Page 65 of Fires of the Forsaken
“And you don’t think you have a problem?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, aye, I know I have a problem.” She tapped her forehead. “Being a Speaker is me problem. But nothin’ will be fixin’ that. So I drink.” She didn’t even wince when she guzzled the second shot. “And nothin’ will be curing yer woes either. So ye might as well have another.” She waved her empty cup in my face.
“Hellno. And I donotthink that’s whiskey. It’s like gasoline.”
Belanna laughed. “Don’t ye be making excuses because ye couldn’t handle it.” She poured herself another glass, this time taking slow, languid sips. Savoring the fiery petrol flavor.
I rolled my eyes. “Take it easy there, Calamity Jane. And aren’t you supposed to be…watching me? Or something?”
“Aye, I am. I’m watching ye choke on yer liquor.”
“Har, har. I don’t think this is the‘guarding’that asshat—”
“Eh?”
“Quinn. I don’t think this is theguardinghe had in mind. Y’know, he sent this bitch up last night—”
“Ye mean Rhona?”
“That her name? She didn’t introduce herself. Just barged in here, barking that she’d put a knife in my back if I tried to run. Then she stood at the door and gave me the creeper stare. I swear she didn’t blink all night. The bitch is like a weirdTerminatorcyborg…I didn’t getanysleep. Also, do you wanna know how many dead rats I had to throw out the window? Five! And I don’t even know how manyliverats are still in this room.”
That was, literally, how I’d spent the night. Cleaning. As best I could, anyway. Squashing bugs. Chucking dead rodents outside. Fighting the urge to taunt the woman who never peeled her eyes away from my ass.
I had a nice ass. Didn’t mean I wanted a creepo Viking woman eye-humping it all night.
“Rhona talks tough,” Belanna chuckled. “She’s harmless though.”
“Harmless? She wasarmed!”
“And she’d never use those weapons on a human. Nah. If ye had run, she’d have caused a ruckus to get Quinn’s attention, but she wouldn’ have harmed ye. Now Quinn…” she grimaced.
“He’dgladlyput that knife in my back,” I scoffed. It’d been at least eight hours since our rocky introduction. And I still got goosebumps thinking about that knife and the damage it could’ve done.
Outside, a series of deep, booming laughs drifted into my room. I stood, mainly to hide my sudden jitteriness, and walked to my little porthole (aka, window). I couldn’t see much at first. The window was too small. The ledges on the castle wall were too wide. And the early morning sun was right in my eyes. But if I stood on my tiptoes, and angled out slightly, I saw a stretch of green lawn, where a cluster of men and women huddled together, each holding a long, wooden pole.
The booming chuckle had come from Kaelan, who was doubled over, his wooden stick braced in front of him. And, standing next to him, was Cheriour.
“Cheriour organizes the mornin’ trainin’ here,” Belanna said as she leaned against the second window, a few feet away from me.
“Training?Everyone just got back last night!”
“Oh, aye. We try not to take lengthy breaks. A dull soldier is a dead soldier.”
Well, that sounded ominous.
“Cheriour’s an excellent teacher,” Belanna continued as Cheriour thumped a still-chuckling Kaelan on the shoulder before turning to the rest of the group. It looked like he was giving instructions, but I was too far away, and couldn’t hear much over Kaelan’s braying. “He’ll get ye sorted in no time,” Belanna said. “Watch.”
With Kaelan’s laughing fit now done, the session officially began.
And I wasnotprepared for Cheriour’s moves.Holy Moly!He looked like a dancer. Every swing of his stick was fluid and precise. When he struck someone, he got their ankles, wrists, or behind their knees. Small targets. But effective, given the reactions of the other soldiers, who either buckled or dropped their sticks when hit. And Cheriour rarely missed. His nimble feet soared over the ground as he pivoted around his opponents. He turned on a dime. During one part of the session, a woman tried to sneak up behind him. Cheriour whirled and had his pole up to defend himself before she’d even raised hers. The motion was effortless for him. Elegant. If he slapped on some spandex and pointe shoes, he could’ve joined The New York City Ballet Company.
In comparison, the other soldiers training with him looked like clumsy bulls barreling across the field.
My heart made a stutteringthimp-thumpin my chest. Nothing to do with fear this time.
Until…
It was thethwackheard around the world. Cheriour’s stick caught an onrushing man in the jaw. Specs of blood flew into the air, looking like big-ole raindrops. The man crumbled, clutching at his broken face.
