The Name Of The Sword (Book 4) by J.L. Doty Page A

tip beneath Morgin’s chin. “What danger are you talking about?”
    “He’s lying,” Kenna said. “He’s making up a story so we won’t punish him for touching the betrothed of the Unnamed King.”
    Rafaellen’s eyes narrowed and he considered Morgin carefully. “We’ll let the Unnamed King decide his fate.”
    Kenna hesitated, clearly unhappy at the thought of not killing Morgin right then and there. But then her eyes widened with calculation. “Yes. We’ll take him before the Unnamed King for a proper trial, then hang him.”
    Still holding his sword tip beneath Morgin’s chin, Rafaellen demanded, “And what is this danger you speak of?”
    Morgin struggled in the grip of the two soldiers. “Jackal warriors,” he said.
    Rafaellen frowned with skepticism. “Dogs?”
    “No,” Morgin said. “Jackals, and they are warriors to be feared. They’re an abomination that walks on two legs like men, and they carry weapons.”
    “I tell you he’s lying,” Kenna said.
    Rafaellen looked at Morgin silently for a moment, then spoke to the soldiers holding him, “Bind him, then let’s break camp and get out of here.”
    While three of Rafaellen’s soldiers bound Morgin’s arms behind his back, another unbuckled his sword and handed it to Rafaellen. The captain looked at it curiously, gripped the sheath in one hand, the hilt in the other, and exposed half its length. Examining it carefully, he said, “Not much of a blade. A poor man’s sticker, at best. Not even worth keeping.”
    He slammed the blade back into the sheath, then tossed the sheathed sword into the undergrowth at the edge of the camp.
    Morgin flinched. He hated that blade, but he also feared it being free and not under his control.
    Rafaellen turned to two of his men and said, “I don’t believe him. He’s probably just making it all up, as Mistress Kenna says. But let’s not take any chances. While you’re scouting, be alert to any danger.”
    The two men mounted up, spurred their horses into a gallop and disappeared up the trail. Morgin sat on a log with his arms bound behind his back while the rest of them broke camp. When they were ready to go two soldiers boosted Morgin up into Mortiss saddle while one held her reins.
    Rafaellen spurred his horse forward and led the way out of the camp. The soldier holding Mortiss’ reins handed them to Rafaellen’s sergeant. The man spurred his horse forward and they followed the captain.
    ••••
    After they had gone, and silence settled over the small clearing, something moved in the brush where Rafaellen had tossed the sword. A harsh grunt broke the silence, the kind of sound a wild animal might make. Then the brush parted, and a small, filthy, feral child emerged, wearing dirty rags and dragging the sword behind him.
    ••••
    NickoLot didn’t normally enjoy riding, but JohnEngine had picked out a gentle mare for her, and the scenery was wonderful. After two days on horseback they and their escort of two twelves of armsmen were nearing the Lake of Sorrows. And while the day had turned out to be a bit hotter than she preferred, pacing the horses at an easy canter put a comfortable breeze in her face that kept her cool.
    She reached into her blouse and patted the hilt of Rat’s crude little knife, just to confirm she hadn’t lost it. Roland had helped her fashion a sheath for it so she needn’t fear cutting herself. She now carried it with her everywhere and didn’t let it out of her sight. Her instincts told her it held some importance she couldn’t define, and yet the way she feared losing it bordered on the irrational.
    She and AnnaRail had tried a number of spells in an attempt to locate Rhianne, but such invocations were notoriously unreliable, especially if someone with any power chose to block them. After repeated failures they concluded that Rhianne still wanted to remain hidden. So they agreed that someone must make the trip to Norlakton to bring her back, or at least learn