Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) (18 page)

“Bad dream?”

Nora threw the bear pelt off in a huff and jogged ten paces into the brisk cold, slapping her arms and stomping her feet to get warm.

“Don’t you ever fucking sleep?”

“I do.” Diaz shifted from his side onto his back. He squared his shoulders while his eyes remained closed. “Though not as much as you.”

She ran her hands over her numb face.

“What time is it?”

“About three hours to dawn.”

“You didn’t even open your eyes.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Because you’re so perfect.”

“Keep the noise down, will you? There might be people nearby who’d kill us as a sacrifice to the gods.”

“I’ll kill you as a sacrifice to the gods,” she muttered.

He laughed at that. It was the laugh of a glacier at the sight of a single flaming torch. Her ears burned.

“Come on then.” He beckoned her with one hand raised out of the fur.

“What?”

“Kill me.”

Nora snorted.

“Said the guy with his eyes still closed.” She stuck her fingers into her armpits for warmth and moved from one foot to another.

Diaz opened his eyes and stared into the nighttime skies, sighing deeply.

“Battle flashes. It is natural and most warriors know them. During a fight, the body is a vessel for the mind. It is focused on survival. Though it does take in all other details, it switches them out of your consciousness. Later, those details come back to haunt you. You see the deaths you have caused, see the fear in your opponents’ eyes before they go down the silent road. You have dealt out death, Noraya, and you are still alive to know it. Be glad.”

“‘Glad’ is not the word I’d use.” Nora swallowed hard and stared at the dark sky above, treading the ground. “What about you, master warrior, do you ever…?”

“Have bad dreams? All the time. I remember every face of those I killed. And in my memory, they will live longer than they have walked this earth. Sometimes I feel regret. Sometimes, remorse. Most days, though, I feel alive. Killing is an art. And I am a master. Now ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“What you were going to ask me the other day.” He sat up effortlessly and rested his elbows on his knees.

“I was going to ask you something?”

“Don’t pretend.”

Nora bent over, fascinated with the tips of her boots. She laughed quietly and shook her head. A minute ago she had been lying next to him, guiltily enjoying a little physical contact. And now this conversation was turning bizarre. Maybe she was still asleep and only her dream had shifted. But it was too cold to be a dream. The air smelled of snow and was as refreshing as a bucket of ice water.

“Yeah, well, will you teach me how to fight like you do?”

“I told you I cannot at this time take a student, as my commitment lies elsewhere.”

“I didn’t say ‘apprentice’ me, did I?”

“Indeed. But the answer is still no.”

She shook her head once more and pressed her lips together.

“Why? Because I’m a girl?”

“No,” he said slowly. “Because every art needs discipline. And that is something you need to learn first.”

“Discipline.”

“Yes.”

They shared a look.

“You know…” Nora took a deep breath. “For a master warrior craftsman, you talk a lot of philosophical bullshit.”

T
hey had been skirting the
Crest Mountains and now drew close to the woodlands that lay at their feet, marking the end of the Plains. In the evening, they ate their last meal of scraps of whatever they had left in their backpacks. She felt his eyes on her all the time now and it got under her skin, irritating like a splinter she couldn’t quite pull out.

During the night, it started to snow. As they set out again by daylight, tiny white flecks danced before their eyes and speckled the grass. It was cold, but the snow wouldn’t yet linger. The pale sun melted most of it as it fell, and by midday it would be gone, leaving muddy slush behind.

Moving through the woods was more straining than walking the Plains, with their rolling waves of grass. The undergrowth was thick, and even when Nora and Diaz stuck to the wild paths of deer and other woodland creatures, Diaz had his sword at the ready to chop through the brambles and bushes. Underneath the intertwined branches, there was no snow slush, but Nora cursed a few times under her breath when her long braid snagged on the grasping, low twigs, jerking her head back again and again. Nora noticed Diaz pulling up his hood and wordlessly followed suit shortly afterward. They plowed on through the rest of the day. At dusk, the wight raised his eyebrows at her hood with a hint of a smile playing in the corners of his eyes when he turned to check on her. She spoke before he could commend her for her observation skills.

“What is it?” Her legs wouldn’t carry her another mile. “Are we stopping already?”

Diaz sheathed his sword.

“Here is as good a place as any. The sun is down already. The next hour would only find us stumbling over bushes and into thorns.”

She nodded and collapsed onto a heap of old leaves caught in the roots of a birch tree.

“What if he doesn’t want to see me?” Nora’s eyes were closed.

“Who?”

“Owen.”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“We didn’t really leave each other on a positive note. And I’ve…done some really bad stuff.” She swallowed hard and then winced in pain at her sore throat.

Diaz crouched next to her. His hand tapped his leg as he thought. After a while, he sighed deeply.

“He’ll want to see you.”

It was Nora’s turn to sigh.

After surviving the attack on the Ridge three weeks ago, she’d been waiting for the divine hammer to come blazing from the sky to smite her down for the sacrilege of taking another human’s life. Waiting for the earth to swallow her up, for the world to be changed at its core. Nothing had happened. The world was the same. And for the most part, Nora was the same. Just add some gruesome nightmares.

In the same situation, she’d kill the marauders and their chieftain over again. She knew as much. But did that make her right? How did you judge morals when the gods were dead and long gone and there was no celestial standard to go by, only your own conscience? She wanted to ask Diaz about that, about the pilgrim’s code, the passing of judgment, and how he dealt out death as penalty, but she fell asleep before she found the right words.

The next days went by much as the last day had. More trudging through woodlands. More snow, even under the trees. Nora registered the white specks around her from a far-removed place within. Normally the first snow was always her favorite. The white formed a pure blanket, a clean slate, making everything fresh and new. She tried to feel excited. But she felt frozen to the bone. And oh, look! More trees.

