Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) (2 page)

“We were traveling to the Shrine of Hin,” Nora chimed in. The blade rose against her throat one more time. She stared at Owen. The best lies were always those that were almost the truth. “We’re traveling to the Shrine of Hin. We couldn’t pass by Dernberia for fear of the bandits on the coastal road. My brother wishes to become a pilgrim. He can read and write and is otherwise very knowledgeable in lore.” She shot Owen a look, but he didn’t register. “We were going to ask Master Darren to train him in the way.”

“Is that true?” the man asked Owen.

“Yes?” Owen nodded as the sword came closer to his face. “Yes! I’ve always dreamed of being a pilgrim, but our foster father wouldn’t allow it.”

“So you ran away from home?”

“Yes!”

At least that was true. The leader looked over Nora’s head to the man standing behind her and lifted one thin eyebrow. Nora felt her captor shift his weight. She waited. The blade was taken away from her throat.

“Master Darren is dead.”

Her captor’s voice was deep like a well. When he spoke, the rasp was more pronounced, like he was drowning on land. His hand released its grip on her arm a little, and she turned to look over her shoulder and finally see the man. And nearly dislocated her shoulder with a yelp, trying to free herself from the grasp of the wight.

He—it!—was tall and lithe. Taller than most of the men standing around them and a hand-width taller than the leader. The skin of his face was a dark bronze, though she could not see much of it beneath his hood. And those eyes. Those deep, dark eyes with no pupil to be seen, pure black, like the reflection of a still lake on the high moors that held the memory of ages long past: wight eyes. The Everlasting, the old wives’ tales also called them. The Lords and Ladies. Messengers of the old gods.

Nora struggled to get away and yet couldn’t stop staring.

The wight shifted his gaze from her to her brother.

“Master Darren is dead,” he repeated.

“No.” Owen shook his head. “No. He can’t be. We saw Master Darren last not even a month ago. At Nora’s handfasting.”

“Where did you see him?” the leader asked quickly.

“At the handfasting,” Owen repeated.

Nora groaned. “We’re from Owen’s Ridge.”

It was easier to look into the leader’s eyes than the wight’s, simply because they were a man’s eyes. She felt his gaze wander up and down her body and tried not to shudder. They stared at each other in the chill evening breeze. He seemed like a man used to command. Tall and strong, a warrior lord, with dark hair and gray eyes and a beard that had been neatly groomed weeks ago. He scratched at his jaw.

“We were at the Shrine of Hin two weeks ago,” he said. “Master Darren looked pretty dead to me.”

“How did he die? How did he look exactly? Were his lips blue?” Owen asked.

The leader shrugged.

“I don’t know. I was a bit distracted by the dagger in his heart to notice his lips. So, twins. Consecrated to Tuil and Lara, inhale and exhale, life and death. One soul in two bodies. Don’t people here in the north kill you after birth? Leave you out in the woods for the wights to grab?”

The men chuckled and leered at Nora, held in the wight’s arms. Her face flushed with heat. Her clenched jaw ached.

“We must continue east. The Temple of the Wind is still safe and open to us,” the wight said.

“And from there south?” the leader asked.

The wight was so near, Nora felt his tenseness at the question. There was a slight pause.

“If we must,” the wight spoke at last.

A ripple of movement went through the silent men around them as their leader shifted toward Owen.

“And these two?” he asked, looking at the wight.

Nora held her breath. She watched the tip of his sword closely as it rose above Owen’s neck.

“The boy is under my protection,” the wight said. “If he wants to become a pilgrim, I’m oath-bound to guide him to the nearest temple or shrine for education.”

Nora saw Owen breathe relief. The leader nodded.

“And the girl?”

Nora raised her chin as the blade of the knife skimmed the soft skin of her throat. The gray, pale eyes of the leader fixed on her again. They reminded her of the dead eyes of trout when they pulled them from the brook below the Ridge. Cold and flat. She shuddered. The Fish Lord was a hard man.

And these were his men. She was one girl. Being held by a wight. And all this because the baker’s wife couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“She goes with us to the temple,” the wight said.

“Good,” the leader replied, but the way he said it made the rest of his men smirk in the dark. Nora’s stomach spasmed and she swallowed bile.

Owen’s bonds were cut wordlessly, and he rose, rubbing his wrists. But the wight turned Nora around and bound her hands before her with a piece of rope.

“My name is Master Telen Diaz.” He spoke quietly, tying a last knot. “Show respect; do not speak unless asked to; save your energy for running. For run we must. Go, get your things.”

Owen stared at his new master, wide-eyed. He was about to say something, but Nora shook her head at him and he closed it again.

“Go, get your things,” the wight repeated.

Owen turned and went to gather his backpack and Nora’s. The wight turned to Nora.

“Your names.”

Nora blinked.

“Tell me your names.” He pulled at the length of rope, and she stumbled closer to him. She ripped her hands back.

“His name is Owen.” Nora’s voice caught. She swallowed the fear and looked into those deep eyes so close to her face. “You don’t scare me.”

“That’s very brave of you to say.” The wight stood tall and solemn and waited for Owen to approach. Nora’s cheeks burned like the raw skin of her wrists.

“Owen of Owen’s Ridge, that is your real name?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You know with whom you travel?”

“I think I’ve guessed as much.”

“We must gain a few more leagues under cover of the night. You will follow me. You will watch me closely until we get to the Temple of the Wind. This is your first lesson, Owen of Owen’s Ridge. Many will follow. You will run and you will breathe. Or you will fall.”

And so they ran. Again.

Two days ago, at home, Nora had run out of ideas. With her back to the wall, she had one option left: flight into the unknown. Owen and Nora had bolted out into the night, unprepared, no plan. And here she was, still running. Still shackled to an undesirable future edging closer on the horizon no matter the direction she chose.

