“I did not know Demorans chopped so much wood,” Darit said with a wink to the king.
The prince shot Sage a questioning look, and she couldn’t help but smile. “He’s not being literal, Nick,” she said in Demoran, using the short name that had crept into her use over the past few days. “You fight like you’re chopping wood.”
He scowled back. “I fight as I was trained to fight. And I was quite good for my age, you might recall.”
Banneth and Darit were watching with patient annoyance, and she switched to Casmuni. “You must unlearn Demoran swordplay to master this style.”
Demoran swords were longer and heavier, used for hacking, blocking, and pounding more than slicing and deflecting. The Casmuni harish complemented the fighting style of tashaivar with its speed and smoothness, often striking and then retreating back to a starting point before advancing—if advancing at all. Many movements were designed to end a fight before it truly started.
The king gave her a slight nod of thanks. Nicholas’s frown remained. “It works against the Kimisar. It has been many years since Casmuni battled them. Will their style defeat them?”
Sage blushed at the prince’s rudeness, but Banneth only looked thoughtful. “You have a fair point,” he said. “And a good teacher is also a constant student, so I am not above learning what you may have to teach. Would you do me the honor of instruction?”
He may have said that to please Sage, but Nicholas didn’t consider the request beneath its surface. He waved the harish to emphasize its light weight. “It has been several years since I forged a blade,” he said, referring to the blacksmith training all pages went through. “So I would need help, but I can design and make Demoran-style swords with your permission.”
Banneth brightened a little. “That may not be necessary, if Kimisar weapons are as similar as you say. We have two taken from our prisoners in the desert.”
Sage waited until Banneth had instructed a servant to fetch the captured weapons before speaking. “Two prisoners, Palandret? I was only aware of the one Darit brought with us.”
The king smiled a little wryly. “A second came in with the last patrol. Given how Darit said you reacted to the first, I did not think it wise to inform you at the time. The first died on the journey, from his wound.”
That second man, then, was who had been chained in the cramped room.
Sage waited with Banneth for the servant to return, carrying two belts and swords obviously longer and heavier than he was accustomed to. He stopped before the king and held them up. Banneth gestured for Nicholas to choose, which the prince did eagerly, opting for the slightly smaller one.
The king took the second and slid it from the scabbard, stretching his arm awkwardly with the straight blade.
“This will do nicely,” Nicholas said as he whipped the sword around, displaying the competence and comfort he didn’t have with the harish.
But Sage’s attention was focused on the weapon in Banneth’s hand.
She knew that sword, knew the simple but elegant design of the hilt and crossguard, knew the way it felt pressed against her ribs in stolen moments.
Banneth looked impressed. “Fine balance for the weight—” He broke off as he caught sight of her. “Are you well, Saizsch?”
A dull roar began to build in her ears. “Where did you get that sword?” she whispered.
Nicholas glanced to them and then the sword. His eyes widened.
Banneth offered it to her. “Is it a design you recognize?”
The roar was now deafening. Sage wrapped her fingers around the hilt and took the weight with hands that shook. The last time she’d seen this sword, Alex was holding it as he fell off his horse into a crowd of Kimisar.
“Where did you get this?” she asked again, louder.
She swayed a bit, and Banneth reached out, ready to catch her. “The Kimisar brought in with the last patrol carried it.”
Even with an arrow in his chest, Alex wouldn’t have let it go easily. In her mind she saw a man holding Alex down with a foot to his chest, making it even harder for Alex to draw his last breaths, waiting until he had no strength, no resistance, no life.
Sage tore her eyes away from the sword to meet Banneth’s concerned gaze. “You promised me anything I wanted, if I accepted your proposal.”
His eyes widened. “I did.”
The fire of emotion was suddenly stripped from her like she’d plunged into an icy river, leaving a hollow, brittle shell. Sage raised the blade between them, making him flinch.
“I want this man’s head.”
91
GUARDS WERE COMING. Swiftly. With a purpose.
Alex turned his head on the straw pallet. It had been three meals since the ringed man last visited—his only way of judging the passage of time—and after that interrogation he’d been moved to a different cell, though he was too battered to appreciate it much. He dared to hope the man was done with him. The footsteps stopped outside his door, torchlight streaming through cracks. Apparently not.
The door opened, and he squinted against the brightness, eyes watering. Then the light was blocked by the guard who carried the keys. Alex’s arms and legs were unchained from the wall and reshackled to each other, and that’s when he knew what was happening. They were taking him to his execution.
Adrenaline flooded through his veins, making him awake and alert. Though everything hurt, Alex didn’t think anything was broken except maybe a couple ribs. He let the guards pick him up and drag him out the door, all the while twisting and moving to loosen joints and muscles. The chains on his ankles were a hindrance, but he exaggerated their effect, hoping to lull the guards into a false sense of security.
He wouldn’t go without a fight.
“Where are you taking me?” Alex demanded of each guard in turn, using it as an excuse to look around in imitation of the wild fear he forced himself not to feel. None answered, and that fear threatened to break free when they turned away from the directions he knew led outside. A hood was yanked over his head, and Alex fought panic as the darkness closed around him.
A minute later he felt the sun on his skin, and he couldn’t help thinking for a moment that he was going to die without ever having seen it again. Without seeing her. But sunshine meant he was outside, which meant the best and possibly only chance he had of escaping. He would not waste it.
Alex braced his feet and rammed his shoulder into the man on his right, then spun around with his hands together, swinging the dangling chain in a circle. The metal vibrated to his wrists as it hit another guard in what sounded like his head. Alex yanked the hood away and reflexively shielded his eyes against the glaring light. He was outside and in a clear area. He had a chance.
A guard came at him, and Alex opened his arms and leapt to grab the man around his neck and into a hold. Keeping him upright, Alex used the leverage to kick his chained legs up at another guard, but the man he held went down, and Alex was forced to release him. He lunged for the hilt of a sword, but when he pulled, the blade was too curved to come straight out of its scabbard. In that second of hesitation, the remaining guards were on him. He fought with every ounce of strength he had, but there were too many.
Something pressed on his neck, and Alex’s vision dimmed, then burst with colors as his mind fought the blackness creeping in from the edges. He stopped fighting. The only thing worse than dying was dying while unconscious.
The pressure eased a second before Alex would have blacked out, and his head exploded in pain as the blood was allowed to flow again. All his fresh injuries rushed into his awareness, doubling the agony.
“Sage,” he gasped, though he couldn’t put much force into his words at first. “Sage Fowler. I need to talk to the Demoran, Sage Fowler.”
As his voice rose in pitch and volume, someone yanked his head back and pulled a gag across his mouth. Dizzy with pain, he felt a strange gratitude that her name was the last thing he’d ever be able to say.