Sir Quinlan and the Swords of Valor (23 page)

One evening when they were nearly to Norwex, Quinlan lay down next to Kalil, musing at the difference between the two strange animals that had attached themselves to him. The more time he had spent with Bli, the more the paytha had become
his
master. But the more time he spent with Kalil, the more Quinlan became Kalil’s master. Bli was as appealing as an animal could be, while Kalil was quite ugly, at least according to the kingdom’s standards. But Bli had abandoned Quinlan when he chose the Prince, while Kalil followed him faithfully. Perhaps the difference was simply due to coincidence or the personalities of the creatures, but Quinlan couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more involved.

The next morning, before the sun began spilling its vibrant rays over the distant horizon, Quinlan arrived at a familiar ranch home. As he knocked, he heard the clatter of pans and dishes as the morning meal
was being prepared. The door opened, and there stood Lilam. One hand rested on the hilt of her sword, and the other was on her hip.

“You came back,” she said a little doubtfully.

Quinlan nodded. “I said I would.” He smiled. “Where I’m going, I’ll need the best fighters in all of Arrethtrae, and I heard there was one here.”

Lilam’s lips slowly curled into a smile. She pushed the door open wider and called over her shoulder, “Set another place at the table, Aven.” She looked back at Quinlan. “I’m glad to see you. Come in.”

Quinlan’s reunion with Lilam’s family was joyful. And this time, though her parents were still hesitant, they admitted they could not keep Lilam from what seemed to be her destiny. While Quinlan was gone, apparently, Lilam had intensified her training with Master Kwi, and the skills she showed him were impressive. Her intelligence and assertive personality seemed a perfect fit for the Swords of Valor. Quinlan had no concerns about her being able to hold her own against the likes of Purcell—if he agreed to join the unit again.

By midafternoon, Quinlan and Lilam had said their farewells to her family and set their course toward the village of Mankin. When evening came they built a fire, and Quinlan asked Lilam to stand up and face him. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “I thought about keeping it a secret, but I just don’t think that would work.”

Lilam raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Someone else is going to be traveling with us.”

“Well, I rather expected that,” she said with a smirk.

“Believe me, this isn’t like anything you would expect.”

“Try me.”

“Very well. Keep your eyes on me.”

Quinlan whistled, and the bushes behind Lilam parted. Quinlan held out his hand to signal a quiet approach and Kalil sank low to the ground, creeping up behind Lilam. Quinlan even had second thoughts as he watched the powerful muscles tense as for an attack.

“Now I need you to turn around—slowly.” Quinlan stood ready to calm both Lilam and Kalil if need be.

Lilam slowly turned around until she stood face to trunks with Kalil. To Quinlan’s surprise, she did not jump, or scream, or even gesture. Instead, she reached out a hand. Kalil reached out with his central trunk and sniffed, then wrapped the trunk around her wrist.

“He’s amazing,” Lilam murmured without taking her eyes of off the penthomoth. “What’s his name?”

“Kalil. It means ‘friend.’ ” Quinlan went to stand beside Kalil and rested a hand on the animal’s back. “This is your monster penthomoth from the Dunes of Mynar.”

Lilam reached over to rub Kalil’s sand-colored head, and the penthomoth groaned with pleasure. Quinlan smiled, glad his friends had become friends too.

Nine days later, Quinlan and Lilam arrived on the outskirts of Mankin, a small city tucked away between the Tara Hills and the Great Sea. After ordering Kalil to stay in the woods outside town, they hiked into Mankin. They asked about stables, but only the town prefect had them, and Quinlan was quite sure Kobalt would not be there.

“The blacksmith sometimes keeps horses,” the owner of the weaver shop offered.

They made their way toward the blacksmith’s shop, expecting the familiar smell of red-hot iron, the sound of pounding hammers, and the sight of white steam. When they arrived, however, the coals of the forge were cold and the tools were all put away.

“Quite odd how the shop is open and unattended,” Quinlan said.

He nodded to Lilam that they should leave, but then they heard the clop of hoofs coming their way. A large man appeared from around the right corner of the shop with three horses in tow.

“Kobalt!” Quinlan hurried over to his steed, who nickered in recognition. The animal looked well fed and groomed.

“He is a battle horse now,” the man said in an accent Quinlan had never heard before. He handed the reins to Quinlan.

“Thank you, sir,” Quinlan said. He closed his eyes for an instant and saw a violet afterimage.

The warrior handed another set of reins to Lilam. “For you, Lady Lilam. Her name is Adira. It means ‘strong.’ ”

Lilam took the reins with a look of disbelief. “How did you—”

“You will need her in the days to come,” the warrior said.

“Thank you, sir,” she finally managed to say.

The man went to shut the doors of the shop.

“Are you closing so early?” Quinlan asked.

The warrior turned. “I have been here many years, and now my work is done.” He looked to the horizon, then crossed over to his own steed. “The days are short, and I must go to prepare for them.”

He gave them a salute as he mounted. “The King reigns!”

“And His Son!” Quinlan and Lilam answered as he rode away.

