CHAPTER ONE
Pain blossomed along Shea’s left side. She sucked in a sharp breath and gritted her teeth. She could already tell from the throbbing that a bruise was forming.
The person responsible for the blow watched her expressionlessly as he dipped the tip of the short wooden staff toward the ground.
From the sidelines an irate Trenton groused, “I’ve told you again and again not to drop your guard on that side. Anyone with half a brain will take advantage of it.”
And he had.
Shea kept the grimace off her face as she ignored the pain and lifted the sword. Her opponent wasn’t one to show mercy, and she’d already been caught off guard once with a follow-up attack. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Her thigh still smarted from the last time.
Trenton leaned against a boulder with his arms crossed, his long, lean frame appearing relaxed even as he glowered at her. Not much older than she, his arms were defined by muscles built over a lifetime of wielding a sword with deadly accuracy. Considered one of the best swordsmen among the Trateri, he normally worked with her during training. Not today, though, as he was still recovering from several injuries derived from a long fall onto unforgiving rock during their attempt to gain access to the Highlands. Chirron, the healer traveling with them, had strongly advised him against any vigorous activity.
Having been on the receiving end of Chirron’s brand of care, Shea chose to listen to his advice, figuring it would be easier and less painful than risking his displeasure in the event Trenton did further damage to himself.
That had been her reasoning anyway, but she was beginning to think Chirron’s anger would have been preferable to Braden’s brand of training—one that was as merciless and unrelenting as the man. As one of her warlord’s favored generals, Braden wasn’t known for his soft heart. After a close call at the beginning of their journey, it seemed he’d made her his personal project. Since then, he had been relentless in whipping her sword skills up to par. That, or he was using it as an excuse to work some of his frustrations out on her.
Every night after their group stopped for the day, Trenton and Braden tracked her down for practice. She didn’t even bother hiding anymore, knowing they’d find her eventually and when they did it would just mean a longer and more intense workout.
Sometimes the practices were an endless round of drills. Other times, it was sparring with the significantly more experienced general—a man who had built his life around the art of warfare.
It had left her body a patchwork of bruises, her muscles so sore the next day that she struggled to climb into the saddle. She couldn’t even argue with their reasoning. Not when her life might someday depend on what they were drilling into her body.
She was decent with a dagger and knew several moves geared toward unarmed self-defense. That had saved her life in the past, but she’d always preferred running from conflict to actually fighting. There were so many ways to solve a problem that didn’t involve blade and blood.
That way of thinking, however, no longer worked as effectively as it once had. Not when it meant she’d be leaving behind the very people who now held more than a few pieces of her heart. She’d formed bonds as strong as steel with those she now traveled with and trying to get all of them clear of the type of trouble that usually came looking for her was nearly impossible—especially when many of her friends were warriors who preferred to meet their opponents head-on.
Add to that, her status as the telroi of a powerful warlord and it meant these people were as much hers to protect as they were his. Since he had as many enemies as allies—some who pretended to be friends even as they waited to stab you in the back—it meant she needed every tool in her arsenal, even if those tools had to be beaten into her tired and aching body.
Knowing the reasoning behind the training didn’t make the bruises hurt any less.
“Are you ready?” Braden asked in a calm voice. Unlike most Trateri who tended toward dark hair and eyes, he was blond, his hair cut short, making his already striking features even more memorable. Authority was stamped on every line, from the strong jaw to the intense eyes that seemed to pierce right through you.
Shea gave him a sharp nod, knowing that he would begin even if she wasn’t.
Her hand tightened around the hilt of her wooden practice sword—something Trenton had magically materialized during that first practice when she’d thought she’d gotten away with leaving it behind.
She centered herself, taking up the stance, one leg in front of the other, her weight evenly distributed in a way that would enable her to move in any direction at a moment’s notice. Her arms trembled just slightly, tired from the last few days of practice as well as the strenuous journey that day.
She watched her opponent carefully, alert to any signs of attack as he took his staff in a two-handed grip, pointing one end toward her, his stance a mirror of hers.
Fighting an opponent with a staff when she held a sword was different than defending against a sword. Braden’s blows had power and strength. The long reach of the staff meant she was constantly on the defensive, unable to return any of his strikes. Not that she could have, even if he’d been carrying a sword. He was just that good.
She struggled to remember what they had taught her as he advanced in a whisper of movement, the staff pivoting in his hands so that he came at her from the opposite side of what she’d guessed. She lifted the sword to meet him, parrying the staff as she stepped to the side and attempted to riposte.
There was a thunk as he easily blocked her with one part of the staff, as the opposite end whipped up to fly at her face. She ducked and stumbled away, falling out of her stance as she fought to get her blade back into a defensive position.
He granted her no mercy, advancing on her as he rained blows down, one after another. She fell into the rhythm of parry, stumble, parry, stumble, parry, as she backed up, her feet moving jerkily across the grass, trying to get enough distance between them so she could regroup. Loud meaty thunks sounded in the air as he hammered at her defenses.
Her heartbeat sped up to match her breathing and sweat dripped down her temples. Her face was creased in a frown of concentration as she matched his movements, parrying his staff time and again.
“You can’t defend forever,” Braden said, his face still set in those calm lines. He was barely breathing hard. Keeping her on the defensive was evidently no more strenuous than a stroll across a meadow.
“Get distance and then reengage,” Trenton yelled from the sidelines. “Move faster!”
Shea gritted her teeth, his words prodding a nerve. She caught Braden’s staff with her sword and shoved hard, feeling satisfaction as he fell back a step. Seeing her chance, she stepped forward, swinging her sword at his torso.
The staff reversed, whipping up as he shoved the end into her stomach. Breath whooshed out of her, and she fought the instinct to curl in on herself. She lifted the sword, angling it to protect her head and shoulder—just in time, as the staff landed across it. Shea’s muscles strained as he bore down.
