The Iron Sword (The Fae War Chronicles Book 1)

by Jocelyn Fox

  Finnead passed his hand over his face. “So there are no reinforcements coming for us.”

  I shook my head. “No. Not anytime soon, at least.”

  He dropped his hand, determination hardening his features. “Very well. We shall have to draw up a battle plan.”

  “I didn’t see any Dark creatures when Vell brought me in,” I pointed out.

  “When the barracks were first built, protective spells were laid into the walls. It’s difficult for the creatures to come very close,” Emery explained. Then he stopped, looking at me oddly. I realized that I’d been idly tracing the circle of Gwyneth’s iron pendant with one finger.

  “And speaking of protective spells,” Ramel said, following the direction of Emery’s gaze. He walked very close to me, frowning.

  “You might not want to touch that,” I warned him.

  “Remember I have some mortal blood,” he said, grinning rakishly. “It shouldn’t kill me.”

  I took a step back but not in time. Ramel grazed the pendant with one finger. His eyes widened.

  “Holy—”

  A silent explosion threw him into the air. He landed with a crash on the map-table. I felt my eyes go wide with shock. Finnead, who had sat down in his chair and had been staring into the fire in thought, looked at Ramel and then at me, raising one eyebrow.

  “I told him not to touch it,” I said defensively, clutching the pendant in one hand.

  Emery slid out of his chair with feline grace, shaking Ramel’s shoulder. To my relief, Ramel groaned and sat up, rubbing his forehead dazedly. “…shit,” he finished, blinking. Then, to my great surprise, he started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I demanded. Finnead stood, stepped over Ramel and walked toward me. I took another involuntary step backward, still clutching the pendant, and tripped over my own feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the Glasidhe had abandoned my quiver, and then, Finnead was simply there, catching me, his large hands surprisingly gentle. He was so close I could have kissed him by just tilting my head back, bringing my lips up to meet his, and the very idea was so impossible it was painful.

  He set me back on my feet carefully, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. I felt a blush burn across my face. It was fitting, that he found my clumsiness amusing.

  “Full of surprises,” wheezed Ramel, still laughing as Emery helped him to stand.

  Flora and Forsythe righted the table, and Wisp spread the map out again, smoothing out the wrinkles fastidiously.

  “You brought—guests,” Emery said in mild surprise.

  “Yes,” I replied. “There were two others that were following you, too.”

  “I told you I saw a glow in the trees!” Ramel said triumphantly to Finnead.

  Finnead said nothing, looking at me with a considering gaze that rooted me to the spot. I wouldn’t have been able to move even if I’d wanted; it was as if the soles of my boots had grown roots deep through the floorboards.

  “Come and sit,” Emery suggested, breaking the silence that had settled over the room.

  I shook my head mutely, still spellbound by Finnead’s eyes. I couldn’t read him—his face was like the blank page at the front of a devastatingly interesting book, with just a few hints of words showing through the paper, tantalizing.

  Then someone burst into the room from the opposite door, the door to the farthest room of the barracks. She looked at me and with a jolt I recognized Allene, her hair pulled back severely and her shapely form hidden in a loose shirt and rough trousers. Her hands were slick with a dark blue-black liquid. My stomach turned: Sidhe blood. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her lovely eyes.

  “Vaelanbrigh,” she said raggedly, motioning back toward the room.

  Finnead turned and covered the room in three long strides, sweeping up the straps of a bag along the wall. His face was a mask of grim determination, and I realized that he was probably the only Sidhe in the barracks strong enough to touch iron without being overcome immediately by the poison. Allene moved to follow him but he touched her arm and shook his head.

  “Who?” he asked simply.

  “Merrick,” she replied.

  I glanced at Ramel, and then ran across the room to join Finnead, brushing past Allene.

  “What are you doing?” Finnead asked me as we entered the room. My stomach turned from the smell of blood and sickness, and I hesitated when I first saw the room: filled with at least fifteen cots, the neat rows a counterpoint to the heavy feel of death and despair. I saw that Finnead had paled a little when we entered the room, and I shook my hands out like I was in the middle of a long run, blowing out a hard breath to steel my resolve.

