Daughter of Fate - Chapter 3
Pela stood transfixed as her uncle strode through the crowd, seemingly unconcerned by the armed men awaiting him...
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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Pela stood transfixed as her uncle strode through the crowd, seemingly unconcerned by the armed men awaiting him. Gone was the gentle giant of her childhood; in his place was a man of ice, a face that promised death. The crowd parted before him, swept aside by his rage, leaving the Elder, Merak, standing alone.
Yet Devon too was alone, and armed only with the sledgehammer he’d taken from his home. Merak seemed to realise this too, and with a start he came alive. Lifting his blade, he pointed it at the advancing hammerman.
“This is none of your business, greybeard,” he cried. “I suggest you depart, before I have you join your fellows!”
The man’s voice rang with power, and many in the square found themselves stepping back from the Elder. But Devon continued as though he hadn’t heard the man. Teeth bared, the Elder flourished his blade again, then apparently thought better of it, and turned it on his prisoner.
“Stop!” he snapped.
“Kill him, and your body will be the next to strike the stones,” Devon rumbled, coming to a stop several feet from the Elder.
Merak’s lips drew back in a sneer. “Such blasphemy cannot go unpunished. Swanson, Cidar, take him!”
Two Knights advanced, drawing broadswords from their sheaths. Stepping around their leader, they approached Devon with broad grins on their faces, already anticipating an easy victory.
Pela clenched and unclenched her fists, still frozen on the edge of the square, where they had first noticed the commotion on their way to the docks. She longed to go to her uncle’s aid, but she had no weapon, not even a rock to throw—and anyway, she knew nothing of the warrior’s arts.
Did her uncle even know? Or was this all an act?
“This village is under the king’s rule,” Devon said, his voice low, though every soul in the plaza heard his words. “You have no authority here. Leave now in peace, or die.”
The Knights paused, glancing back at their leader, suddenly uncertain. Though they wore full-faced helmets, from the way they moved Pela guessed they were young, confident in their abilities and used to being feared. In their plate mail armour they seemed to Pela untouchable, and she couldn’t begin to think how her uncle could threaten them.
“I said, take the bastard!” Merak shrieked.
The Knights jumped, shocked out of their hesitation, and continued. “Put down the hammer, old man,” one shouted, his voice rattling from inside his helmet.
“So be it,” Devon murmured.
He surged forward, the construction hammer already in motion. One of the Knights had drawn slightly ahead. He cried out, taken unawares by Devon’s charge, and raised his broadsword to defend himself, but Devon’s hammer swept below his guard. A crash echoed loudly across the square as it struck.
Pela gaped as the Knight staggered back, his breastplate caved in by the blow. The sword slipped from his fingers and he toppled backwards, slamming into the cobblestones with a shriek of twisting metal. His helmet was knocked loose. Seeing his pale face, a scream built in Pela’s throat. His eyes were wide open, staring into the sunlit sky, but there was no life there now. Where a second ago there had been a young man in his prime, now there was only death.
And still Devon was moving, stepping past the fallen Knight and charging the second. Shocked by his comrade’s death, the man barely had time to lift his blade before Devon was on him. Steel shrieked as hammer struck sword, then again, before Devon’s third blow found its mark. There was a sickening squelch as it struck the man’s helmet, the steel giving way like putty. The man crumpled without a sound and lay still.
This cannot be happening.
Awed and disbelieving, Pela watched as her uncle stepped over the second body and stopped in front of Merak.
“Last chance,” Devon said. He did not raise his voice, but a collective shiver went through the crowd at his words. “Leave, or die.”
“Be damned!” Merak shrieked.
Before Devon could react, Merak plunged his sword through the neck of the prisoner he was holding. The old man’s eyes widened as blood gushed from the wound. Pela slapped a hand to her mouth, shocked by the suddenness of Merak’s brutality. Dragging back his blade, the Elder kicked the old man in the back, toppling him face-first to the stones.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Devon murmured.
“Be damned!” Merak snarled, leaping at Devon.
His blade hissed for Devon’s face, but her uncle’s hammer leapt to meet it. A great shriek tore through the plaza as the weapons met, and Devon leapt back. Pela gaped as a chunk of metal fell from Devon’s hammer. The greatsword had carved straight through the dense metal.
Devon flicked a glance at his weapon, but the rest remained intact, and he advanced again. The Elder snarled, but as Devon neared his opponent seemed to stumble, his face paling. With a roar, Devon charged and the Elder turned and fled.
