Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) (3 page)

“What are you doing?” he asked, shaking his head.

The master was too close. Nora swung the knife once more. He dodged. She attacked, jumping toward him. But he was always a step out of her reach. Down, back down into the next vale he led her as she thrust the knife despite her protesting body. She looked to keep a free path behind her. Calculate her next blow. Heart beating, knees trembling. But her hands were steady.

She lunged, a desperate attack on the right. He arched away. She swung back to the left and he turned. But this time, she grazed his upper arm. Got him! A shout of raw triumph burst from her lips. The low panic she’d felt since waking up churned in her belly and made her faster but giddy at the same time. Her eyes ticked from face to face. The wight watched her with eyes partially closed, head tilted to the side. Half of the men behind him were sitting, half standing. The Fish Lord rose and grinned at her. The bleeding man had retreated and was being tended to.

Nora met the black eyes of the wight before her and took a deep breath. He moved more carefully now. His cloak was thrown back over his left shoulder, showing the hilt of his sword. She made a decision and withdrew. The Plains lay behind her; in two or three days she could be back at the Ridge. Get help and come back for Owen later. If she could break free now.

One last lunge.

M
aster Diaz hit her chest
fiercely with the iron pommel of his blade. Owen winced as he watched his sister collapse. Laughter circled among the waking men. Owen stood up and wished he hadn’t. His back screamed in pain and his legs faltered under him. He waited until the ache faded to a tingle, then half crawled toward his master. Master Diaz took Nora’s pulse at her throat. Then he gently laid her left arm over her waist. He looked at Owen.

Owen lifted a strand of dark hair from his sister’s face. A line of tiny blood drops dotted her throat where Master Diaz’s blade had grazed her skin yesterday. No. Only a few hours ago. Owen rubbed his tired eyes and looked at the midday sun, then back down. Nora’s wrists looked much worse. Red welts and blood, raw skin chafed from the hemp cords. Her left hand looked frail as it lay on her stomach, pale fingers and bleeding wrist. She was normally so robust, hardened like steel. Strange to see her knocked down. When was the last time he’d seen her hurt? Owen shook his head, trying to remember. Two years ago? The charcoal clamp had leaked, and as they were frantically shoveling mud onto it to control the heat, Nora had cried out and clutched her forearm. A burning ember. Still armed with his shovel, Owen had watched his sister stagger a few steps away from the clamp. She didn’t hear his questions but closed her eyes and collapsed with a sigh. She’d gone still then, too. So still. Scared, Owen had continued shoveling mud onto the charcoal clamp and onto his sister’s forearm, the white hand bone-pale under the black earth. Cool the burn. Cool the burn. And here he was again. All alone. Panic reached his throat, but he swallowed it down. This time there were others with him. He looked up into Master Diaz’s black eyes.

“What happened?” Owen asked.

“Do you need me to spell it out for you? You seemed smart,” the wight said.

Owen looked at the other men. Most were clustered around the bleeding would-be rapist, who shot him a dark look. The man spat a gob of blood to the ground. He seemed the type who’d kill you if he thought you’d looked at him funny. Nora wasn’t safe here. But she wouldn’t go home alone. Owen pushed another strand of hair away from his sister’s forehead, giving his hands something to do while his brain worked on a way to get her to leave him.

The leader stretched and moved over to the injured man. The others made room for him. He slapped the man on the back before crouching next to him.

“Where, oh where has your charm gone? I quite think she didn’t like you as much as the tavern girls seem to.” The leader grinned amiably. “How many men do you lead?”

“Fifty, my lord.”

“They’re stationed with the rest of my troops?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.”

The leader slashed a long, curved blade across the man’s throat. He stepped away from the gush of blood and wiped his blade clean on the fallen man’s cloak. Owen stared at him.

“No one who runs with me gets beaten by his chosen vessel of pleasure.” There was silence among the men. “Weakness is punishable by death.”

