Oathtaker

Just over six foot tall, he stood lean, but strong. A man in his prime, he’d taken on all of the bulk and muscle of a life of discipline. Bent forward in a fighting stance, his feet slightly apart, his breathing came rapid and deep, like that of a bull whose space had been invaded. In a single glance his piercing blue eyes inventoried all of the details of the cabin’s interior. Glaring, they flickered past Mara, rested on Rowena’s face for the briefest moment, then turned back to the Oathtaker. He reached up and back.

His eyes held a look of murderous intent. Fearing she and the babies were in danger, Mara reached for Spira, her only remaining weapon. Even had it not been so, it would have been her weapon of choice, as an Oathtaker’s blade never misses its mark. Grasping it firmly, she slipped Spira from its sheath and let it fly. The weapon sped through the air straight toward the heart of the threatening intruder.

As she released Spira, the man loosed a nearly identical blade. In that moment, they both knew that the other was an Oathtaker.

The blades stopped and hovered in mid-air, each just inches from its intended target, for while an Oathtaker’s blade will never miss its mark, it will never harm an Oathtaker—with one exception: were an Oathtaker’s blade to be used against its owner, his death would be instant.

Mara and the stranger looked at one another’s blades and then, simultaneously, they glanced up. Their eyes met.

The newcomer spoke first. “An Oathtaker?”

“Yes, as I see, are you. I’m Mara. Mara Richmond.”

“Hmmm,” was his curt reply. Then he said simply, “Dixon.” He grasped Spira as Mara clasped his blade. Each offered the weapon of the other to its owner and then both returned them to their sheaths.