“Kill the blasphemer!” Merak shrieked as he leapt for his horse. His foot jammed in a cobble and he would have fallen if he hadn’t caught the reins and dragged himself up.
Devon was almost on him, but before he could drag the Elder from the saddle, the remaining Knights cut him off. They spread out to encircle the hammerman, broadswords at the ready.
Watching the scene unfold from the shadows, Pela’s heart sank. Her uncle’s speed and skill had taken the other men by surprise, but there would be no such luck with these three. They edged forward slowly with blades extended, eager to avenge their comrades’ deaths.
Devon stood fixed in place, hammer clenched in both hands now, his face impassive. Only the slightest flicker of his amber eyes betrayed any emotion. Encircled, Devon could only keep two of his foes in sight at a time, and the third was readying himself for the attack.
Before Pela could call a warning, the Knight leapt forward with blade raised. But the rattle of his armour must have given him away, for Devon spun, hammer already in motion, and batted away the attack. The Knight scrambled back as Devon parried, and the blow struck empty air.
Then the other Knights were charging in, and Pela knew her uncle would be overwhelmed, cut down by sheer weight of numbers…
Before the men could attack again, a man dressed in a leather jerkin and tight-fitting pants leapt into the battle, silver sword in hand. He struck at the hilt of a Knight’s weapon, deflecting the attack into the cobbles, and with a screech of tearing metal, the blade shattered. The Knight staggered back and stared at the now useless weapon. The newcomer’s sword took him through the visor before he had a chance to recover.
Pela watched as the stranger and Devon faced off against the last two Knights. Though they appeared evenly matched, it was clear the balance had changed, and now it was the Knights who hesitated, confused by the new element posed by the plain-clothed swordsman.
Devon leapt at the Knight still facing him. The man staggered back, his confidence evaporating like water in the summer sun, and Devon barrelled into him. The power behind his blows rendered the Knight’s armour worse than useless—even his non-fatal blows warped the steel, twisting it to incapacitate the man within. The Knight fell with a cry, and Devon spun in search of his last foe.
He was already dead. Blood seeped from where the knife had been driven through his gorget to pierce his throat. The swordsman retrieved the blade and wiped it clean, before returning it to a hidden sheath on his person.
Hooves thundered across the cobbles as Merak kicked his horse into a gallop. Devon roared but he could not catch the Elder on foot. He spun, scanning the fallen Knights, then the crowd, but whatever Devon was searching for he did not find it. Cursing again, he swung his hammer at the cobbles.
Stumbling across the square to join her uncle, Pela’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the dead Knights. Their blood pooled amongst the stones, already turning black with the dust and the heat. A fly buzzed in her ear before darting towards the bodies. She swallowed and tore her gaze away.
It was soon caught by a fresh horror. The innocent old man lay dead where Merak had left him, his chest torn open, eyes staring blanking up into the cloudless sky. Beside him another villager lay dead. He sported no wounds, but the purple mark around his throat told the story of how he’d died.
A shudder swept through Pela and she fought to keep from throwing up. It was a full minute before she noticed the other prisoners standing nearby, arms still bound behind their backs.
“Where’s my mum?” she gasped, racing to where they stood. “Where’s Kryssa?”
The prisoners stared blankly back at her, as though not comprehending the words. The fear in their eyes was palpable, but in that moment, Pela didn’t care about anything but her mother.
“Here, girl.” The strange swordsman stepped around her and drew a dagger.
One of the prisoners cried out, while the other two whimpered, still in shock. But the stranger only cut free their bindings before stepping back. The newly freed men rubbed their wrists, hardly seeming to comprehend the sudden reversal in their fortunes. Their eyes kept darting to where Merak had vanished, as though expecting him to return at any moment to follow through with his threat.
Leather scuffed on stone as Devon approached. “Any of you lads know where they took the others?”
The men exchanged glances. “The docks,” one said finally. “There was a ship they were meant to catch.”
“Ay.” Pela looked around as the strange swordsman spoke. “I arrived on it last night. The Red Seagull, it’s called. It’ll be gone by now.”
Devon eyed the man before nodding. “Thank you for your help back there. Not sure I could have taken all three myself.”
The swordsman laughed. “I suppose that depends whose legends you believe. If you’re mortal, like the followers of the Three Gods claim, surely not. But these lads…” He gestured at the fallen Knights. “Not sure they’d have been so quick to tackle you, if they’d known they were going up against the Consort of Alana.”
