her wrist, she curled the fingers of her other hand. “Come, giant. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
“I’ll rip your head from your shoulders,” he said, baring teeth gone black. “Then piss on your corpse.”
“Nice. Let’s see you try.”
He lunged, moving rather fast considering his size.
But not fast enough. She waited until he was too close to stop his own momentum then darted away. He stumbled and tried to turn. She was already whirling. Blade lifted, she slashed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a thin red line appeared at his throat. His corpse tottered, then fell, going left, while his head went to the right.
A sickeningly wet crunch filled the air and she spun in time to see the ancient thing inside Aryn’s body release Michan’s broken body. It was little more than a fleshy sack above the waist, ribs, arms and spine shattered.
For a moment, they both just stared at Michan’s sightless eyes, bloodshot now, and gazing overhead at the lattice of tree branches.
“You are a worthy partner, elfling. He’d be wise to keep you as a friend.”
Tyriel looked at the swordsman, saw his wicked smile but before she could respond, he turned and took off at a run, disappearing into the woods faster than any human she had ever seen.
Chapter 6
Tyriel bided her time, made sure the other had left Aryn’s body.
She also made sure she had her own wits about her before she approached Aryn nearly a week later.
His sword rested against a rock while he knelt beside the creek, splashing his face with cold water.
Dragging her eyes away from his bare chest, she reminded herself she was here to discuss a matter of importance, not to ogle his physique, fine as it was.
But bloody hells, it was so fine—sculpted, lean, muscled. With water trickling down his skin, dampening the waist of his drawstring trousers, he looked like every wicked dream she’d ever had and every precious wish she’d never dared to ask.
“Would you mind telling me about your sword?” she asked when he turned questioning eyes her way.
With a frown he said, “Not much to tell. It was left to me at my mentor’s death. He’d gotten it from his. I’ve had it more than thirty years now.”
“Long time.”
Aryn shrugged, drying his face on a coarse cloth before reaching up and securing his damp hair with a leather thong. The blue stone in his ear flashed and winked at her.
Thirty years of bearing that heavy piece of metal might have something to do with that chest, she mused. Mentally, she slapped herself, dragged her eyes away from his chest, focused on the extraordinary blue of his eyes.
“Did your mentor tell you much about it?”
“Other than where he’d gotten it, I don’t think there was much to tell,” Aryn said with a shrug. Reaching for his shirt, he tugged it over his head and tucked the ends of it inside his breeches before fastening a thick heavy leather belt around his waist. The harness he slid into, shrugging his shoulders automatically until the weight of the sword was right.
“Another question.” She looked him up and down, measured the feel of him against what he’d just told her. She’d estimated him to be perhaps just entering his third decade. Had his mentor given him this blade when he was still a boy? Perhaps…but… “Would you tell me how old you are?”
“Now that’s a personal question.” Amusement lit his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. It was a position that had his biceps bulging.
Tyriel had to work to keep her attention on his face. His open amusement, the way he smiled, that warmed her through.
“Are you going to answer?”
“I will.” He shrugged. “I don’t know that you’ll believe me, though. I’m less than a year from my fifth decade.”
Whistling under her breath, she gave him another once-over and decided she’d been right that about his blade—the magic within the blade was settling inside the bearer. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a mage yourself. Or perhaps had an elvish ancestor in your family line.”
“Not a mage,” he said with a disinterested shrug. “And if there are any long-ears in my family, I have no way of knowing. I was a foundling, left in the streets of some village in Nenu by my mother—I assume. A priest took me the nearest orphanage and there I stayed for some years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There is no need.” With an easy shrug, he shifted his gaze away from to study