A Guardian's Hope: Guardians of Light, #2

By Renee Wildes

As a child, invaders butchered Maleta's parents and left her ravaged body for dead. Now, reborn as a finely-honed weapon for the Gray Goddess, Maleta has shed the burden of emotions for one goal—regain her homeland for her brother.

 

Cianan ta Daneal's mission to the fractured land of Shamar is twofold: to overthrow a despotic queen, and to save a life. For months, he's been haunted by recurring visions of a beautiful swordswoman slaughtered by a skeleton army. He never expected to lay eyes on that woman and recognize her as his Lifemate—or that she'd turn and run like hell.

 

Uniting Shamar's diverse peoples in revolt is easy compared to the delicate task of wooing a woman who flinches from his touch.

 

Slowly, Maleta dares to hope that her country, what's left of her family, and her shattered heart are safe in Cianan's steady hands. But when the cold blade of fate strikes true, can she trust his love is strong enough to pull her back from the Abyss?

 

Warning:  This new twist on Sleeping Beauty contains an assassin nun who knows no fear. Okay, just one fear, but it's a biggie. And an Elven paladin with the Devil's own negotiating skills. To coax her heart out of hiding, he's gonna need every one of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Sep 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386247340

Book preview

Champagne Book Group

Presents

A Guardian’s Hope

Guardians of Light, Book 2

By

Renee Wildes

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A Guardian’s Hope previously published as Hedda’s Sword

Champagne Book Group

www.champagnebooks.com

Copyright 2018 by Renee Wildes

ISBN 978-1-947128-48-4

September 2018

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

Produced in the United States of America

Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay OR 97341

USA

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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not buy it, or it was not bought for your use, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Other Books by Renee Wildes

Guardians of Light Series

A Guardian Redeemed, 7

A Guardian Betrayed, 6

A Guardian’s Destiny, 5

A Guardian’s Dream, 4

A Guardian Revealed, 3

A Guardian’s Hope, 2

A Guardian’s Heart, 1

Standalone

Seditious Hearts

Love’s Timeless Journey

Dedication

To the immortal Jane Toombs, who first judged this unpubbed manuscript in a Romance Writers of America contest back in the day and told me to let her know when it got published. Thanks for supporting and believing in the dream!

Acknowledgement

For all those who believe love conquers all and love can work miracles!

Dear Reader:

The story of Sleeping Beauty is a timeless tale of transformation and the power of love. Maleta is a very unique incarnation of that theme. What she hopes to share with you?

Fairytales aren’t all songs and sunshine. Sometimes the Big Bad Wolf wins a battle or two. Life’s journeys can take some unexpected twists and turns. But adversity breeds strength. Only by flame and hammer does a sword become strong. You are stronger than you know. Like Maleta, sometimes you just need to trust in yourself and the friend at your back to prove that good can conquer evil. Look for the rainbow after the rain.

Hope is the strongest word in any language. It cannot be defeated.

It hasn’t always been easy, but the lessons learned are worth it. I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve learned from my mistakes and grown, as a writer, a mother, and a human being. We all learn and grow and share this journey together. No one can stand alone. We are all one big community. Embrace it. Embrace life.

Thanks for taking this journey with Maleta and me!

One

The statuesque blonde warrior was destined to die, lost to the spreading Darkness. Surrounded by boiling rivers of blood, she held off an army of skeletons with a flaming sword…for a time. Until she fell to their blades, consumed by terror and despair in her final moment…

Not if I can prevent it.

Cianan ta Daneal’s visions were no longer confined to nightmares. Horror skittered up his spine. He had no idea how to find her, or how long he had to save her. But he was where he needed to be—Shamar, an unfamiliar name in the northern region of his human-realms map.

Cianan battled nausea, a side effect of gating halfway across the world. Hours later, his ears still rang from the energy currents. He shivered in the saddle, pulled his hood up, then wrapped his green woolen cloak closer. Dracken rue, the bitter wind pulled him from the vision back into the real world.

