Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) (11 page)

A loud curse rang down from upstairs.

“What?” the man with the bow shouted, his eyes locked on Nora.

“Mik and Mads are dead,” the man called down.

“The guy in the kitchen is too,” Nora added. “And the one who ran out after the blonde girl, in case you were wondering what took him so long.”

The men before her were rallying around the man with the bow. He was a stout man, good-looking in a rough way, light brown hair tied back into a ponytail held with a leather thong. His nose looked as though it had been broken once. Nora stared back at his brown eyes. She heard the door to the room upstairs open. There was more cursing. Then silence.

“You found Ubba?”

“He’s dead, Ravn.” The man came back down the corridor slowly, standing at the top of the stairs.

A flicker of uncertainty passed among the men as they shuffled closer to the man with the bow. He looked Nora up and down.

“What you want, girl? Huh? Revenge? Share of the gold? Fame?” He spoke quietly.

“Take the coins. If you want, take it all.” Nora made a sweeping gesture at the tables with the treasure and the furs, careful to let the men see her wield her blade. “Just go away. Stay away from Owen’s Ridge. That’s all I want.”

“You hear that, lads? It’s all she wants.” The man with the bow drew out his own dagger. It wasn’t as fancy as Ubba’s, but a cold piece of gleaming metal with two edges and a sharp point was impressive enough to the right mind.

“Tomorrow morning the Ridge will be filled with thirty or more men on horseback, heavily armed and out to do justice,” Nora said. “Go now, take what you want, and live. But go.”

The man strung his bow.

“What if I don’t want to?” he whispered.

“Come on, Ravn,” the man on his left said. “Ubba’s dead. We can move out now and take what we want.”

“You afraid of one girl, Etch?”

The man called Etch scowled.

“That smoke plume attracted those two riders the other day. Scouts, I told you so. But Ubba didn’t want to leave then. I say, if Ubba’s dead, we leave now, before they come back. Find a new place. Plenty of villages along the coastal road.”

“Ubba’s dead and now you’re leader or what?”

The man called Etch took a pipe out of his pocket, emptying it out on the flagstones. He
was
the smoker from outside, then. He shrugged.

“Are you?”

“You two, kill her,” the bowman ordered.

The man on the stairs looked down at Nora. He had no weapon and remained standing where he was. The man on the bench stood up. He raised a huge ax and grinned at Nora, lumbering forward. If they all attacked at the same time, they could easily overpower her, so why didn’t they do just that? But then again, they were killers, and she was just a stupid girl making a brave last stand.

He swung the ax high. Nora watched its curve. It was a show swing, meant to inspire fear in the opponent. It worked. She licked her lips. The man was heavily built. His arms were thick and his mighty biceps were covered with black tattoos that ran up in curves to his bull’s neck. He came a step closer and raised the ax high once more to hammer it down and cleave her skull. And body. And all the way through to the stone floor, probably.

As the ax reached the peak of its swing, Nora hacked the meat cleaver into his leg, stabbing her knife upward under his ribs. The ax fell out of his hands behind him to the floor with a loud clang. She saw the three others step back collectively. Then the axman toppled. He fell to the floor with a crash, howling and thrashing in pain.

Nora danced a few steps back toward the kitchen door. She risked a quick glance up at the man on the stairs. He had the higher ground, the better vantage point, but he was watching his mate bleed and looked pale. She looked at the bowman and the smoker over the mess and flicked the blood spatter from the meat cleaver, twirling it in her hand one more time. She grinned at him.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” The bowman laughed. “You think you’re gonna somehow survive tonight, you stupid wench. You against us?” He pointed at the man on the stairs. “Get down here and cut her, Talgorn. I think I’ve got an itch the girl should scratch.”

The man called Talgorn swallowed hard but took one step after another, attention now on Nora.

“You don’t have to do what he says,” Nora spoke quietly. “You could just grab your things and leave.”

“Shut your mouth!” the bowman roared. “Shut up or I will make you suffer.”