Devon’s face darkened and he stepped towards the swordsman. At six feet tall, the stranger was by no means a small man, but he looked tiny in her uncle’s shadow.
“So you know who I am,” Devon rumbled. “And who might you be, sonny?”
Devon stared down at the man who’d come to his aid. A dull throbbing came from the centre of his back and the ache behind his left knee had returned with vengeance, but he refused to show any hint of his pain. He drew in a breath, his heart still racing from the brief fight, and cursed again his aging body.
Exhaling, he studied the strange swordsman. His clothing was nondescript and the weapons he carried plain, but he had shown unusual skill earlier. It was no easy feat to defeat a man in armour with only a sword and dagger—let alone two. Yet Devon’s unlikely benefactor had made it look easy.
He was sure the man was new in the village—Devon recognised all Skystead’s citizens by sight if not by name. So how did this stranger know him? Had he come looking for a legend, or had he been told by someone, his arrival here coincidence?
“So you know who I am,” Devon rumbled finally. “And who might you be, sonny?”
“Only a humble sellsword,” the man said, spreading his hands in a gesture of peace and offering a half-bow. “I go by Caledan.”
The name was familiar, but scanning his memories, Devon could not recall where he’d heard it mentioned. He swore silently; his recollection was not what it had been. So many friends, so many comrades, had been lost to the mists of time. Staring at the stranger though, he was sure they had never met.
“Might be I’ve heard of you,” he said, “but I do not care to be reminded of my past.”
It was true. Devon rarely spoke of his service as one of Braidon’s King’s Guard, and even less about the time before that. The Tsar had taken so much from him, he could hardly bear to think about the friends who had died in that battle. Even thirty years later, the memories still stung.
He knew his silence had allowed the rumours to spread, but so long as he’d been allowed to retreat from the world, he hadn’t cared.
Only now the world had come for his family, and he was beginning to regret his absence.
“My apologies, hammerman,” Caledan was saying. “I did not know.”
Devon scowled. “Never mind that. What were you saying about the ship? Are you sure it’s gone?”
The man shrugged. “They might have missed the tide, but I doubt it. Two Knights came last night and booked passage. They would not have allowed a late departure.”
“Dammit,” Devon muttered.
“They have Mum!” Pela cried, grabbing at his arm. “Devon, what are we going to do?”
Devon could see the girl was on the edge of panic again, but time was slipping through his fingers, and with every passing second Kryssa got further and further away.
He knelt beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Go to the house and wait.”
“But—”
“Pela,” Devon said patiently, “I’m going to get her back, I promise you. But I need you safe, okay?”
Eyes wide, she nodded, and Devon released her. As she moved away, Devon faced the crowd. He knew some of those present by name, and liked and respected most. They were farmers and fishermen, solid folk, men and women you could rely on to clear a landslide from the road or work through the night to extinguish a burning building. But what faced them now was a different kind of challenge, and Devon did not know how they would react.
One of the villagers caught his eye and shouted, “Devon, what do we do now?” More voices quickly joined in.
“Where have they taken them?
“The king must be told—”
“Damn the king, the man never cared about us—”
“Quiet!” Devon shouted over the chorus, bringing silence.
He drew in a lungful of air. If only it could be so simple as calling the king. But Ardath was many weeks’ journey from Skystead and by then it might already be too late for Kryssa and the others. Whatever the Knights of Alana had planned, they would not want to be caught with the evidence of their crime.
“They have our people,” he said finally, his voice soft now, but still powerful. “The king is far away; he cannot help us.”
The villagers looked back at him, their eyes filling with fear as they realised what he was asking. Devon tried to keep his own worries concealed. He could not go after the Knights alone—even in his prime, the two dozen who had raided the temple would have been too many. If they reached Townirwin, and the protection of their Castle, the odds would be even worse.
“I’m going after them,” he said, his eyes travelling over the crowd, and when he spoke, he spoke to all of them. “Who will go with me?”
Devon’s heart palpitated as the villagers stared back at him. Not one spoke, not even the three he had freed. Anger took him then, taking light in his fear for Kryssa, in his frustration at his failing body.
“Are you all such cowards?” he bellowed. “Are you sons and daughters of Skystead, or are you field mice, skulking in the grass before the cat? Are you truly such wretches, that you would allow evil to walk unchecked amongst you, to take your neighbours, your friends, your family, and you will do nothing?”