He should have listened to Lord Elio, the Elven Minister of Defense, his adoptive father. The old warrior had tried to dissuade him from coming alone. But Cianan had insisted he would have better anonymity this way.

Clouds veiled the new moon, although it still pulled. All around him, the skeletal branches of trees loomed. They clutched at his clothing like the wasted fingers of the dead from his recurring nightmare. The visions began after his initiation as Lady’s Champion, High Warrior-Priest for the Sun-Goddess, the Lady of Light. Those urgent Goddess-sent nightmares were the reason he had journeyed so far from home. A noble, heroic quest, the stuff of legends, a chance for fame and glory.

That urgency told him the woman yet lived. He had time. But how much? Frustration gripped him. Why were dreams so graphic in horror, yet so vague in usable details? Which parts real and which symbolic? After centuries of war against trolls, goblins, and most recently a demon, armies of skeletons did not seem farfetched.

No one should die alone.

Temple tales of past Lady’s Champions, told in the bright comfort of the Elven capital city of Poshnari-Unai, never mentioned how miserable walking the world could be. It was midafternoon when he arrived, per the Earth Adept Gwendolyn’s calculations. Daylight this far north was but a mere lightening of the darkness. The rain? Sleeting stuff that stung his skin and chilled to the bone.

Beneath him, his white war-mare, Kikeona, plodded through the mud. Warmed from within by the Light of their Goddess, she seemed impervious to both gate effect and foul elements.

We shall stop at the first inn with a decent stable. Cianan tried to stop his teeth from chattering. She sent a pulse of energy through their partner link, providing immediate but temporary relief. Cease, he said. Breath steamed out with every word. I am not ungrateful, but you cannot keep doing that. Mortal, though long-lived, her powers were finite.

I should be comfortable while you turn into a block of ice? What do you take me for, Ranger? How can you complete a rescue if you freeze to death? Rainwater streamed down her long forelock into her eyes. Kikeona tossed her head. Mayhap your seeming of a mercenary was not the best idea.

The seeming blurred their Elvish features into a more mortal appearance, a trick of the mind undetectable by all but the goddess-touched. How else to explain my weapons and horse? Keep going. This road leads somewhere.

Did this also prove part of his nightmare—doomed to ride forever under a moonless sky?

Lady, save me from would-be bards. Kikeona sighed. "If you must wax poetic, at least make it good poetry."

He grinned, patted her rain-slick neck, and resumed scanning the woods, his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

Relax, Partner. We are the only creatures mad enough to be about on a night like this. Kikeona broke into a canter. I must get you out of this freezing rain.

Another hour passed. The rains grew worse. The sting of hail now joined the steady sleeting downpour, soaking the cold into Cianan’s bones. How could anyone stand to live in such a forbidding place? Every time he swore he could not take another moment, Kikeona sent a pulse of warmth through their link. He was too grateful to reprimand her.

Several lights appeared through the gloom. Kikeona slowed to a trot. That town ahead looks big enough to have an inn.

Her unshod hooves rang on mud-smeared stone as she carried him through the market, closed for the night, and down a wide street between various shops, a livery, and the smithy. The sound echoed. The entire town appeared abandoned, though lights glowed in various windows off the main thoroughfare. Shielded lanterns on every street corner revealed no one about in the storm. In the far distance, towering above all, riotous mosaics of color stood out in vivid relief against the dark. Stained-glass windows indicating a fine home indeed, mayhap even a palace.

They stopped before a two-story stone building. The sign hanging over the door read The Green Lady. Cianan rode around back to the stables. The scent of wet horse and wetter wool vied with the familiar smells of manure, hay, and leather. The stableboys were not to be seen. Where was everyone?

A true ranger always sees to his horse first. Cianan recalled that part of the ranger code as he rinsed the mud off Kikeona and cleaned her hooves. Even when freezing rain ran down his back and his fingers were so stiff with cold the joints creaked.