He hissed the last like a snake. First Ubba, now this guy. Both of them insane. What was it with these people? Where did all the crazy come from?

Talgorn hesitated at the foot of the stairs. He looked at the bowman. Then he looked at the smoker, Etch. He picked up his cloak. Under it were two curved blades. Nora swallowed bile.

Etch made his decision and sheathed his sword.

“Come on, Talgorn. Help me with Janner!” He pointed to the downed axman and nodded at the front door. “And then let’s go.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Etch,” the bowman said. “Neither are you two!”

“I’m not going to die over a few furs and a stupid wench. Look, the kitchen’s burning. We get the hell out, sell the furs in Dernberia, get some easy money—”

Etch got a dagger in his stomach instead. He opened his mouth as the bowman twisted the blade and then pulled it upward before wrenching the knife free. He lay jerking his life out in spasms on the blood-soiled floor. The bowman laughed again.

“Now you.” He stopped abruptly and pointed the bloodied blade at Talgorn. “And you.” He pointed it at the axman. “Stop playing and bring her over here.”

Talgorn grabbed his twin blades and turned to Nora, jaw set, look grim. He sidestepped toward her, slicing the blades through the air in graceful movements, yet out of the corner of his eye he checked to see what the bowman was doing.

Nora tightened her grasp on the meat cleaver, at a loss for ideas. When her luck had held, it had held tight. Now, though, it had run out the door screaming and wouldn’t be coming back any time soon. The element of surprise was gone. She was outmatched. She was alone. She was tired and had reached her limit. Everyone was dead. Rannoch was dead. The Ridge was dead.

And Owen was far, far away. At least one thing to be thankful for.

Talgorn stepped over the body of the axman. He glanced down at his squirming mate, distracted for a second.

Nora’s body moved. She vaulted onto the bar as though to take cover behind it, but then ran two steps along it only to fling herself off the end. Surprised, she found herself in the air now, cleaver and knife ready. And in her memories of the moment, she seemed to hang suspended in the air for a long time. The man with the twin blades turned his head incredibly slowly. He followed her movement, but his body was still facing the wrong direction. His blades pointed at the floor. She would land on his back if he didn’t turn around now. But he was too slow. Everything was incredibly slow. Her feet impacted his back.

They both toppled to the floor. Nora scrambled on top and hacked the cleaver down into the man’s nape, cutting a deep gash into the flesh with the dull snap of blade meeting bone. Blood flowed up and she couldn’t get the cleaver out. Her hand slipped off it. Didn’t matter. Use the moment. She pounced onto the nearest bench and hurled herself toward the still-flailing axman.

He was slow, too. Too slow. Ha ha. Funny. His sword was only half drawn when she slashed her dagger across his face. His hands went up and he started to scream again. She plunged the knife into his armpit, then turned to face the bowman.

But he wasn’t where he’d been standing a second ago. He was fast. His bloodied dagger swished only a hair’s breadth away from her throat. Nora’s eyes widened. She skidded on her knees, arching backward under his thrust, then ran those few steps back to the kitchen door. It was time to go.

Nora grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. Then she felt the burn of the iron on her fingertips. Fingers in her mouth, she stared into the kitchen. Red and yellow flames greedily licked toward her, blocking her path. The heat hit her like a blow. The small flame of the oil lamp had found fuel enough in the man’s clothes and hair, the wooden cupboards, and the bushels of herbs above to spread. It was a furnace in there. She recoiled, protecting her face from the heat with her arms. The way through the kitchen was barred. She should have made her last stand at the kitchen door. Too late now. She let the door fall shut again and turned around to face the bowman.

Something hit her in the shoulder. Her back slammed against the kitchen door as white heat exploded in her arm. Her fingers would no longer grasp the hilt of her knife, and it clanged uselessly on the floor. Warmth ran down her arm and dripped blood red from her fingers. She tried to look down. Something like black feathers was obstructing her view. Then she realized they
were
black feathers. The tip of an arrow had buried itself in her shoulder. The bowman stood poised a few steps away, calmly drawing the string of his hunting bow back with a new arrow aimed at her.