This was how it felt to run the night. First the cold got her. Then she was warmer, and she saw every breath in front of her. Then the sweat made her cold. After a while she felt the beginnings of a cramp in her legs. She had to start concentrating on her footfall. Made it regular. The ground below her, though it seemed flat, stretched out in ripples and slight arches. Treacherous. Suddenly there was no ground beneath her. It broke away and all she had was pebbles and water and a deep step that woke her up with a jolt, heartbeat rising a little more.

And then she burned. Her heartbeat pounded in the veins of her face. Her body was generating so much heat that even the cold wasn’t helping anymore. Her lungs were burning with every breath. It felt like someone was stabbing her in the side. She wanted to stop. But the master wight wouldn’t allow it. He yanked the rope and the raw skin broke open a little deeper each time.

The weariness crept into her bones from her feet up. It climbed her body until her legs were shaking from the effort to keep going. She felt sick. Maybe she’d been sick already and the back of her hand was wet with perspiration and vomit. The combination stung in the blood-red welts underneath the hemp cord. Her hands were cold and shaking. Breathing was torture. Her vision narrowed.

And Nora knew.

She knew she would fall.

She felt it coming. Her body would give in. It couldn’t go any farther. Willpower or no, there was nothing left to fuel motion. And when she fell, the cold and pitiless slave master wight would have to drag her lifeless body behind him because there was no way she could possibly get up again.

And at last, as the red sun started to show in a pale line beyond the horizon, she didn’t run anymore; she walked. The tired men gulped air in singing breaths. The mists swirled as she walked through toward the morning, and behind her the world lay gray, shapeless, formless, oblivious to what she felt going through it, what she shed to get here, how tired she was. Someone said, “We rest here.” So she lay down on the wet grass like she’d never lain as sweetly or more comfortably.

And as always, when things seemed good, life turned bad.

A
warmth spread through Nora’s
right breast and a gentle squeeze made the nipple stand erect. Nora shifted in her waking slumber and rolled onto her side. She was stiff and her whole body hurt. Her nipple tingled again, sending a warm shiver deep down. Her hand moved to cover her breast but couldn’t reach it. A hand slipped between her legs and touched her most intimate part. It was not her hand.

Nora woke in cold realization. Her body hurt because of running all night. She couldn’t move her hands because they were still bound. The cold of the night had made her stiff. And one of those men was touching her.

If she screamed, would any of the others do anything? Could Owen do something? She listened hard, trying to ignore the hands. Trying to lie very still as they groped her body. Her eyes remained closed. Maybe if she pretended to sleep—maybe the man would give up and just go away?

His morning breath was hot on her face. His hand grabbed her shoulder to turn her onto her back.

If you fight, it’ll only be worse.

A knee pushed itself between her legs.

Oh gods, no.

He gripped the rope around her hands and lifted her arms. Pretending to sleep was not an option anymore. Nora opened her eyes and saw the silhouette of a large man, shouldering a round shield and a battle-ax. When he grinned at her, his teeth were surprisingly white. He held a finger to his mouth and squeezed her thigh in a friendly way. She pulled her lips back mechanically to make a pass at a smile. He winked.

Nora inhaled. He smelled of unwashed man: sweat and grime and piss. She closed her eyes as he shifted his weight, fumbling with her trousers.

This would hurt. One way or another.

Her back muscles screeched in pain as she bunched her legs up. His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth was ajar in a perfect O. He didn’t even see her boot coming. The cracking sound and the grind under her heel as his nose broke filled her with grim satisfaction. Blood gushed all over that pretty face. He cried out. Heart pounding in her ears, she reached toward his hips and unsheathed his hunting knife before he keeled over. She slashed the blade across his unprotected stomach, and he howled in pain.

Look for Owen. Cut the rope.

Don’t stare at him! Look for Owen!

Men were waking only a few meters away. There was Owen! No one was guarding him. But they were all moving, sitting up, as one of their own cursed her with all kinds of names. This was it. Time to go.

“Owen!”

She shoved Owen with her foot. He woke, bleary-eyed, looking up at her.

“I see no smoke,” he said and turned over.

“Owen, come on! We’re not tending charcoal here!” She shoved him once more, frantically sawing at her bonds with the blade. Her fingers were still stiff and unhelpful, and she cut into the flesh of her thumb. “We’ve got to go.”

Her eyes darted from one waking man to the next. Where was the master wight? One cord was loose. She could free one hand far enough to hold the knife and cut the other piece of rope. Too many men were moving, waking. They had camped on a little knoll, half submerged in fog. Behind her, when she raised her head, the open plain washed gray under a pale midday sun. On the horizon to the west stood a dark line of trees. To the east the Plains stretched far, far until the foot of the Crest Mountains.

No hiding place.

“You fucking wench!” the bleeding man shouted, reaching for his knife and finding it gone. He staggered a few steps toward her, wiping his sleeve across the red torrent gushing over his mouth, one hand clutching his belly. Nora stepped away.

“Come on, Owen,” she said one more time, moving away from the man, who was reaching behind him to get a battle-ax.

“The wench is trying to escape!”

More men stirred. More were groaning and sitting up. Nora’s gaze crossed the gray eyes of the Fish Lord as he wiped his face sleepily. She saw his eyes dart to her left. She turned and swung the knife.

Master Diaz was there. He dodged the blade gracefully.

Nora danced a few steps farther up the knoll. Run away and leave Owen behind? Yes? No?

“Stay away!” she cried.

The master did no such thing. He held out the palms of his hands to show he carried no weapon. But he was closing in on her. She backed off farther.

“Owen!” she shouted now.

Her twin brother sat up. His dark hair stood up on his head, and there was a red mark on his face where he had lain on his hand.