Free Destined for a King by Ashlyn Macnamara Page A

stepped between the combatants. Just before a lethal blow hit Torch, Kestrel turned it aside.
    “Are you daft?” he shouted. “You’re not even wearing a helm.”
    A sudden silence fell. The other men stopped their sparring, as everyone’s attention turned on Kestrel. Torch thrust out a hand, his intent clear from across the yard. Without a word, Owl proffered his weapon.
    Torch raised the sword in a salute, but even from this distance, Calista could see the point waver.
    “What does he think he’s doing?” she murmured to herself as much as to Tamsin.
    Despite the growing sense of tension hovering over the scene, Tamsin giggled. “I don’t know as I’d mind watching them take each other on.”
    “But he’s in no condition to fight.”
    Kestrel seemed to be in agreement. Two red splotches formed on his cheeks, and he dropped both hands to his sides, sword and shield, leaving himself open and vulnerable.
    “What’s your problem?” Torch’s shout carried to the walls. “Defend yourself.”
    Kestrel stared for a long moment, his lips flat, and a prickle worked its way up Calista’s spine. “No, my lord.”
    “Why? Do you not deem me a fit opponent?”
    Kestrel bowed his head, as if he expected Torch to sever his neck then and there. “Your pardon, sir,” Kestrel muttered, but in the utter silence his voice seemed to echo. “I forgot myself.”
    With a curt nod, Torch lowered his weapon. “It’s my duty to know my men and their abilities. If I didn’t trust your reflexes, I’d never have placed myself in front of your blade. As for you…”
    He turned to Owl, presenting the hilt to the boy. “I expect better. If you would continue to serve me, you must become more proficient. You will fight out here every day until you can turn every last one of Kestrel’s attacks. Understood?”
    Owl stared at the ground, but his knuckles as he gripped the sword were white. “Yes, sir.”
    Torch glanced about the yard. “As you were. Show one another no mercy, for you can be certain Magnus Ironfist’s men will not.”
    Not a single jest or shout of laughter greeted the command. Only obedience, pure and immediate. And, for a band of marauders, didn’t the Brotherhood treat their leader with deference?
    As Torch made his way from the center of the yard, the murderous dance, punctuated with the beat of sword on shield, resumed about him. The ground-eating stride with which he began his walk soon gave way to a noticeable limp. By the time he reached Calista and Tamsin, lines of tension had formed about his jaw where he gritted his teeth.
    “The pair of you, out of the yard,” he barked. “The men don’t need your sort of distraction.”
    At his sharp tone, Tamsin gave a squeak, but Calista raised her chin. “And who will help you back up those stairs to your bed?”
    “If I ask it, any one of these men would bear me on a bier.”
    “But you wouldn’t ask them, would you?”
    He turned to gaze about the yard, and something sparked in his eyes. Pride, yes, but longing as well. He yearned to be out there with his Brothers, honing his skills, sharpening his reflexes, regaining his strength. “No.”
    She laid a hand on his forearm. “Come. Rest now, before you completely exhaust yourself.”
    “I’m bloody tired of resting. If this keeps up much longer, my arm will forget what it’s like to lift my sword.”
    At the frustration behind his words, her heart gave an odd sort of flutter, and her fingers tightened about his wrist. Had he been armed, he wouldn’t have even felt the movement beneath his steel gauntlets. Except he wore a simple jerkin. But for the metal studs dotting the boiled leather, he was hardly distinguishable from the servants. And how that must grate at him.
    “You’ll take up your sword again, soon enough, and your hand will remember the moment it grips the hilt.”
    He twisted his arm beneath her, his fingers coming around to grasp her arm. “May you have the right of