Free Rogue Belador: Belador book 7 by Dianna Love

seen her wield a sword in a while.
    She’d been happy. He wanted her happy every day for the rest of her life. That she’d conjured the sword her father had ordered custom-made for her warmed Tzader’s heart.
    She clearly remembered that .
    “Pray, how are you with swingin’ that sword?” Ceartas asked.
    “Skilled enough to kill anyone who challenges me.” It wasn’t boasting. Tzader had never been beaten when he held a Belador sword, and hoped putting that statement on the table up front would make Ceartas think twice.
    “I have no’ battled one so worthy in many ... years,” Ceartas said.
    From the way he spoke, Tzader wondered if it had been years or decades ... or centuries. And more importantly, what the hell had he meant when he said he’d come for Brina?
    He’d just as soon avoid bloodshed, but he had no idea where this was going and he couldn’t just pop out of here with a sword at his neck. He asked, “How long have you wandered through this realm? Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten how to return to the world of the living?”
    “I can return any time I wish.”
    “Then why don’t you head back and—”
    In one fucking quick move, the bastard attacked.
    Tzader swung his sword up in time to keep his head still attached to his shoulders, and met each assault with the force he’d held back from Brina. In a blink he broke away, spun, and swung on the attack again.
    Strike, strike, dodge, strike.
    The clash of metal on metal zinged through the air.
    Sweat poured across Tzader’s shirtless body. He had to give it to Ceartas. If the guy had been dream walking for eons, he’d been swinging a sword the whole time.
    His opponent smiled. He was enjoying the match way more than he should.
    Ceartas lost his footing and Tzader attacked, calling up his Belador power to finish this off without having to harm the guy.
    Energy flashed across the clearing, and Ceartas glowed all the way down his arms to the tip of his sword.
    What. The. Fuck?
    Ceartas twisted his neck back and forth, then nodded. “Ready.”
    Tzader sighed and moved forward, in no hurry.
    Rushing into a fight gave up any advantage.
    With the next swing of Ceartas’s glowing sword, Tzader blocked, bringing him close to his opponent. They strained against each other, but Tzader could tell that this crazy guy’s power was unlike anything he’d ever encountered.
    Ceartas said, “Got any ale?”
    Ale? Who asked for ale in the middle of a fight? “No.”
    “Damn. I would stop for a drink.”
    Lanna had told Tzader these were his dreams, and the elements in a dream world would respond to him. While he did not possess her majikal ability, he had envisioned a few things that appeared, much like the swords Brina had called up.
    Easing his pinkie finger loose without giving up any ground, Tzader pointed at the ground and thought beer .
    Nothing happened.
    Never letting up on the pressure against Tzader’s sword, Ceartas watched with a curious and guarded expression.
    Maybe he needed more focus and detail. Tzader wished for two tall mugs of frosty beer ... that appeared. Damn. How about that?
    Grinning, Ceartas shoved hard enough to send Tzader flying backwards and walked over to lift one of the mugs.
    Tzader bounced up to his feet and shook off the jarring hit. He waited to see what came next. He’d been knocked off his feet with powerful kinetics before, but no man had ever sent him flying.
    Besides, that hadn’t been kinetics.
    Ceartas carried power that he’d only allowed to peek out.
    Realization struck Tzader between the eyes. This warrior had clearly been around for centuries or at least he was from another century—who the hell knew what was possible in this dream world?—which meant he was almost certainly immortal, and had the power to kill Tzader, even without a sword.
    After downing a healthy slug of beer, Ceartas let out a loud belch and a happy sigh. He frowned at Tzader. “Are both o’ these for me?”
    Shaking his head