“Well, Lilam,” Quinlan said as he mounted Kobalt for the first time in many months. “Now the search begins.”

Lilam swung a leg over Adira. “Lead on, Commander.”

Quinlan looked at her, a little taken aback, but she just waited.

“To Blackbridge … and the scoundrel who waits there,” he said with a smile. He slapped Kobalt’s reins and they launched their steeds south.

Commander
, Quinlan said to himself as he rode.
That’s going to take some getting used to
.

GATHERING OF SWORDS

Quinlan and Lilam arrived in Blackbridge on a warm spring afternoon and wondered how they would ever find the man they sought. The town was once his home, according to Taras, but he was used to living a secret life, and Quinlan was certain the secrecy would continue.

They approached the village square, where a crowd of people had gathered.

“Sticking an apple with a knife at thirty paces is impossible,” a voice called out. “No one here believes you.”

Quinlan dismounted and handed his reins to Lilam. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He stepped up behind the crowd and peered over heads and shoulders. In the midst of them, sitting on a stump and peeling an apple, was the very person he wanted to find.

Quinlan laughed to himself.
Secret life—sure
.

“You’ll have to prove it,” another person yelled.

“Why should I prove it to you?” Purcell calmly took a bite of the apple, and juice dripped down his scraggily beard. “I know I can do it.”

“Aw, he’s just blowin’ smoke,” the first man said. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

Purcell smiled. “I’m not a gambling man.”

The man sneered. “See—just blowin’ smoke!”

“But,” Purcell continued, “since I know I can do it, it wouldn’t be gambling, now would it?”

The man stepped forward and placed coins on the stump next to Purcell. “Two florins says you won’t even come close.” He turned to the crowd and grinned. Shouts of affirmation rose up.

Purcell grabbed a fresh apple and got to his feet. “Hold out your hand,” he said.

Looking to the people for encouragement, the man slowly lifted his hand. Purcell put the apple in it.

“You hold the apple,” he said. “If I hit it, you pay me four florins. If I miss, I pay you six.”

The crowd muttered, and the man grew nervous. “I’m not risking my life for six florins.” He slapped the apple back into Purcell’s hand and grabbed his coins.

Purcell smiled and shrugged. He threw the apple into the air and caught it.

“Is there no one brave enough to take my challenge?” he yelled as he held up the apple.

There was no response except low murmurs from the crowd.

“Then I shall keep my knives in hand, and you will never—”

“I’ll do it!” Quinlan shouted. Heads turned to see who had spoken.

Purcell jerked his own head around and squinted to see who had accepted his challenge. Quinlan stepped forward, and the crowd parted to let him through. He was surprised that Purcell didn’t seem to recognize him. Evidently his full beard and strengthened body had changed his appearance significantly.

“Now here’s a man of heart!” Purcell called out to the crowd, gesturing toward Quinlan.

“Not all would think so,” Quinlan said.

At hearing Quinlan’s voice, Purcell squinted again and peered closer. Recognition came slowly, but it came. Purcell’s nostrils flared as anger filled his eyes.

Quinlan did not flinch. He reached out and took the apple from
Purcell and set it on his own left shoulder, just above his heart. The crowd began to buzz with excitement.

Purcell continued to stare intently at Quinlan for a moment, then turned and walked thirty paces. When he turned around, the crowd cleared a wide berth behind Quinlan.

Purcell lifted his knife and prepared to throw it. He made a quick motion as though he were making an attempt, then pulled up short of releasing the knife. Quinlan stood as steady as an oak tree. The onlookers held their breath in anticipation.

Purcell readied himself once more, then recoiled and released the razor-sharp knife on a trajectory that would carry it straight to the apple … or Quinlan’s heart.

The crowd gasped as the knife flew, then hit—sending the apple careening over Quinlan’s shoulder and onto the ground. The people erupted in thunderous applause. Quinlan bent to recover the apple and the knife, and walked over to Purcell. The two men glared at each other in silence for a moment.

“The Prince is calling, and the Swords of Valor are gathering,” Quinlan said in a quiet, steady voice. “Those brave enough to fight again are meeting at Stockford in a fortnight.”

Purcell glared. “Fighting beside an inexperienced squire who hardly knows which end of a sword is which isn’t brave. It’s suicide!”

Quinlan met Purcell’s eyes a moment longer, then pulled the knife from the apple, flipped it into the air, and grasped the blade. He handed it to Purcell as he leaned close to him and spoke softly.

“When’s the last time you saw a Shadow Warrior?”

Purcell’s hard stare eased as he considered Quinlan’s question. His silent response gave Quinlan the answer.

“That’s what I thought. You don’t think they’ve gone away, now, do you?” Quinlan turned up one corner of his mouth, realizing all evidence of his facial twitch was gone. “You’re either losing your edge, or you’re so far off the front line that you don’t matter to them anymore.”

He took a bite of the apple, turned to walk away, but hesitated and turned back. “Just in case you’re interested, the man standing beside the
blacksmith’s shop”—he gestured with his head—“is not of this kingdom, and he’s been watching you since I arrived.”