“I wanted to pin you to that door. Watch you burn,” he said with a smile, stepping over the axman’s still body. “But I like it this way too. Kneel.”

Nora slid down the kitchen door. It was no use, now. Do as he says. Ignore the pain. Try not to focus on the screaming white-hot pulsing flesh. She groaned. Her breath came hard.

It was over now. She knelt on the cold flagstones, arms dropped at her side. She heard the crackle of the fire behind her, felt its heat coming through the door. White smoke crawled underneath it, snaking between her fingers. She looked up at the bowman, past the arrowhead aimed at her left eye. He wouldn’t kill her easily. He was one who liked to watch the pain. It should scare her. But Nora couldn’t feel anything but the mind-numbing pain in her shoulder. She concentrated to keep the man’s face in focus, but darkness lurked in the corner of her view and it was reaching out fast. Only the pain kept it at bay for now.

“I’m going to kill you,” the bowman told her. “Then I’m going to take all the stuff we got here and won’t have to share it with anyone. Thanks to you. Shame about the girl, really. Whatsherface. Blonde girl. Ran out earlier. I liked the way she moaned. Moan for me, will you?”

He kicked at the arrow dug deep in her shoulder. Nora didn’t moan. She screamed. She bent over double, left palm splayed on the floor, panting hard, sweat dripping into her eyes.

“Look at me!” he commanded.

The bowman stooped to grab a fistful of her hair and forced her to face him. But then he fell on the floor face-first instead. Behind him in the gathering darkness of Nora’s vision was Sallima, the baker’s wife, with wild hair and a coalman’s shovel. Nora fell forward. The flagstones were cool under her cheek. Gray smoke crawled into her mouth and nose. And the darkness waited.

N
ora opened her eyes. She
lay in a furry brown cloud. It tickled her nose, but it was warm. Her shoulder throbbed and she had difficulty swallowing, her mouth was that dry. She raised her head. It was heavier than any mountain, and she let it drop back into the fur.

“Rest.” A cool hand patted her left shoulder, then fingers touched her cheek. “You are still weak.”

“Water,” she croaked.

An earthenware cup was brought to her lips, and a hand slipped under her head to raise it up for her. The water was cool and she quenched her thirst in long gulps. It ran down into her belly like a soothing balm. With every swallow, the ache in her throat subsided. The hand with the cup moved away. She reached for it but it was gone. Out of reach. She lay back and could have cried, only she fell asleep once again.

Nora woke up a second time. Her shoulder still hurt. This time, she raised her head herself and peered at her surroundings through sleep-caked eyes. She lay on a bundle of costly furs. She stroked the fur under her fingers. Sheepskins, deer, the pelts of the antlered minks of the woodlands around the Ridge. Fox and wolf. In her dream, she had seen a pile of furs somewhere, but it kept slipping from her mind. On a table? That didn’t make sense. On a table in the inn? But something was wrong. Something…She sighed and settled her gaze above her head, on the wooden beams. They were familiar at least. She knew her own kitchen. Why was she in the kitchen? What was she doing on the table? She was in her house on the Ridge. Soot and blackened burns showed on the ceiling above. As if from fire.

The fire, the inn, all those men! Her shoulder throbbed where the arrow had pierced her flesh. And she lay in the furs that had been in the treasure pile.

Panic caught in her throat and she kicked at the furs, rolling off the table. Escape! She had to escape. She was in her kitchen, on the floor. She searched frantically for her knife, but it was gone. A figure stood between her and the open space where the door to the garden had once been. It didn’t matter. She could escape through the smithy, past the forge.

Only she couldn’t, could she? The leather apron, the body without its head, the burned fingers in the cold ash. The patch. The patch she had sewn on his shirt. She couldn’t flee past the forge. Couldn’t go in there again.