He put her in a clean tie-stall between a plow horse and a mule, settling her ankle-deep in dry straw. Save for his bedding, flute, and a few knives hidden on his person, he piled the rest of his gear in the manger and covered it with a large quantity of decent grass hay. Then he gave Kikeona a ration and a half of salted oats and checked the freshness of the two water buckets. He brushed her down from dripping gray to nigh white again and draped her with the unfolded saddle blanket. Shall you be all right here?

I am quite content. She nuzzled him. See to yourself.

Comforted their link meant they were never apart, regardless of physical distance, Cianan shouldered his bedding pack and ducked through the rain, around to the front door of the inn. When he entered the main room, blissful warmth struck him from two roaring hearths, one at each end. Shadows danced on soot-frosted walls. The smell of hot stew, roasting meat, and—Lady Goddess, fresh-baked bread!—made his mouth water. Underpinning these were the sour scents of bitter ale and many people in desperate need of baths crowded together.

Beneath it all, Cianan caught the sharp smell of fear. Why was everyone afraid? Of what?

He addressed the beefy man serving behind the bar. I need a room and stabling.

Haggling ensued until Cianan was satisfied he had not been cheated. He paid the innkeeper in copper armbands then took his gear upstairs to the last room on the left as instructed. It proved a tiny cell with worn furniture, but clean and vermin-free. Laying his cloak before the brazier to dry, Cianan wrung out his hair and changed into dry clothes before hanging his wet clothes on wall pegs. After stashing his pack under the bed and the flute beneath the pillow, he returned to the common room.

The innkeeper served him a mug of hot apple cider and a trencher heaped with mutton stew, a fist-sized chunk of sizzling roast pork, and a thick slice of steaming brown bread dripping with melted butter. A couple of merchants slid over to make room for him at their table.

Heyla. Cianan took a big bite of the bread and shut his eyes in sheer bliss. Ah, the simple pleasures mortals took for granted—like hot bread drowning in butter. Nasty night.

Aye, the younger replied. What’s your name, Merc?

Cianan. The first swig of cider thawed some of the ice in his veins. Interested in a caravan guard or bodyguard?

The older man shook his head. We just returned from our final trip to the Marcou ports. Our season’s done for the year. ’Tisn’t a good time for hiring or traveling. He kept his voice low and glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, as if in fear of being overheard. You’re lucky to arrive when you did. ’Tis unsafe to travel alone after dark.

The door opened, and in strode a swarthy man with gold hoop earrings and a scarlet cape. Greetings, Gentlemen. Lousy night for traveling. I’ll take a room and a cup of ale, Barkeep—and a round for every man here.

Stony silence greeted him. Cianan looked at the expressionless faces of the men around him. The innkeeper spoke first, Full up. Move on.

Cianan would not turn a stray dog out into that weather. He studied the flamboyant stranger’s aura—cloudy but not dark. Let him warm by the fire for a spell.

The older merchant gripped Cianan’s arm in warning.

The dripping wet newcomer squared his shoulders. His gaze met Cianan’s for a moment before he said to the innkeeper, My money’s good.

We don’t serve your kind. Get, ’fore I summon the Night Watch, the barkeep said.

With a mocking bow, the man left.

Anger burned under Cianan’s skin. The bread sat like a lump in his stomach. What goes on? he asked the older merchant at his side. Turning away paying folks on a night like this?

’Tis a decent establishment, the younger merchant said. People see a filthy drifter in here, Brekk loses business. Long-term, savvy?

You agree with this? Cianan asked.

A shadow crossed the older merchant’s face. ’Tis how things are. We don’t make the rules. We just try to get along with them. Heed my words and hold your tongue.

The door slammed open, and in swept two uniformed swordsmen. Bronze marigolds pinned their cloaks. Cianan focused on those marigolds—like those in his vision. Were these men part of the skeleton army? The air itself thickened with dread. He got the distinct impression every man in the room wished himself invisible.