Diaz and Nora came upon the temple suddenly as they stumbled onto the road leading to it from the underbrush in the late afternoon. One moment there was snow-brushed canopy, then the phallic structure of the temple piercing the sky.

From afar, the Temple of the Wind looked like the gods of old had taken the spiraled horn of a huge animal and planted it apart to stand alone, a white, beaming watchtower across the Plains. It was shaped like a high pinnacle, with jutting balconies, smaller towers, and platforms with hanging gardens; the temple could be seen far and wide. A wall encircled the foot of the temple mountain, and in the wall was a gate flanked by statues of a man and a woman carrying pilgrim’s staffs.

Traffic clogged the road. A lot of traffic. And all of it moved steadily toward the temple in clusters and family circles. Diaz pulled his hood far over his face to hide his eyes in shadow. It didn’t help. Whenever they passed a group of people, one look at his face made them blanch and turn away, making the sign of evil as Nora scowled at them. The odd pair walked by the other travelers with loaded backpacks or wagons full of homey things, bored children, and animals, too. Droves of cattle and sheep lined the broad road, and hens squabbled between the hooves.

Ahead was a bit of a jam—a long waiting line that sluggishly moved forward at the pace of a snail. They overtook a large family wagon, and Nora strode past a group of three young men about her own age when a grumpy goat decided it had had enough and knocked its head into a bystander. The big lad tumbled over, dragging one of his mates down with him. The last of the three boys bumped into Nora and turned around to berate her but then caught sight of Diaz looming next to her. The boy’s mouth worked around the cursing and his eyes darted between Nora and Diaz. Poor boys. They looked like farmers. One of them had a sword, though it was old and nicked.

“Fuck!” the skinny boy in front of her said. “Is that a wight?”

“No,” Nora answered. “He’s a half-human pilgrim master on his way to the temple.”

Diaz snorted and pulled the rim of his hood deeper over his face. He passed her by without another glance, moving toward the front of the gates. People were flowing around the disturbance, muttering and grumbling; the family next to them was wrestling with the kicking goat. Nora was keenly aware of the three young men ogling her like they’d never seen a girl before. Or maybe they’d never seen such a dirty girl before. She smiled, though it never reached her eyes.

“Are there usually so many people on the road to the Temple of the Wind?”

The skinny boy regarded her up and down.

“Dunno.”

She had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“I’m Noraya. I’m looking for my brother, Owen. Have you seen him?”

“Dunno,” he said again, his voice breaking into a squeak. “What’s he look like?”

“Like me.”

More ogling.

“Can’t say we have,” the youth said. “You look like you come from Nessa. But you speak as though you’re from up north.”

Nora gazed at the boy in front of her. He was the youngest of the three and the skinniest, yet he also seemed to be the smartest. Even though his dirty blond hair looked like his mother had pulled the kitchen pot over his head and cut along the rim. She hesitated, but—whatever—she saw no harm in telling them a version of the truth.

“I’m from Owen’s Ridge. Or what’s left of it. My brother and I crossed the Plains to reach the temple. But I wasn’t expecting so many on the same road. And I’ve lost him.”

Well, it was mostly true.

“No one crosses the Plains in winter,” the lad with the sword said, finally dislodging himself from his mate. They were both lucky not to have accidentally impaled themselves on their sad excuse for a weapon. “That’s just dumb.”

“Owen’s Ridge? That’s a long way.” The skinny boy stared at her again. “We’re from Woodston. Or, well, from a village close by Woodston. Elmswell. You wouldn’t know it. When the raiders came, we ran through the woods up to Woodston’s gates, but they wouldn’t take us in. Too many refugees already. No more room, they said. So we figured we’d come down to the temple instead. Guess that goes for everyone else here.”

“Your village was attacked?” Nora asked.

“Marauding bands. They’re everywhere now.” The young man shrugged.

“They are?” Nora frowned.

“Neeze wept! You always asking dumb questions? Where’ve you been the last few weeks?” the big lad with the sword said.

“I’ve been running for my life across the Plains.” Nora gave the young man a sharp look. He turned away, blushing.

“Don’t mind Brenn.” The skinny lad hawked a load of green slime from his nose. “He don’t mean harm. We look after each other, you know? We could look after you, too. Until you find your brother, I mean. Better than the…other company you were traveling with.”

The skinny lad lowered his voice at the last sentence and glared at Diaz’s back far up front. Nora bristled.

“You look after yourselves? And you have one sword for the three of you?” She pinched the bridge of her nose and then held up her hands at the sight of his puzzled look. “I’m sorry. Thanks for the offer, uh…?”

“Larris.” The skinny boy pointed two thumbs at himself, then introduced the other two. “Brenn, and the silent guy is Bow.”

Bow leered at her while holding up a hunting bow.

“Thanks, Larris. And if you do see someone our age who looks like me…”

“We’ll tell him his sister’s looking for him.”

“Great.”

Nora walked briskly forward until she reached Diaz’s side once more.

“People just love seeing you, don’t they?” she asked.

“I’ve become used to it.”

“Really?”

He gave her a sidelong glance.

“So?” the half-wight said in his familiar deep rumble. “How far does the chaos reach?”

“Well, good old Larris over there says Woodston’s gates are closed. He means the town Woodston on the Suthron Pass, doesn’t he? How far is that from here?”

“On foot? About a week. Wagons are slower.”

“Moorfleet’s fallen.”

Diaz remained silent.

“And Master Darren’s dead. That means there’s no one with authority to unite the north under one banner, no last vestige of peace and law and order. Something’s going on. There are marauding bands everywhere from Moorfleet to Woodston. Death pits. Fugitives. End of the world.” Nora shook her head. “What are we going to do?”