Free Warrior Reborn by Melissa Mayhue Page A

bears a remarkable resemblance to the one my father had when he first taught me the use of such a weapon.” Such a remarkable resemblance, in fact, he half expected to see his father stroll into the room at any moment.
    “No offense taken, I assure you. Please, take the weapon into yer hands if you like. Test the feel of it.” Torquil moved behind his table and took a seat, very much like a man waiting to be entertained.
    Chase lifted the sword down from its mountings. In his grip it felt different from his father’s, but good all the same. He laid the sword across his palm to feel its weight. Admiring the fine balance, he peered at the markings on the blade. Made in the fires of the ancient Celts, his father had claimed of his own. Holding this one, Chase didn’t doubt it.
    “Ulfr!”
    Torquil uttered his captain’s name like a man commanding a trained animal and Chase looked up to find Ulfr charging him, teeth bared, his sword leading.
    Instinctively, Chase raised the weapon he held, just in time to meet the downward blow of Ulfr’s sword. The leaf-shaped weapon felt natural as metal clanged on metal, as if it were an extension of his own arm. The lessons with his father rushed back to him. His vision tunneled on the man in front of him and he twirled, dodging the next attack, blocking from his mind Christiana’s scream and Halldor’s shout as the big man threw himself in front of the healer. Chase pivoted under Ulfr’s strike, slicing upward at the last minute. A thin red line appeared on his opponent’s forearm as he glided past.
    Ulfr screamed, backing away, his free hand tightly clenched over the dripping wound.
    “Excellent!” Torquil rose from his seat, clapping his hands in appreciation. “Expertly done, indeed. You wield that weapon as if you were born to it, O’Donar. The sword you hold is meant to be used, no to decorate a wall. It’s yers to keep, and the sheath, as well. As to a horse, take yer pick of any from my stables. Satisfactory?”
    Chase’s heart pounded in his ears from the adrenaline pumping through his system. It had been a long time since he’d felt the rush that accompanied hand-to-hand combat.
    “Satisfactory!” Halldor boomed.
    “Noble,” Chase corrected quietly, turning to face the MacDowylt laird. This part of their charade had come to an end. Dishonesty didn’t sit well on his shoulders. He didn’t like pretending to be something or someone he wasn’t. He never had.
    “What did you say?” Torquil stared at him, his lack of expression concealing his thoughts.
    “My name is Noble, not O’Donar. Chase Noble.”
    “My brother speaks truly. We do not share the same father,” Halldor interrupted with a shrug before throwing an arm around Chase’s shoulders to usher him from the room. “Why else would I have had to come all the way to Scotland looking for this one, eh?”
    Chase considered refusing the offer of the weapon, but only for a moment. Torquil was correct. The sword was never intended to be a decoration gathering dust on a wall. It was meant for the hand of a warrior, and it fit his as if they had been made for each other.
    He pulled away from Halldor’s grip and turned to face Torquil, lifting the sword in salute.
    “My thanks, Laird MacDowylt. I pledge to use this weapon to the best of my ability.”
    “If you use it half so well in yer service to me as you did a moment ago, I’ll consider it a gift well given.”
    Chase dipped his head one last time and walked out of the room.
    He’d pledged to use the weapon to the best ofhis ability. But he wasn’t yet completely sure that would mean using it in the service of Torquil MacDowylt.
    I T COULD BE either one of them.
    Torquil stared after the departing men, frustrated by his inability to read which of them carried the fate of his destiny on their shoulders.
    “I asked for a moment with you, my laird, because I have need of—”
    “Silence!” He held up a hand to stop Christiana from speaking. His