Queen Sunniva’s Night Watch, the older merchant whispered. Trust me, Lad, you want no part of them.

The guardsmen marched to the bar. The men there scattered like sheep.

Brekk handed each guardsman a mug of ale. Food’s coming right away, Sirs.

An older woman brought out two heaping platters. She plunked them down onto the bar and retreated into the kitchen.

The Watchmen wolfed their dinners. The younger motioned for another ale. You’re behind on your spirits tax. We’ve come to collect for the queen.

I paid you last time, Brekk said.

That was for last quarter. We’re here for this quarter.

Brekk opened the moneybox and counted out a handful of silver coins.

The guard recounted it. Where’s the other half?

’Tis the same amount I paid last time.

You forgot the immigrant surcharge. I take the other half or shut you down, Arcadian. Good Shamari businessmen welcome that increase in revenue.

Brekk paled but handed over additional coins.

The guards laughed, finished their drinks, and left without paying.

Prejudice, discrimination, corruption, and extortion—quite an eye-opening adventure. Sunniva is queen here? Cianan asked. "Think she could use another guard?"

What are you doing? Kikeona asked. That was not part of the plan. Rescue the lass, and then return home. Remember?

The Lady’s Light blazed in his heart. Plans change.

We are not here to spy.

The merchants looked at Cianan as if he had lost his mind. You must be from very far east of here not to know of Queen Sunniva, the younger man said.

You have no idea.

She’s made a lot of improvements to Shamar, the merchant said.

His older compatriot sighed. The cost is too high.

This fear and dread was unnatural. Cianan yearned for home, even as his sworn vow, as Lady’s Champion, to drive back the Darkness compelled him to stay. The Lady wanted him to stay, and not just for the sake of one mystery woman.

I wouldn’t look for work from her, Stranger, unless you’ve got your Guild Stamp.

It figured a local Mercenary Guild collected dues for stamps. Cianan finished the remainder of his dinner in silence. I bid you gentlemen good night.

He rose, bowed, then returned to his room. Cianan rolled his bedding across the bed and stripped to his breeches. He slid one knife beneath the thin mattress and another under the feather pillow, then crawled in and pulled his blankets to his chest. We shall visit the Merc Guild in the morning.

Kikeona’s sleepy affirmative greeted his statement.

Everything ached, body, heart, and soul. Cianan did not want to close his eyes, to revisit those visions yet again. How many times could he die with her? Even in dream form, the Darkness scorched a bit more with each death. Desperate, Cianan pulled out the flute to play songs of Light, songs of home.

~ * ~

The captain behind the battered wooden desk peered at Cianan with narrowed eyes. You don’t look Shamari, Soldier.

Cianan’s head still ached from that accursed Gate. He eyed the motes of dust floating in the thin sunlight that streamed through the single eastern window. Lady, how he missed the sun. East. Home. Away from this dark and dangerous land.

I am not, Cianan said in careful common—trade-speak, here. Despite decades of practice, he still retained an all too obvious lilt.

The captain caught it. Foreigner, eh? His manner cooled as his lip curled.

Here we go again, Kikeona said. "What is this prejudice? Who wants a war on his own soil? Acourse we would be foreign."

What company were you with last? the man asked.

Fought with the Eagles in the south. Northern Arcadia, on the side of King Hengist of Riverhead, against Count Jalad of Westmarche. Cianan produced the documentation Dara, Queen of the Elves, had received from her human father, King Hengist. Thinking of the half-dragon fire mage as his best friend Loren’s wife still boggled the mind. Loren had once been Lady’s Champion. Cianan had been selected by the Lady of Light to replace him when Loren became king.

The captain’s eyes widened. A royal seal, signed by the king himself?

Cianan shrugged. We won. King Hengist was most grateful.