Still no one spoke, though few were those that could meet his eyes. A wave of despair swept over Devon and he turned away. These people weren’t soldiers, used to the violence that had just played out in the plaza. Few would have seen a man die by the blade before today.
“I will.”
The voice was so soft, so trembling, he almost missed it. Devon turned to find Pela still standing behind him. Her face was pale, but she met his eyes resolutely.
“I’ll come with you, Devon,” she continued. “I’ll help you bring them home.”
Devon stared at her, too stunned to reply. He had thought she’d left, gone home to wait for him. For a moment he was reminded of her father, on that fateful day…
“I’ll come too,” another voice piped from the crowd. A man stepped forward, wearing the plain-spun cloth of a coffee farmer. He looked nervous, his eyes flickering from Pela to Devon, before he nodded and drew himself up. “They won’t get far.”
“Me too.”
This time it was a woman who spoke. She carried an axe slung over one shoulder and wore a knife on her belt. Sweat shone from her brow and she looked like she’d arrived in a rush. Devon recognised her as one of the trappers who made their living harvesting the pelts of mountain hares and marmots, though he had never spoken with her before.
The rest of the crowd shifted nervously, exchanging glances, but no one else volunteered. Pela had shamed them all, but not enough to move them to action. Devon let out a sigh, disappointed, but at least two was better than none.
“Very well,” he murmured. “Begone then, the rest of you, if you will not help. But at least send word to the king, about what happened here.”
Muttering to each other, the crowd departed, leaving Devon and Pela alone with their two volunteers. Devon recognised the man now as one of the captives—the one who had screamed when Caledan drew his knife to cut them free.
“My ship will carry you as far as Townirwin, Devon,” a man announced, extricating himself from the departing crowd, “but I won’t fight.”
Devon’s heart lifted as he recognised Tallow, a captain from Skystead’s fishing fleet. His ship, the Seadragon, was small, but had a reputation for being well-kept, not that Devon knew anything about boats. Smiling, he offered his hand in thanks, then noticed the sellsword still lurking nearby.
“What about you?” Devon asked, eyeing the man.
He still had no idea why the man had intervened in the fight with the Knights. Sellswords were notoriously obsessed with self-preservation. Involving himself in a conflict with the Order of Alana seemed out of character for such a character.
Caledan shrugged. “What’s in it for me?”
“I don’t have the gold to pay for a sellsword.”
“I wasn’t thinking of coin,” Caledan answered quickly.
“What then?” Devon pressed. “Unless you’re suggesting you’ll work for free.”
Caledan chuckled. “If even a fraction of the legends about you are true, then you have a friend I’d like to meet.”
“Who?”
“The king.”
Devon stared at the man, weighing his options. Remembering the speed with which Caledan had dispatched the Knights, he knew the man was no ordinary sellsword. With such skill, he might have commanded a small fortune in the service of a noble. An introduction with the king should not be hard to arrange, despite the years it had been since they had last spoken. But what did Caledan want with Braidon? He sensed the man would not say, but even so…
“Very well,” Devon said.
He had no choice; he could not rescue Kryssa alone. Turning to the two who had volunteered, he ran a professional eye over them. Both were well-muscled, toned by the toils of their professions, but he doubted they’d ever killed before. Then he saw the look in the woman’s eyes, and reappraised his initial thoughts. There was steel there, that much was sure.
“If you join us, are you ready to fight?” he asked the two finally.
They nodded, though the man had a nervous look about him. Even so, he stepped forward, as though eager to convince himself he could in fact do what Devon asked. “Whatever it takes,” he said, then hesitated. “If…you really think we can bring them back?”
Devon realised that the man must have had someone taken by the Knights. It was as strong a motivation as any. He offered a grim smile and nodded.
“We’ll get them back, sonny, don’t you worry,” he rumbled. “Now, let’s get moving.”
Sitting on the railings of the Seadragon, Pela watched as the light faded from the world. Patterns of blue and white and grey swirled on the smooth waters of the southern sea, but there was no sign of the sun itself in the cloud-streaked sky. The ship rolled with every swell, though the waves were gentle, unbroken. Sea spray obscured the mountains of Skystead, and she strained her eyes for a last glimpse of home.
She could hardly bring herself to believe that the last twelve hours had been real. Any minute, Pela expected to wake and find herself warm and safe in her bed, her mother calling for her help with the daily chores.
