SWORD
La espada será guiada a las manos de los hombres...
Por cientos de años el reino de Lardan ha estado en paz: aislado del mundo, a salvo de las guerras de tierras vecinas, olvidando poco a poco la magia salvaje y mortal, y sus orígenes. Ahora, las verdades más profundas del pasado y las más oscuras predicciones sobre el futuro solo sobreviven en los versos de canciones infantiles.
Por cientos de años, algunas de las provincias de Lardan han esperado el momento oportuno.
Kyali Corwynall es la hija del General, hija de una de las casas reales. y la única espada de la corte la empuña una chica. Fue conocido por todos, a sus 16 años, lo que le iba a deparar en el futuro: la política y el deber, el manejo de la casa real, y la protección de su mejor amiga, la princesa, y el presunto heredero al trono. Pero un día los versos de una vieja canción infantil comienzan a hacerse realidad, una antigua magia despierta y futuros cambios para todos. En una sola noche su vida se convierte en caos y violencia. Ahora Kyali debe encontrar la manera de dominar la magia, dejando a sus seres queridos atrás, o ver su mundo -y a sus amigos más cercanos- caer en una guerra más antigua que el reino mismo.
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Extracto
An arm reached out of the dark and wrapped around her neck.
She saw it coming from the corner of her eye, but only had time to twitch uselessly sideways. Another arm immediately followed the first one, muffling her startled cry and stealing her breath.
Too shocked to be afraid, she bit down. The hand over her face jerked away. Her elbow drove backwards and her heel went up into a knee. The awful crack of bone that followed drew a pained groan from behind her, and brought her panic in a thundering flood. Her attacker staggered, pulling her with him. The dropped candle sputtered on the floor beside them, throwing huge shadows everywhere. Spurred on by the thought that she might have to finish this struggle in the dark, she shouted. It was a much softer sound than she'd intended, but the floorboards above them creaked ominously, the arms around her fell away, and he screamed, as though she had burned him.
Leaving this mystery for later consideration, Kyali flung herself at the steps and scrambled up, leaving the back panel of her skirts in his fist. Her sword clattered on the floor as she snatched at it. He came hard on her heels and, as she turned, drove himself obligingly onto it for her. Stunned, she froze again.
Her blood sang in her ears. By the look on his face—a fair face, some much colder part of her noted, with the Western short-beard—he was at least as surprised as she was. He drew a bubbling breath. A dagger dropped from his hand and hit the floor between them.
They stared at one another.
He made an odd face then, and coughed a gout of blood all over her. She blinked through the drops. She knew she had to move—not dead till they stop bleeding, Father would say—but she couldn't. For all her years of study, all the secrecy and swordplay, she had never killed a man. She supposed, watching his face in a perversely distant way, that she still hadn't quite managed it. But he fell forward onto her then, going limp, and after the instinctive terror of having him land on her subsided the sight of his glassy gaze, of her old practice sword sticking out of his ribs, made it clear that she had done it now.
She watched his face closely while his blood dripped down her cheek. He didn't move. He seemed not to be bleeding anymore, though with all the blood on him already how could one tell? She didn’t intend to get closer to check. She couldn't hear anyone else in the house. Through the haze of shock, she was grateful the soldiers weren't here to witness this bizarrely personal moment.
"Well," Kyali said, beginning to be pleased at how well she was taking this—and then threw up on him.
Damn.
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