The Staff and the Sword 02 The Hero's Lot by Patrick W. Carr

Author:Patrick W. Carr [Carr, Patrick W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC042080, FIC009000, FIC009020
ISBN: 9781441261397
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2013-06-30T22:00:00+00:00

22

Ripples

ERROL TRIED TO IGNORE the pain evident on Adora’s face. The challenge lay in ignoring his memory of Cruk’s attempt to teach him the sword months before. Afterward he’d woken so sore that movement of any kind qualified as torture. Adora’s beating exceeded his. The welts on her shoulders had faded somewhat overnight, but her skin was so mottled by bruises that her arms resembled molting snakes.

Even so, as Adora rode she hoisted a pair of bags filled with rocks, alternating lifts with each hand and then lifting them both in unison. The extremity of her exertions left channels on her face where tears washed away the dust from the road. Errol adjusted his view of the princess. Before, he had looked upon her as a work of priceless porcelain, of surpassing value, but fragile. The radiance of her eyes and the golden splendor of her hair had awakened protective instincts in him that had surprised him.

Now it seemed those instincts were hardly required. The glory of the princess’s beauty—from her smooth, flawless skin to the lithe grace of her movements—still stunned him, but there was more tempered steel to Adora than fired clay. She lifted the bags again, intent.

“Good, Princess,” he said. “The motion will help work the soreness from your arms and strengthen the muscles for the sword.”

“When can I spar again?” Adora asked with a grunt of exertion.

Errol laughed. “Whenever you want.” Adora’s face lit with anticipation. “But if you want to be able to get anything out of the lesson, wait until most of the soreness is gone.”

Her delicate eyebrows lowered, casting the sea green of her eyes into stormy shadow. “Very well. I hardly think I need your supervision to heft bags of rocks, Earl Stone.”

The tone of dismissal was unmistakable.

Errol tried to bow as he rode. He grappled with the saddle to recover his balance. “Your Highness,” he said. Then he moved forward to ride with Rale.

Captain Elar Indomiel—who Errol would always think of as Rale the farmer—leaned forward as he rode, his eyes searching and intent. The captain’s face, usually open and friendly, now looked harsh enough for him to be Cruk’s brother.

His gaze snapped to Errol. “I don’t like it, boy.”

“What?” Errol asked.

Rale looked on the verge of giving him a tongue lashing, but he growled his impatience instead. “You need to think, boy. One well-placed arrow in my chest and, honorary captain or not, you’ll be heading this church-forsaken mission into Merakh. In what direction are we headed?”

“South.”

Rale gave an exaggerated nod. “And how long have we been headed mostly south?”

Errol shrugged. “Since we started.”

“And if you were Valon or one of his circle, what would you think?”

“That we were coming for him in Merakh, but he knows that already,” Errol pointed out. “He’s known that since the attack at Steadham.”

The captain inclined his head. “Good, but not good enough. How many ports are there on our side of the strait? After that, how many ports are there on the Merakhi side?”

He shook his head.

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