Page 8 of On a Barbarian World

Kavon slid his huge sword back into the leather scabbard on his back. “This is an argument you’ve waged many times before, Colm. You know the importance of what I’m working toward.”

“I’m just worried you’ll achieve your plan and find you’ve sacrificed too damned much for it.” His friend sighed. “You’ll join us for an ale, though?”

“Of course. Ale and food.”

Colm’s brows rose. “And maybe a woman? That’s the only pleasure you’ll allow yourself. I saw you take that lovely little dancer to your rooms after dinner last night. I would have thought plowing yourself between those supple thighs would have eased your tension.”

Kavon grunted. Any enjoyment from the brief interlude hadn’t lasted long past emptying his seed. He raked a hand through his hair. “You know I’m preoccupied with finding Durendal.”

Colm released a long breath. “It is a worthy quest, Kavon. One that would give glory to the Mal Dor name…but it’s a myth. A legend from the beginning of our people. I’m not sure anyone can find it.”

Kavon’s mouth firmed. “I will.”

Colm shook his head. “I’ve known you since we were boys, and I recognize that look. You’ll give it everything you have. That is how the legend of the great warrior, Kavon Mal Dor, has spread across Markaria. And will continue to do so, like his father before him.” Colm inclined his head. “I’ll see that the girls are returned to their families.”

Kavon mirrored the nod. “Thank you.”

After his friend had left, Kavon lifted his gaze. The stars overhead were bright now, and the first of Markaria’s moons was just pulling itself over the horizon.

By the warrior, he missed his father.

Colan Mal Dor had been a big man with a gregarious nature and a booming laugh who could also be deadly and unyielding in a fight. He’d run his land with a firm but gentle hand, building up the farming, and providing a home for anyone who wanted to join Clan Mal Dor.

But one cowardly act had stolen Colan away from all of them and forever tarnished their family name.

By instinct, Kavon’s gaze moved south. He saw the distant twinkle of lights.

The home of Drog Mal Sull—all-around bastard, and the murderer of Kavon’s father.

Kavon’s hands tightened on the reins, and his hargon shifted restlessly. “Easy, Tarm.”

Drog’s family had always been bitter rivals with Kavon’s. A feud so old, its origins were murky. Some said it started with their great-great grandparents, caused by a slain brother, or a kidnapped sister who’d been returned round with child.

Whatever had started the feud, and despite Kavon’s father making many attempts to defuse it, it was still alive and well.

And now it was also fueled by the blood of Kavon’s father.

Drog had lured Colan away with talks of peace, and killed him in a way dishonorable to any warrior. Of course, Drog had crowed far and wide that he’d killed the great Colan Mal Dor in a fair fight. Kavon, only nineteen years old at the time and still in training, had recognized that his father had been stabbed in the back by more than one weapon.

Kavon’s knuckles turned white. It had been no honorable warrior’s fight. Drog had ambushed his father.

The death of a warrior in a challenge cast a weak light on the family name. After Colan’s death, other warrior families had distanced themselves from Kavon’s. It had meant few would do business with Clan Mal Dor. Villagers had defected, searching for a stronger family to claim protection from. The farms had suffered, their livelihood had died away, and his mother and young sister had suffered. Just thinking of them made his chest tighten.

Over the last fourteen years, he’d worked hard to rebuild the Mal Dor name. To be the family people wanted to do business with—for foodstuffs, for minerals—and to claim protection from.

He’d become the best warrior he could be. He’d led many battles for their king and gained his favor. But Kavon still needed one last thing to seal the honor his family deserved—his father deserved.

Kavon needed to find the legendary sword, Durendal.

He imagined presenting the historic blade to King Corant Mal Rann, King of Markaria, and his chest swelled.

A few months back, Kavon had celebrated his thirty-third birthday. In the Way of the Warrior, his tempestuous age of boiling emotions and temper had passed. He was now an experienced warrior, disciplined and controlled. He’d learned to control and direct his nanami—was one with them. In turn, they granted him speed, strength, and enhanced senses.

His biggest problem right now was that he had no idea where Durendal might rest. He had a team of scholars working on the problem, day and night. He’d sent warriors to search many locations, but they still hadn’t found it, and they were out of promising options.

Ahead, the protective walls of his estate rose. He lifted a hand to the warriors guarding the gates and directed Tarm inside, the beast’s sharp hooves clattering on the cobblestone street.

Something in the sky caught his attention and he slowed Tarm. Falling stars were filling the vast emptiness.