Sword's Call by C. A. Szarek Page A

hostile magic.
    The desperation in the call was palpable.
    What in the Blessed Spirit’s Name could be wrong?
    He needed to get there now.
    The call didn’t come from Aramour. It was from somewhere due east—near Berat the best he could figure.
    Why aren’t they in Aramour?
    He hadn’t been that far east in turns.
    Braedon had learned how to mask his trail with more skill than Hadrian had ever been able to teach him.
    The first spell covered his trail for almost two turns. Then they’d found him again, but hadn’t caught him.
    He’d improvised even more with his magic afterward, learning to devise even more powerful masking spells. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have survived.
    Braedon had tried to cast an answer to let them know he was on his way, but the magic was closed, a signal only.
    The call was surrounded in a protection spell that carried the signature of the first presence. Hadrian had left considerable power in it, not even friendly magic could enter.
    Generally if magic was closed, it was so dark magic couldn’t intercept the energy or harm the sender.
    Nature of the spell mattered not.
    Is Hadrian afraid of dark magic?
    The situation had to be dire, because his old friend was usually not afraid to open cast.
    Why had they left Aramour?
    Was Vanora with them?
    Was she all right?
    Was Jorrin?
    His heart thundered in time with Roan’s hoof beats.
    What the hell could be going on?
     
     

Chapter Nine
    Jorrin was waiting.
    Blessed Spirit, he was sick of it.
    Four days since they’d simulcasted the spell to call his father.
    Braedon hadn’t turned up.
    Hadrian assured him Braedon would sense it; that he’d come to find them, but how could they be sure?
    Less than three days before they would have to recast. He’d have to dig deep to muster the energy. Getting over the initial disappointment was hard enough.
    Avery had also been disappointed. Each morning with no sign of Jorrin’s father, Cera’s cousin withered even more.
    Cera wasn’t taking the waiting any better, but at least he hadn’t had to witness any more tears. He didn’t want to think about her tears. Didn’t want to remember what it was like to hold her, and definitely banished the memory of her kiss. Especially the last one.
    Damn, he’d botched things with her.
    He’d not tried to kiss her again. Nor had they discussed it. Both were striving for normal. And although Jorrin ached every time he looked at her, he was dealing with it . . . pretending he’d not drowned against her sweet lips, felt her luscious body against his, and melted into her gorgeous gray eyes.
    Liar.
    Jorrin couldn’t get her out of his head. Or his dreams.
    With a heavy sigh, he dropped Hadrian’s axe.
    He’d been helping the elf wizard by halving firewood logs. Bigger and stronger than Hadrian, he could accomplish twice what the wizard could in about half the time.
    Jorrin smiled to himself, remembering Cera’s shock that Hadrian didn’t have some magic spell to do it for him.
    “He’s got something for everything else,” she’d remarked, eyes wide.
    The redhead had laughed out loud when the elf had told her that magic for chopping wood just wasn’t practical.
    “But it is for doing dishes?” she’d asked.
    Jorrin laughed just as he had earlier. Obviously, she’d no idea Hadrian was pulling her leg.
    “Almost done?” Her sweet voice pulled him from his memory.
    He looked up, meeting Cera’s gray eyes. She smiled and his sense of gloom dissipated.
    “I guess so.” He surveyed the neat stack of firewood he’d made for the elf wizard. “This should last him quite some time, so I can probably stop.”
    She looked him up and down. “You look hot. Want some water?”
    He was suddenly hot all right, but it had little to do with his chopping wood. Heat crept up his neck. Jorrin ordered his body not to respond any further to that stare of hers. “Nah, I’m all right.” He swallowed hard, glancing over his work again, desperately needing a