The leader nodded at Master Diaz and returned to his resting place to break his fast. Master Diaz reached into his own backpack and broke a small hard loaf in two.

“Prince Bashan,” Owen began, picking at the bread. “He’s not what I expected.”

Diaz opened his mouth to say something, but Owen quickly added, “Nor are you.”

Master Diaz raised both eyebrows at that. “And what would you know about me?”

Owen shrugged.

“About you? Nothing. Besides the obvious. You’re a half-wight, aren’t you? You look like the wight warriors that sometimes come down the Wightingerode to trade at Dernberia. But they don’t have hair. So one of your parents is human, right? And you carry the rune of the pilgrim order on the back of your right hand. It’s hard to make out because of the scar you have there—a burn, isn’t it? I know burns. Got a few of them myself. Nora too. Our foster father is a smith, and he’d send us out to make charcoal even when we were still too small to be out alone.”

“Explains your black clothes,” Diaz said. “And a few other things.”

Owen nodded.

“Most pilgrim masters I know are like Master Darren—old, sage, very wise in the ancient texts, and always first at the food tables at ceremonial gatherings like marriages and burials.”

“And handfastings,” Diaz said. “When was your sister to be married? Solstice, probably.”

Nora stirred. They looked down, but she remained unconscious.

“You’re not like them, are you?” Owen said. “And I don’t mean your eyes or the color of your skin. I mean, you’re a warrior. You’re here on a quest. You must be, because you run with the exiled prince. I heard Moorfleet’s library was torched to the ground a few weeks ago. It was the oldest, richest library left here in the north. A beacon of civilization. Gone. Just like that. Fire spreads. People could have died in the flames. Funny coincidence you and the prince were there at the same time.”

They both silently chewed on a bite of bread. Owen swallowed first.

“‘A pilgrim must honor the code and preserve wisdom in any form.’ And ‘If it lies in the power of your hand to do good, then you must do good.’ Bands of plunderers and looters are raiding the villages between here and the ruins of Moorfleet. What are you going to do about them?”

“You quote the
125 Ordinances of Master Sulla
at me? That’s impressive, and not only because you’ve just implied I broke them.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“But you did.” Diaz shrugged. “How did you guess it was the prince?”

Owen ran a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t guess. I saw. I observed. The answers are right there if you choose to observe your surroundings. You could say the prince told me who he was himself: fully fitted with garb that’s good quality but old. Means he had money to buy it at one point but doesn’t have that money now. The warrior rings on his hand threw me off at first. They’re not authentic. Warrior rings are shaped from the spear tips of the men you killed. His aren’t. They’re skillfully made to resemble warrior rings. So why have them? To show he is counted among the warriors? Although, assuming his right hand is his sword hand, warrior rings are cumbersome to actually use in a fight unless you want to bash someone’s teeth in with your fist. So, he was clearly someone who doesn’t often fight but has military education.

“And then the ring with the one-horned stag on his left hand. Kind of gave him away. Carrying the symbol of the heir of the empire? He’s out to fulfill the prophecy, isn’t he? That he’ll find the Living Blade. The last master to hold the Blade died in the north. Bashan needs information. If there is any, it’s probably here in a large, old library. Moorfleet.” Owen shook his head. “Too easy, really.”

After a long pause, Master Diaz nodded. “You observed all that while I held a knife to your sister’s throat? If you truly do wish to become a pilgrim—”

“I do,” Owen interrupted. “I really do.”

“Then you could become one of our best assets. Bring new life to the old order.”

Owen stared at the tip of his boots, ears red. “Yeah. That’s not what most people say.”

Master Diaz shrugged. “I am not most people.”

Owen smiled.

“Your sister,” the master began. “Her name is?”

“Noraya. Or Nora for short,” Owen answered.

Master Diaz blinked. It was a sign, Owen thought. A visible change in the line of thinking.

“Owen as in Owen, the founder of the lost city of Vella?”

“And of Owen’s Ridge.”