But as darkness claimed the world, and Tallow’s sailors scuttled across the deck lighting lanterns, she knew this was no dream. It was too real, too stark and unrelenting. Images flashed through Pela’s mind as she recalled the baker dying on the temple floor, her mother’s terrified face as she told Pela to run; then Devon in the plaza, standing in defiance against the Knights with their armour and their swords.
Another shock. She had always dismissed the rumours about her uncle, but now that she had seen him fight, she found herself wondering what else might be true. Had he truly served with the king, or fought the Tsar, or spoken with the Gods? Had he known Alana? Surely not, or the Knights of Alana would not have stood against him.
She shook her head, trying to clear the clutter from her mind. Her thoughts turned to Kryssa. Where did the setting sun find her mother tonight? How fast had the merchant’s ship carried her away from Skystead?
By the time Pela and the others had gathered their supplies, high tide had long passed, and they’d been forced to wait out the day, only setting sail an hour before sunset. Unfortunately, the Seadragon was built for fishing and short voyages, not speed, and there was little chance they could catch the Knights before they reached Townirwin.
Stuck in the twenty-foot skiff without so much as a cabin or bathroom, it was going to be a long three days. Still, at least Pela did not suffer from seasickness. Her uncle and the swordsman who had come to his aid back in the plaza had already been laid low.
She could see Devon in the bow of the ship, his eyes on the distant shoreline, the lines on his forehead knitted in concentration. Or so it would have appeared to the casual observer. Pela knew he was only trying to keep the remnants of his supper in their rightful place. At the stern, Caledan crouched with head in hands, looking as pale as a ghost. He had already lost that fight.
Chuckling to herself, Pela wondered at how such fearsome warriors could be brought low by the power of the ocean. Tallow and his two crewmembers certainly didn’t seem affected, nor did the quiet trapper, Genevieve. She sat on a barrel leaning against the single mast, running a whetstone down the blade of her hatchet. With every stroke, a shrill grinding carried across the deck, joining the gentle lapping of water on the bow and the creaking of the sails.
The woman had said little since coming aboard, other than offering her name. Pela already knew Genevieve as a regular at their inn, though they’d rarely spoken in the past. She thought the huntswoman might have been a friend of her mother. Perhaps that was why she’d volunteered.
Tobias the farmer, on the other hand, was difficult to avoid. Since boarding the Seadragon, he had darted from Devon to Caledan to Tallow, offering his assistance wherever he thought it needed. He carried a nervous energy about him, an eagerness to help that might have come from fear, or simply a need to be busy. He stood beside Tallow now, pointing at the emerging stars and discussing navigation with the sea captain.
Along with herself and Tallow’s crew, there were eight of them aboard the Seadragon. Suddenly, Pela found herself wondering what she was doing there. She was sixteen years old. This morning, her biggest worry had been avoiding awkward conversations at Temple. Now she was winging her way across the southern sea on a rescue mission, upon which she could only be a burden.
Devon had his hammer, Caledan his sword. The others were at least adults, experienced in the hardships of life, ready for what awaited them at the end of this voyage.
But what could Pela offer? What had possessed her to volunteer back in the plaza? She had no place here, no skill with weapons that might save the day. She was terrified of confrontation, and pain, and the unknown, all of which she was likely to face in the coming days. If only she hadn’t been so stubborn, she might have listened to Devon when he’d told her to go home, and remained safe in Skystead.
Pela shuddered as goosebumps ran down her neck. There was no going back now. And anyway, she was a woman grown. If there was danger to be faced, she would not run from it. Her mother needed her to be brave. She would not fail Kryssa now.
Leather scuffed on wood as Caledan staggered from the stern and drew his sword. Pela started as lantern light caught on the blade, but Caledan only held the weapon over his head. Standing on one foot, he closed his eyes. His breathing deepened and he stilled, perfectly balanced, in harmony with his weapon.
When he moved, the act was so sudden that Pela almost fell backwards over the railing in surprise. The silver blade flashed as Caledan lunged, skewering empty air. Then he was leaping and slashing, sword arcing sideways as though to deflect an invisible foe, his footsteps so soft they made no sound on the wooden deck.
A stillness fell over the Seadragon as all eyes turned on the swordsman. There was a pattern to his movements, a rhythmic beat that only he seemed able to hear. Caledan continued through the deadly dance, every twist and turn coupled with another jab or thrust. His sword flashed up, then down and back, spearing an invisible opponent. Spinning, he blocked high, then kicked out to his right, before turning to bring his sword down in a double-handed attack.
