as the figure emerged completely from behind the tree. He stood no taller than four feet, thinned, and his large odd colored eyes caused Ronan to scowl. A changeling.

“Then why are you sneaking about and hiding in the dark?” Keegan called.

“Who are you?” Ronan demanded when the changeling didn’t answer.

“Mikel the Hort.” The creature answered quickly as he held up his hands. “I…I smelled your food. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten in days.” He stepped forward into the firelight and the golden tint around the skin of his neck told Ronan that the changeling was in natural form. He breathed out slightly.

Changelings were sneaky and sometimes dangerous masters of disguise and until he’d seen the tell-tale gold ring, he hadn’t been certain the little man hadn’t been a facade to throw off their guard. But if this was his natural form and he hadn’t changed, then there was little to worry about.

“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.