“And Noraya, like the last northern high queen? Are you sure you’re not of royal descent?” The hint of a smile was on the master’s lips.

“I sometimes wish. But no. Our foster parents found us around this time of year when we were about a year old. No sign of a father. No sigil, no gold, no cloth of purple. Just a dead woman and two bawling children. Twins. But they took us in despite us being totally unnatural and raised us as their own the last sixteen years.”

“Then why run away?”

“Are you kidding? Except for our foster parents, everyone distrusted us. I’m too much of a scholar to have any rapport among the tradesmen of the Ridge. Which is a laugh considering I’m probably the only one fluent enough in Kandarin to read the merchants’ shipping information from here to Dernberia, but that doesn’t matter because I can’t swing a hammer in the forge. And Nora…well, let’s just say she
can
swing a hammer in the forge. I mean, has anyone ever made the sign of evil against you when you walked past them?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Owen shot a glance at the black wight eyes. They looked like those of a lizard. Impenetrable and alien. He cleared his throat. “I see. Well then. I guess you know how it is.”

Master Diaz stared down at Nora’s face, his black eyes unblinking.

The prince ordered the group to move on after they had eaten. Nora was still unconscious, so Owen helped put her limp arms around Master Diaz’s neck so he could carry her over his shoulder like a hunter would a deer. They ran at a more leisurely pace than they had during the night. Owen ran close to Master Diaz. The first few steps were agonizing; his feet were like stones, flint-edged, hard, and unwilling to roll. But as his body warmed, the going was smoother. He watched Nora’s head bounce on Diaz’s shoulder. She didn’t wake up. The master carried her effortlessly, jogging without losing his breath. Now and then he would grunt and shift her weight but would not miss a step. Nora’s arm dangled down the master’s back.

Her hand jerked up suddenly. Nora tried to move and Master Diaz was thrown off-balance. She gasped in fright. Her arm clutched the wight’s side to steady herself. He slowed to a halt. Up ahead, the prince looked back over his shoulder. He turned and ran a few steps backward as Diaz set Nora down on her feet and signaled the prince to keep going. The prince nodded and grinned at Owen in mock salute before turning around and running forward again.

Nora’s arm swung wide as she shoved the master back.

“Don’t you touch me!”

She retreated and held a hand over her chest in pain. Her eyes darted to and fro and then rested on Owen. She closed her eyes and sighed, clutching her cloak.

Master Diaz held up both hands. “Are you hurt?”

Owen thought Nora was going to faint again. Her face was drained of color.

“No,” she said and knelt down.

“Give her some water.”

Owen quickly unslung the waterskin and held it to Nora’s lips. She took large, greedy gulps, storing the water in her cheeks before swallowing. Water spilled from her lips and dribbled into her cloak.

“I shall wait over there.” The master nodded in the direction the men had run. He walked out of earshot and clasped his hands behind his back.

Nora was shaking. Her hands trembled as she gave the empty skin back to Owen. He searched among his things and took out a morsel of bread and a strip of dried meat. He crouched down with her and watched the clouds while she ate, so he didn’t have to see the tears running down her cheeks. Dark gray clouds blew across the sky as though the whips of the wind masters were behind them. Owen had a theory that the shape of the clouds could reveal what the weather would be. But with this blanketed sky, they saw the sheets of rain hanging like brushstrokes across the sky from miles away. A cold northeast wind set in and chilled them.

“We’re on the run with the Hunted Company,” Owen said after a while. “Did you know that?”

“The Fish Lord is Prince Bashan? Holy shit, Owen!” Nora shook her head, sniffed, and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. “You think he’s found the Living Blade?”

“No.” Owen frowned. “I’d say he was looking for information in Moorfleet and Prophetess Hin’s shrine. Found none, though. He’s been looking for it for eight years. Must be desperate now that his father’s died and his half-sister is empress. I figure his best bet is to blow the search off, make alliances with some of the southern noblemen, and intrigue against Empress Vashti to get his throne back.”