By now even Devon in his sickness had taken note of the impromptu performance. Silence hung over the ship as Caledan continued his deadly dance, sword rising and falling, his movements growing faster, until the silver blade was little more than a blur.
Suddenly the weapon slipped from Caledan’s fingers. Pela cried out as it spun through the air, arcing to half the height of the mast before plunging down. Others echoed Pela’s fright, but Caledan was already diving, rolling across the deck and coming to his knees. His hand snapped out, plucking the blade from the air.
Releasing a long breath, Caledan rose to his feet. Surprise showed in his eyes as he saw the others watching. His jaw hardened, and spinning on his heel, he started back towards the stern.
“Wait!” Pela was on her feet before she could stop herself. Her cheeks warmed as everyone looked at her, but she knew what she needed to do. “Can you teach me that?” she asked in a rush.
Her mother had never let Pela learn the warrior’s arts, never let her hold anything larger than a steak knife, for that matter. What use were such skills in a town like Skystead? Yet with her mother gone, Pela was now confronted by the world beyond their sleepy village. She no longer had the luxury of running from her fears.
“No!” Pela jumped as Devon’s voice came from the bow. Swinging around, she watched the big man approach, his bulk emerging from the gloom. “Your mother forbade it.”
Despite her nerves, Pela bristled. “Well she’s not here now, is she?”
“I should never have let you come,” Devon said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. First thing when we make port, I’ll find a ship to take you back.”
A lump lodged in Pela’s throat as she looked into her uncle’s amber eyes. This was the opportunity she had wanted, a chance to take back her words in the plaza, to return to Skystead, and hide from the dangers of the world outside.
An image flickered into her mind, and she saw again the baker dying on the Temple floor, the Knight standing over him. The world had brought its evil to them. There could be no safety in Skystead now. The evil would return with renewed strength.
If she allowed it.
“No!” The word left her in a rush, carrying across the deck for all to hear.
Silence answered her cry. Devon stared down at her, the flickering light of the lanterns seeming to age him. In that moment, Pela realised his fear, that he would not be able to protect her, that he might fail, that she would die. Cold touched her then, the weight of what she was committing herself to pressing down on her shoulders. Yet still she refused to relent.
“Please, Uncle,” she said. “There’s nothing for me in Skystead, not without Mum.”
Devon’s shoulders slumped, and Pela knew she’d won. He waved a hand, already turning away. “Very well,” he murmured, his words whispering in the night. “Though your mother will kill me for it.”
Letting out a long breath, Pela closed her eyes, relieved she’d won the battle.
“You ever used a sword, girl?” Caledan asked.
Jumping at the swordsman’s question, Pela spun to face him. In the heat of the moment, she’d forgotten what had started the argument with her uncle. Her mouth opened and closed, words abandoning her. Caledan raised an eyebrow, his eyes showing his disdain, and Pela cursed herself for a fool.
“Ummm…” she managed finally.
The man snorted and made to turn away. Gathering herself, Pela leapt into his path.
“Please!” she gasped. “They have my mother; I need to be able to help.”
Caledan scowled. “I don’t have time to teach a brat how to hold a blade.” He sidestepped her and started for the stern again.
“What are you afraid of?” Pela shouted at his departing back, anger giving her courage. “That you’ll fail?”
The swordsman paused. Sword still in hand, he stood looking away from her. But there was a rage in the way he stood, in the rigidity of his stance, and Pela felt a sudden fear of the deadly man. She swallowed as he turned to face her.
“You may as well give in,” Devon rumbled from the shadows. “If she has half her mother’s will, she’ll wear you down eventually.”
Caledan’s eyes flickered, but after a moment, the anger vanished from his eyes. “Very well, Devon,” he said. “I’ll teach your niece a few things.” He flicked his sword into the air and caught it by the blade, then offered it to Pela, hilt first.
Taken aback by his sudden change in manner, Pela hesitated before tentatively accepting the blade. The sword itself was a plain thing, its leather hilt unadorned, the blade thick at the base and some thirty inches long, ending in a razor-sharp point. Testing its weight, she gave a practice swing—and cried out as the leather slipped from her grasp.
The blade clanged loudly as it struck the deck point first and lodged there. Laughter burst across the Seadragon as her so-called companions doubled over in mirth. Even the farmer Tobias wore a broad grin on his bearded cheeks.
Her face aglow, Pela stood frozen to the spot, horrified by her own clumsiness. She wanted to race home and bury her head beneath the sheets, but on the ship, there was nowhere to go, no place to hide from the shame.