  “I can touch iron. Mortal, remember?” I told Finnead.

  He didn’t reply, turning sharply to one of the cots, where a young man lay gasping and sweating, the sound of his rattling breaths harsh in the oppressive silence. I walked around the other side of the bed as Finnead turned a knob on a nearby lamp, throwing the pale young man into sharp relief. He looked about my own age—a few hundred years, in Sidhe time, but still young. His bloodshot gray eyes rolled from Finnead to me and back to Finnead as he gasped for air, the bloodstained bandage on his chest heaving.

  “Merrick, isn’t it?” said Finnead in a low, soothing voice as he opened his bag, his hands moving quickly but steadily as he pulled out several unmarked packets and a wood-handled knife.

  “Yes, sir,” gasped out the young soldier—for that was what he was. A soldier in this war of light and shadow. He turned his head weakly toward me, staring at me with his glassy eyes until I shifted uncomfortably.

  “My name is Tess,” I said, trying for the same soothing voice as Finnead and failing miserably. My words wobbled.

  “You shine,” Merrick murmured breathily.

  I blinked and forced myself not to look down at my hands. I knew I wasn’t shining from the taebramh. Merrick kept looking at me, and something in his face reminded me of a lost child. I leaned forward and brushed his hair from his forehead. He closed his eyes against the brush of my fingers, leaning his face into my hand. I saw Finnead pause for just a moment. Then he continued unpacking his bag industriously.

  “What do you have to do?” I asked Finnead. Merrick’s breath hitched and he grimaced in pain. I took his hand and he closed his fingers around mine weakly.

  “I thought that I’d gotten all the iron out of him,” Finnead said tightly. “He was shot with an arrow, and I got the head of it out, but those damn creatures aren’t only tipping their arrows, they’re putting barbs on them that break when the rest is pulled out.” He looked down at his tools. “I have to reopen the wound, and find the shard.”

  “Can I help?” I said, swallowing against the sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Help me unwrap the bandage,” Finnead said. He put his hand on Merrick’s shoulder for a brief moment and the younger man looked up at the Knight with such faith and trust in his eyes that it made my chest hurt. Then Finnead slowly lifted Merrick into a sitting position, leaving the wounded man gasping and closing his teeth fiercely on cries of pain. I found the edge of the cloth bandage and began to unwrap it from around his torso, moving as quickly and gently as possible. In the inner layers, the bandage had dried stiff with blood, dark as an ink-stain on the pale cloth. I wordlessly drew my smallest dagger and carefully cut through the last layers of cloth, revealing the sodden field-dressing on Merrick’s chest.

  Finnead carefully lowered Merrick back onto the bed. I heard the other occupants of the room murmuring soft words of encouragement, covering his sounds of pain. I wondered whether it was for his benefit or their own.

  “Take off the dressing,” Finnead said, his own voice a little rough now. He took the covering from the lamp and began heating the blade of the wood-handled knife over the dancing
orange flame. I carefully peeled away the dressing, wincing when it caught the skin and breathing a small sigh of relief when the cloth finally came away, leaving the black wound on Merrick’s chest glistening in the open air. I gagged and turned away, thinking desperately that watching hospital dramas on television had not prepared me for the reality of this pain-soaked soldier.

  Merrick’s breathing quickened. I looked and saw that his wide eyes followed every small movement of the blade as Finnead finished heating it over the candle-flame. I took his hand again, squeezing his fingers until he looked at me.

  “Merrick,” I said in a quiet, low voice, “I’ll tell you a story, if you like.”

  A small smile touched a corner of his blue-tinged lips. “I am not a child,” he rasped.

  “I know.” I smiled a little in return, leaning closer despite the fetid smell of sweat and looming death. “In fact, you’re probably at least four times my age.”

  His gray eyes narrowed as he searched my face. I raised my eyebrows, and smiled again as comprehension washed over his expression. “You are a mortal,” he whispered. “I have never met a mortal before.”

