Her Knight's Quest: A Warriors of the Mist Novel Read Free

experience firsthand what happened next. Kiva’s table manners were questionable, not that Duncan wasn’t grateful for his hunting skills. He also appreciated knowing the bird would stand guard while Duncan slept.
    After the meat cooled a bit, Duncan wrapped it in a cloth and tucked it in his pack to keep it safe from scavengers. His chores finished, he let the fire die down.
    “Sleep well, Kiva.”
    Anyone outside of his narrow circle of friends would think him mad for talking to a bird. But Kiva wasn’t a normal owl any more than Duncan was a normal man. He was one of the Damned, an avatar of the gods along with three other warriors and their leader, Captain Gideon. The five of them were closer than brothers.
    He missed them. How many centuries had it been since he’d last spent so much time alone and away from his four friends? Well, other than when they all slept under the river, separated from the mortal world. Even then he was still aware of their presence like a soft hum in the back of his mind. At this distance, however, he couldn’t sense them at all.
    Rather than dwell on it, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He’d picked up one more thing from Kiva’s thoughts. There was a caravan of traders making its way toward the abbey. From what he’d been able to see, their camp was at least a day’s ride behind him.
    If he stayed where he was, they’d catch up with him. As long as he acted the part of a scholar looking for work as a scribe, they might allow him to join them for the remaining distance to the abbey. He’d prefer to arrive as part of a group.
    He weighed his options. Lost in a crowd, he’d be better able to assess the situation and then decide how best to approach the abbess. Requesting full access to the abbey’s collection of books and manuscripts would be tricky. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if the sisters tried to turn him away.
    And they very well might. A lot would depend on which gods the sisters worshipped. It was almost too much to hope for that they followed the teachings of the Lord and Lady of the River, the deities Duncan served. What would the sisters think of his pale-as-death eyes? Again, since he would be arriving as one of many, perhaps it wouldn’t be as much of a problem.
    On the other hand, time—a commodity that he and his friends had precious little of—was passing. The Damned were given only so many days to accomplish the task the gods had set before them. He couldn’t afford to waste two days waiting for the caravan and even more time traveling at the slow pace of the heavily laden wagons.
    His mind whirled with possibilities; too many thoughts without direction. For some reason, that made him think of his father. The bastard had wanted a son who was the mirror image of himself, one who lived to drink, fight, and bed lusty wenches.
    Instead, Duncan had inherited a heavy measure of his mother’s love of knowledge and the gentler arts. While Duncan had a talent with weapons, at the end of the day he’d been happier in his mother’s solar, poring over some ancient text, than banging swords or drinking with his father’s men.
    When his mother died in childbirth, his father had burned her books to wean Duncan from what his father saw as his weakling scholarly ways. The plan had had the opposite effect. Duncan had taken the few texts he’d been able to salvage from the fire and ridden away without looking back.
    He’d met Gideon a short time later. Rather than berating Duncan for always carrying a load of heavy tomes with them on their campaigns, Gideon had valued Duncan’s gift for tactics and knowledge of military history. The friendship had served them both well.
    He rolled onto his side to stare at the fading dance of the flames. None of the Damned had aged a day since they’d first marched into the river to sleep, but on nights like this one, Duncan felt every year of his centuries-long life.
    Once again the image of the mysterious woman filled