Footsteps thumped on the wooden planks as her uncle returned from the bow. His eyes swept the faces of their companions, silencing them with a glance. Gingerly, he reached down a massive hand and plucked the sword free, before offering it back to Pela. Cheeks still burning, she shook her head, but Devon was insistent, and finally she accepted the blade with a trembling hand.
“Your mother really is going to murder me, you know,” he murmured. She frowned, but he was already turning. “Who are you to laugh?” he bellowed at the others. “Who of you would have done any better, at sixteen? Which of you could do better now?”
In the darkness, Pela could not see the faces of her fellows, but the silence was palpable. In other circumstances, it might have bolstered her confidence. Instead, her heart sank at the reminder that her mother’s life now rested in the hands of untrained villagers. Pela’s grip on the sword tightened as she realised her fellows were just as unprepared for this mission as herself.
“I thought as much,” Devon continued, his tone turning gentle. “Well, we have three days before we reach Townirwin. I suggest you take heed of my niece, and ready yourselves. The Knights will not surrender their prize without a fight.”
“Will you teach us, Devon?” Tobias asked.
Devon eyed the farmer for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said softly, his voice sad. Before anyone could press him, he returned to his spot at the bow, and sat staring out at the dark shore.
Swallowing, Pela looked from Devon to Caledan. Movement came from around them as Tobias and Genevieve stepped closer. Tallow and one of his sailors also approached, arms crossed.
“So, where do we begin?” the captain asked.
This time when Caledan smiled, it was genuine. He gestured to Pela, then waited until everyone was paying attention, before pointing at the ground. “With your feet.”
Devon’s spirits were low as he sat listening to the clashing of swords. Twice already he’d heard Caledan cursing his new students. Plagued by doubt, Devon wondered whether he’d been wrong not to come alone. What difference could a few inexperienced villagers make, courageous though they might be?
And how could he hope to protect his niece where they were going? He should have refused her back in the plaza, rather than entertain this fantasy of a rescue mission. Timid as she was, he hadn’t expected her to come this far. But Pela had surprised him. Perhaps there was more of her parents in the girl than even she realised.
His hammer lay beside him and he picked it up. Gripping the haft tight in one hand, Devon swore to himself he would not allow anything to happen to her. He owed Kryssa that, after everything they’d been through.
Holding the old hammer, Devon’s gaze was drawn to the chunk Merak’s blade had torn from the steel head. He shivered; that too gave him pause. It should not have been possible. Perhaps there had been an imperfection in the metal, though he knew the hammer well. An old friend had made it for him back in Ardath, after his ancestor’s hammer had been destroyed by the Tsar. But then it had been made for construction, more than war.
He spent another few minutes inspecting the weapon, but he could see no other damage. Finally, he set it aside and returned his eyes to the night’s sky.
After an hour, Caledan ended his impromptu training session with an explosion of curses, and silence returned to the Seadragon. Silhouettes flickered in the lantern light as the others made themselves comfortable for the night.
Devon was about to do the same when Pela appeared at the railing.
“What are you still doing awake, missy?” he asked gently.
“You don’t want me here.” She said the words matter-of-factly, a sad smile on her lips.
He sighed. “No, but then I rarely get what I want.”
“I never knew you were a warrior,” she murmured, taking a seat beside him. “Mum never wanted me to learn how to use a sword.”
“No,” Devon replied, “she…didn’t believe in violence.”
Pela snorted. “Could have fooled me…” She trailed off, looking to Devon for a response, but he said nothing, and she went on. “It isn’t just her though. You don’t want me to learn. Why?”
“I don’t want to see you hurt,” he replied, obfuscating. “Where we’re going…I can’t protect you.”
“Who asked you to?”
“I can’t fail your mother, not again.”
“Again?” Pela’s voice rose an octave.
Devon cursed his loose tongue. The girl was astute. “I only meant…I failed to rescue her.”
“No…” Pela gripped the cuff of his shirt, her hand dwarfed by his own. “You know something, Devon…what is it? Why don’t you or Mum want me to learn how to fight? Why did she push you away after my grandmother passed?”
“Pela…” Devon trailed off, struggling for the words. “I can’t, I promised your mother…”
“I might not even have a mother anymore,” his niece snapped, struggling to her feet. “What are you keeping from me?”
Devon lowered his eyes. “Your mother…she’s…Selina and I raised her,” he said, remembering the scrawny ten-year-old who had first shown up on the doorstep of the Firestone.