Considering what the demon-possessed Jalad had done to the people of Riverhead, that was a gross understatement. Contributing to Cianan’s cover had been the least of what Hengist had offered. Not that these Shamari would understand. As far as he could tell, magic did not exist in this land. At all. Unless it was buried deep, its practitioners hidden.

The captain’s mouth twitched, the first sign of thawing. What’s your specialty?

Archery and horse, but I am a fair hand with a sword.

We’ll see. A demonstration’s required.

Good thing you can do this in your sleep, Kikeona said. You feel haggard this morn. You need rest.

We must find her. She does not have much time. It gnaws at me, this Darkness.

Acourse. Cianan figured a Shamari captain would not take a foreign mercenary at face value. He followed a burly sergeant, with a granite face marred by ritual scarring, out into the training yard. Soldiers took advantage of the break in the rains for practice.

All right, Ladies, the sergeant said. Need a new lad tested. Who wants a go?

Cianan drew his sword and paired off left-handed against a couple of stolid fighters who relied more on strength than imagination. Best not to reveal all. He was right-handed, but the ability to use either was vital. His next opponent was smaller, lighter, and quicker, with a curved scimitar in each hand. The man plied both with expert dexterity. Cianan enjoyed the duel.

Not that the human pushed him, but he moved enough to thin the still-half-frozen blood in his veins. He tried not to make his victories look too easy. Decades of teaching archery at the Elven Warrior Academy garnered a crowd of admirers now. He hit stationary and moving targets at greater and greater distances, released three arrows for every one of the humans’, and never missed.

The men laughed when Cianan led Kikeona into the yard. Shielded by the seeming as she was, she appeared a rawboned gray nag of uncertain breeding, with a blocky head and lop ears.

She looks like a mule, one man said.

Do not mind them, Cianan reassured her. I know you are beautiful.

She sniffed with disdain and snapped at one of them. I care what barbarians think?

Cianan swung into the saddle.

Forget your bridle? one merc asked.

Bet he hocked it, another said.

Cianan smiled. Never use one. Watch first. Judge after. He went through a simple warm-up drill. Walk, trot, canter, flying lead changes, side pass, passage, piaffe, and levade. He urged her to a gallop, slid to a stop, spun on both forehand and hindquarters.

She sure moves better’n she looks. This from the man who had called her a mule.

Cianan put her through the advanced battle moves none but the strongest, most senior war-mares ever accomplished. She reared into a courbette, hopping toward the viewers on her hind legs while slashing with her front hooves in a mézair. Cianan found a cleared area big enough for a single capriole. Kikeona leapt straight into the air and kicked out with both hind legs, a move known to crush, or remove, a man’s head.

He dismounted and patted her neck. You enjoyed that rather too much, I think.

She tossed her head. I missed them.

The men were silent after the display. The sergeant was not. Don’t look like much, but she sure can move. She’s not even breathing hard.

You should know better. Judging by appearance gets you killed.

True enough. The captain came forward. I’ll warrant you’re qualified, son. Pay your dues, get your stamp, and sign the contract.

I have a stipulation. I have always been a free-merc. I wish right of refusal added afore I sign.

The sergeant frowned. You enjoy starving?

Some jobs are more trouble than the pay is worth.

Would you live forever?

What, shall you not answer him, Champion?

Dealers have coin enough to hire in the off-season, the captain warned. Plus, motivation.

The sergeant laughed. With what’s been going on this past month, they’re hiring more than ever, at three times the going rate.

Every sense went on alert. What has been happening?

Someone’s taking out the dealers, the captain said. Raiding caravans, destroying drugs, freeing slaves, stealing cargoes, even outright assassination. Queen Sunniva’s enraged at losing her half. Fifty percent of naught is naught. We’ve been busy, but ’tis like chasing a ghost. We could use a man like you, but not my problem if you choose to starve.

The word ghost triggered a warning in the back of his mind. Short pale-blonde hair, aquamarine eyes, and fair skin—the woman in his visions appeared nigh pale as a ghost.

