Read Online Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) by Jordan MacLean - Free Book Online Page A

us to her grandfather, led her without the castle walls, scooped
her up and rode away.  Then we sold her.”
    Gikka glanced at the window.  “But what sort of person would
buy—”
    Finnig laughed over her.  “I doubt they know she’s missing
yet.”
    “Oh, yes.  We know.”  A cold voice came from behind the two
knights, a voice they’d come to know in the war, and they turned their chairs
noisily over the floor to see Lady Renda of Brannagh standing in the open
doorway, one sword drawn and the other still sheathed at her hip. Her rich
auburn hair, released from the elaborate work of her maids, was simply tied
back, and she wore but a simple tunic and breeches beneath her plain cloak.
Even without her plate armor, she was a commanding presence. They had no doubt
who she was, not with those bright amber eyes.  Aghast, they turned back to see
Gikka standing as well, dagger and sword drawn.
    Without a word, the tavernkeeper retreated into his own
rooms, closing the door behind him and hushing his startled family.  He was no
doubt listening against the door, perhaps feverishly playing his hand over the
fiver in his apron, wondering if he had done the right thing and wondering what
open battle between two of the noble houses might mean.  Witnessing, she
snarled to herself.  She hoped he had the good sense to keep his peace about
what he saw.
    Finnig and Bernold stood blinking the ale blur from their
eyes and gazing back and forth between the two women.  At the edge of her
vision, Gikka saw the barest flicker of a smirk cross Bernold’s features.  He
nudged Finnig against his hip as if he were a trained horse, and the younger
knight took a step toward Gikka, hands open, a warm smile on his face,
unfailingly confident of his charm.  “Come, I know just where she is.  We’ll go
and buy her back, and no harm done.”
    Gikka’s lip curled in a snarl.  She slammed her dagger
upwards under Finnig’s chin and into his brain with a growl, turned it and
viciously ripped the blade out to let the twitching spastic body fall to the
ground at her feet.  Then she stepped contemptuously over the still moving
corpse and turned her gaze upon the other knight, who had by now drawn his own
sword and begun circling toward her.
    “Hold!” Renda stepped forward and motioned her squire back. 
“I would have some answers first.”
    “Well, well, the sheriff’s own daughter.”  Bernold grinned. 
“The woman who would be a knight,” he sneered, turning his sword toward her.
“Come on, then, Sir Renda of Brannagh!  Man to man, peer to peer.”
    But Renda stayed, sword leveled, even in her anger, too
steady and war-seasoned to be drawn into a foolish attack by pride.  “You are
no knight, sirrah.”
    “Oh,” he said with mock surprise, slashing his sword
elegantly through the air, “oh, but I am.”  He bowed grandly.  “Sir Bernold of
Avondale, Knight of Wirthing, at your service.”
    “Nonsense.”  Renda sneered.  “We found the two knights you
killed, thief.  Stripped and left to rot beside the river.”
    “Nay, madam, they were the thieves.”  He laughed, slashing with
the sword again and angling toward her to keep himself facing both women at
once.  “They attacked us, but we prevailed and killed them both.  Wirthing does
not trifle with thieves like the House of Brannagh,” he said, casting a look of
contempt toward Gikka.
    “Then Wirthing could stand to come up in the world,” quipped
Gikka.  “Better he should break his bread with the lowest of the low than with
the likes of you.”
    Anger flared in his eyes.  “We did strip them, ‘tis true. 
After all, if everyone thinks that scoundrels dressed as Wirthing knights took
the child, well,” he laughed wickedly, “who would blame real Wirthing knights?”
    “A knight does not sell children, and certainly not to their
deaths, Avondale.”  Renda stepped between the two tables into a more open area,
kicking aside several chairs as she