It had been Selina who had invited her in. Devon had been reluctant to be dragged into the role of a caregiver, but eventually the fiery youth had wormed her way into his heart. How she had grown, these last thirty years. Tears stung his eyes as the years flashed by, and he recalled her marriage to Derryn, the arrival of Pela. They had all moved to Skystead not long before the birth, in search of a safe place to raise a child.
They should have found peace there.
Would have, if not for Devon’s weakness.
“I wanted to protect her from the world, but I failed. I couldn’t save him,” he whispered.
“Save who?”
“Your father,” Devon grunted. He rubbed his cheek, trying to conceal his tears, trying to decide how much to tell her. “He fought alongside me many times…your father.”
“What?” Pela gasped.
“This was before you were born, before we moved to Skystead, when we lived in Ardath.”
Pela was on her feet. “Mum…how…she never!”
“Breath, Pela,” Devon murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. She nodded, her eyes as wide as saucepans, and he swallowed. Guilt weighed heavily on his chest as he went on, “We…he and I were both members of the King’s Guard, the most elite of his soldiers. But when your mother became pregnant…we retired and moved to Skystead. Except, not long before your birth, the king sent for me, begged for my help with the war. I could have refused him, should have refused him, but…that was ever my weakness.”
He hung his head, no longer bothering to conceal his tears, as the memories of that time rushed through his mind. Pela sat beside him, silent now, and he dared not meet her gaze.
“I would have gone alone,” Devon whispered, “but…your mother wouldn’t hear of it. She asked your father to go with me, though he didn’t want to leave the two of you.” He balled his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes closed. “I should have protected him. I failed.”
“My father…” Pela croaked. “You saw him die?”
“Ay.” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “In the foothills north of Lake Ardath, the enemy came upon us. No one knew they were so close. The army was far ahead of us; the king was unprotected but for twenty of his guard. Derryn and I stood at the centre and defied the Lonians until reinforcements could reach us. But when the last enemy was slain and I looked for him, he…he was already gone.”
He hung his head, unable to even look at his niece. If not for him, she would have grown up knowing her father. If not for him, Kryssa would have enjoyed many more years with her love…
“How could you keep this from me?” Pela hissed. He looked up at the anger in her voice. “I thought he was killed by Baronians!”
“Your mother wanted to protect you—”
Pela laughed harshly. “Well the two of you have done a great job of that, haven’t you?” Her shoulders slumped suddenly. A shudder swept through her and the tears returned. “If you’d taught me to be a warrior like my father, I might have saved her. I might have done something, anything but run away.”
Devon realised then what had driven his niece to join this ill-fated quest—she was ashamed. Ashamed that she’d frozen, ashamed she hadn’t fought back when the Knights came, that she’d run away. Gingerly, he placed a hand on her head.
“To run when there is no hope of victory is not cowardice, Pela.”
“You would not have run.”
“Perhaps not, but even I could not have won that fight. Not even in my youth could I have defeated so many alone. If you’d fought, even if I’d taught you to use a blade, you would have only thrown away your life. That was why your mother never wanted you to learn in the first place.”
Pela frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She was afraid of losing you, that you might follow in your…father’s footsteps, and become a soldier.”
“I…” Pela swallowed, averting her eyes. “Why would she think that? I never wanted anything like that…”
“Ay, but would it have been different if you’d known the truth? Maybe you wanted more than what Skystead can offer.”
“Even so…” she murmured. “She should have told me, should have given me the choice.”
Devon eyed his niece closely. She had always been a timid child, when Kryssa had brought her on their weekly visits after Temple. There had been little of her parents’ fire in Pela then; now he wondered if she possessed that flame after all. Back in Skystead, while Pela had been packing for the journey, he’d retrieved some things from Kryssa’s basement. With weapons in short supply in Skystead, he’d intended to arm the villagers. Now though…
“She didn’t want you to die young, never knowing your family,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. The blood drained from Pela’s face at his words, and he went on, “She wanted more for you than to lose your life fighting someone else’s war. But…maybe you’re right. Maybe it should have been your choice.”
Reaching into the worn canvas sack he had brought, Devon rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. He drew it out and unwrapped the silk cloth Kryssa had bound it in all those years ago. The light of the nearby lantern revealed a polished leather sheath and a hilt inlaid with gold wire.
“This was your father’s,” he said, offering it to Pela. “If you intend to fight, he would have wanted you to have the best.”
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