Cianan’s first two opponents stepped forward. Mrow and me could put him up at the Broken Blade for a month, in exchange for lessons. Give him time to find his way about.

The stockier of the two held out a hand to Cianan. Name’s Ain.

Broken Blade’s where many Guild stay long-term. Tell Cary I sent you, Mrow said.

Cianan gripped Ain’s forearm. Done.

The captain sighed. Dealer work’s good money, but I guess you’ve held off starving for a bit. He scribbled in the addition and presented the parchment contract.

Cianan handed him the joining fee and looked the contract over. Wonder who their ghost is? He signed his name, left-handed, with extra flourish.

Someone I want to meet. Sounds like our kind of trouble.

But is he a true hero or an ambitious, stronger dealer?

"You are such an optimist."

The captain took the signed contract, and the sergeant came forward with the stamp, a nasty-looking handheld device patterned with dozens of tiny ink-dipped needles. Cianan gritted his teeth and braced himself, but stood unflinching as the sergeant tattooed the Guild’s bear-claws mark onto the inside of his right arm, elbow to wrist, in a single hard strike.

Kikeona flattened her ears. Nasty barbaric custom. Are you all right?

Bee sting. He rolled his sleeve back down over the bloody new mark. It would be prudent to wear long sleeves for a week or so. The wound would heal in moments, leaving the tattoo itself. The last thing he needed was questions. Too bad self-healing did not work on gating-induced headaches. I would meet this ghost. Anyone against the local dealers must be a friend.

The enemy of my enemy?

One can hope. I wish Father were here. I would love to get his impression of this place. Cianan swung into her saddle. Head for the Broken Blade. Time for ghost-hunting.

Two

Entering the Broken Blade, Maleta let her eyes adjust and scanned the flickering shadows for Black Wolf breastplates. No sign of her contact yet. The heat from the hearth and smoking torches seemed a furnace after the breath-stealing cold night outside. Wood smoke, pipe smoke, and the scent of burning tallow tickled her nose and stung her eyes. Wearied to the bone, she rolled her bandaged shoulder, testing the repair to her quilted jerkin.

It had been slashed in her strike against the late, unlamented dealer Rigel. The combined monies of the bounty and what Rigel himself had carried would hold Mother Tam and Nerthus’s Abbey for several weeks. Still amazed her that a peaceful goddess like Nerthus, Goddess of Family, of Hearth and Home, would deal with Hedda’s Own. Hedda’s assassin.

She squeezed rainwater from her short blonde hair. It had grown long enough to curl around her fingers. Time to cut it. It would never again be a weapon against her. Memories of rough hands tangled in her once long hair flooded her mind, made her skin crawl. She banished the image to her nightmares, away from the here and now where she needed all her wits about her.

Maleta sat in a corner, her back to the soot-stained wall, so she could see both exits. She tested the sticky wooden table. It wobbled. With effort, she could tip it over if someone attempted to trap her, but ’twas sturdy enough to shield her should she need cover. She wrapped in the gray woolen cloak she’d worn over tunic, breeches, and boots. She’d hidden her setting-sun breastplate and broadsword in a safe place. Both were made of gleaming Goddess-Metal, impervious to rust and the elements.

Her close-cropped hair, blackened eye, and scarred cheek revealed to the other mercs in the room her own shield-maiden status. Women mercs were rare, but not unknown. In fact, she spotted Gayle in a corner. The rangy brunette raised her tankard in a salute and resumed dealing cards.

A barmaid took her order, returning with honey mead, half a roast chicken, and a medley of roasted root vegetables. Maleta held her breath as the woman, reeking of old sweat and sex, leaned in to take the copper coins. Maleta sipped her mead. She awaited someone she’d been told could arrange for her to face the Black Wolf alone. ’Twas why she’d come, to gain access to the man who’d killed her kin and destroyed her humanity.

Her heart ached. Only when the Wolf lay dead and her kin thus avenged, could she hope to live