A Stone's Throw (The Gryphonpike Chronicles Book 3) by Annie Bellet Read Free Book Online

glimmer moss that was pale yellow instead of green, the light shining as though from high quality candles. Unlike the caves we had traveled through, this one seemed eerily uniform and devoid of damp and any mineral growth. I picked up no movement in the well-lit space nor could I smell anything other than water and the heavy mineral and earth smells that clings to most underground spaces.
    “It should be here.” Drake had moved further into the cavern than my cautious feet had taken me and now walked up the rough steps to the platform.
    Blue mist pooled and gathered in the center of the platform, and I sprinted toward it as Drake spun and drew his rapier. My foot touched the first step and a shimmering blue wall of energy flared, pushing me away with surprisingly gentle force. I retreated and stretched out a hand. The barrier rose again and rebuffed my gesture.
    “This is not good,” Drake muttered.
    The blue mist coalesced into the form of a man and took on substance. He was a finger or so shorter than Drake but built with the same lean strength. He wore a blousy shirt that laced at the neck and sleeves and tucked into a pair of leather pants. The blue glow remained in the man’s eyes even as his middle-aged features came into focus. He had a thin, keen face with a black moustache and short dark hair. He smiled faintly at Drake and saluted him with his sword.
    Dwarfwork. Definitely . In his left hand was a rapier that took on more solidity than the man had. Its blade was of a length with Drake’s own but the steel was folded into patterns and shone silver with hints of red in the soft light. The basket was a beaten metal bell shape of the same material as the blade, and the knuckle guard curved back with the grace of a swan’s neck or a striking serpent. The pommel glinted red though I couldn’t tell if it was from a gem or more of the dwarf metal’s shine. I don’t even like swords and I wanted to hold this one.
    “You have come to duel me?” the man asked in a breathy, cold voice.
    “I have come for the sword,” Drake said, glancing back at me. I reached out again and demonstrated the magical field effect. He was on his own.
    “Then you have come to duel. To win the sword you must defeat me.”
    “Rucao?” Drake guessed. “The duelist from Stonebarrow?”
    The man, or shade, for there was little chance he was anything other than the ghost of the mortal who had once claimed the sword, shook his head and then tilted it to the side, considering. “Yes, I think that was my name.”
    “I am Drake Bannor,” Drake said. “I would be honored to duel you.”
    Blue light flared in the shade’s eyes and he bowed. “No magic. No weapons other than rapiers. No quarter given unless you cry mercy.”
    “Agreed,” Drake said. He unbuckled his belt and slid his sheath free, tossing it to one side.
    The shade moved to the middle of the platform and turned away from us, bowing to spectators that lived only in his dim memory. I thought of the plump faces of Myrie and her sister and could almost imagine a little girl holding her father’s scabbard as he dueled a man in a crimson cape. Standing hundreds of feet below ground watching Rucao and Drake face off, it seemed less likely their granmama had made up the tale now. If one part were true, why not the whole of it?
    Drake and the shade bowed to each other. I took a deep breath and tried to relax my grip on Thorn. There was nothing I could do but hope that Drake was as good as he liked to think he was.
    “Begin,” the shade hissed.
    They circled each other, only Drake’s feet making any sound at all on the stone. Their bodies were both turned sideways, swords extended so that the tips almost touched. Drake had a slight half smile on his face and his nostrils flared, giving away his excitement. For a long moment they shuffled in a circle, blade tips twitching in the air.
    Drake lunged but Rucao parried his blade to the side and countered with a blur of slashes that