Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) Read Free Page B

left his plan in tatters.
    No matter. He always prepared for setbacks. Shaladon would fall. And when he tore open the veil to Theran Gull, releasing the Soulless One, he would be rewarded far beyond any other. Still, his anger boiled as he looked at the Heart one last time.
    “Fool,” he spat as he turned his horse. “Now I have to change my plans.” His black cloak flowed as he rode southeast, leaving the carnage behind.
     
    ***
     
    In the red carriage, a shadowy box in dusk’s twilight, a tiny hand lay on the hilt of the Sword, and the Eye glowed purple.
     

C HAPTER 1
    Paths and Propositions
    Michael stood motionless, concealed by vines and brush, his blue eyes searching the small clearing. Golden rays of afternoon sunlight shone intermittently through the thick foliage of the forest. Glittering dust particles dancing against a backdrop of greens and browns made the rays come alive. Crickets did not chirp, birds did not sing, the forest was silent. The only sound was the muted roar of the rapids the Whitewater River was named for.
    The bushes to his right moved ever so slightly. A sly grin slid across Michael’s face. His stalker was in for a surprise. Lithely, Michael lunged, bringing his sword down. Another blade flashed from the bushes, deflecting Michael’s strike, but the force of the blow pulled the swordsman off balance. Michael tried to gain the upper hand, but his opponent broke free and retaliated. Michael parried, rolling with his adversary’s momentum as it carried them past one another. Quick to turn in fluid grace and face off, each man held his sword in both hands above his head, blade parallel to the ground in a guarding fashion. Michael looked into Garen Baldwin’s eyes gauging his next move. A dangerous swordsman under any circumstance, the look in his eyes said he had a new trick up his sleeve.
    Michael deflected a series of quick strikes intended to disarm him, to the chagrin of his adversary. His mischievous grin reappeared and he mimicked the series of strikes.
    Garen’s face contorted into a mixture of shock and strain as he struggled to deflect each one. His deft footwork prevented the final strike from disarming him. He shook his gauntleted hand, though, eyes never leaving Michael’s. Apparently one blow had landed after all.
    Garen hesitated, reassessing matters after having his own trick turned against him. Michael took a swipe at Garen’s ribs. Garen responded with a parry and moved in close throwing an elbow at Michael’s jaw.
    Every form flowed into another, every offense met by its equal defense. Strength matched by speed, experience by instinct, a dance of attack and deflection.
    Michael stepped into Garen’s attack, raising his sword to intercept a strike and slid his blade along Garen’s, binding them at the cross guards. Face to face, noses almost touching, Michael recognized the hint of doubt in Garen’s eyes, sensed the momentary hesitation. Michael threw Garen back, intentionally remaining open, enticing him to use the same attack again. Garen took the bait and Michael shifted to the left, receiving the blow. Garen’s momentum carried him a step past Michael. A well placed foot in Garen’s path and an elbow to the back of the head sent him sprawling face first into the dirt. Garen rolled over and found the tip of Michael’s sword at his throat. His look of surprise gave way to a smile then laughter.
    “Well done, Michael! Well done.”
    “Well done?” Michael replied. “That’s all you can say? Well done?”
    Michael held out a hand to help his friend up, but Garen waved the hand off, content to lie on the ground, chest heaving.
    Michael leaned against a large oak, heart pounding. “You had a hard time keeping up.”
    The day was cool, summer’s heat given way to autumn’s first chill, yet his shirt was drenched with sweat and muscles ached from their sparring.
    “Hard time? I wouldn’t say that. You been practicing?” Garen asked between deep