  Finnead paused, the knife held over Merrick’s wound. I leaned closer, almost laying on the bed myself as I used my other hand to keep Merrick’s gaze fixed on me, shielding him as best I could from the sight of his terrible wound. “Look at me, now,” I said gently. “You can ask me any question you like.”

  His hand tightened on mine painfully as he realized what was about to happen, but he didn’t fight my gentle grip. “Tell me…anything,” he gasped desperately.

  Then the knife bit into his flesh and a strangled groan escaped him. I swallowed and kept my eyes locked on his. I started to talk about anything that came to mind—cars, and trains, and my brother Liam. I explained guns, and modern war in the mortal world, my voice low and steady, my face mere inches from Merrick’s as I struggled to keep his attention, to stave off the pain. When I glanced up I saw Finnead’s grim expression, the pallor of his skin as he leaned in closer over the wound.

  “Isn’t there anything you can give him for the pain?” I asked desperately, raising my voice over Merrick’s hoarse cry of agony.

  “Not over the iron,” said Finnead tersely, and I knew suddenly that he was in pain too—not just emotional pain from seeing one of his men so distraught, but physical pain. How much strength was this costing him?

  Merrick’s breathing suddenly quickened, becoming so shallow that I leaned my ear close to his mouth to make sure he was alive.

  “Almost,” said Finnead.

  “Hurry,” I said, tapping Merrick’s cheek with the tips of my fingers. “Merrick, you have to stay awake.” I looked up at Finnead. “He’s slipping.”

  Finnead muttered a curse and threw aside the tong-like instrument he’d been using, plunging his fingers into the wound instead. I swallowed down the sour taste in my mouth. Merrick’s eyes rolled back in his head. Desperately I pressed my palm to the side of his face and drew out a tiny drop of the taebramh. Just enough of a spark to relight a fire, I thought.

  Finnead made a grim, triumphant sound as he thrust suddenly with his fingers, his face paling as he pulled out the long, wicked shard of iron with his bare hands. Merrick lay pallid and still, and I was about to push the spark into his skin through my palm when Finnead, with his other hand, uncorked a vial and held it beneath Merrick’s nose. Merrick sucked in a rattling breath and coughed harshly, jerking away from the vial. I cleared my throat and grimaced: I could smell the sharp odor, worse than ammonia, even at my distance away from the vial.

  “Dragon’s piss,” Finnead said in an oddly satisfied, grating voice. I saw that he was still holding the shard of iron in his bloody hands. “Does the trick…every time.”

  With some color already returning to Merrick’s face, I held my hand out to Finnead. “Give that to me,” I said, looking at the shard.

  He grinned oddly. “Can’t…it’s fused…” He turned his palm over and to my horror the iron shard didn’t fall from his skin.

  “Let me get it off, then,” I said hastily, standing. He shook his head, cradling his hand to his chest and looking at it with a slight grimace.

  “Bandage his chest,” he said. “In my bag…”

  I walked hastily around the bed and found the packet with the bandage. Merrick was able to sit up shakily on his own, after I helped him at first.

  “What’s wrong…with the Vaelanbrigh?” he asked, real concern coloring his voice.

  “He’ll be fine,” I told him, even though I was a little concerned. I hadn’t known iron was that caustic to Sidhe flesh, and it amazed me that Merrick had survived having that shard inside him. “How long were you wounded?” I asked him.

  His brow furrowed. “Three days…I think. In the first attack. I was with the patrol.”

  I nodded and finished bandaging. My work didn’t look anywhere close to as neat as Allene’s original job, but it would do.

  “Thank you,” said Merrick, laying back. He smiled at me a little wearily.

  “Don’t mention it,” I said, turning quickly to Finnead. I knelt on the floor in front of him, holding out my hands. “Let me see.”

  He grudgingly gave me his hand. The long shard of iron was fused to his palm just to the side of his thumb. I touched it experimentally, and despite his efforts to hide it, I saw him flinch. He handed me the knife wordlessly. After wiping the edge clean of Merrick’s blood, I steeled myself and set the flat of the blade against his palm, so the edge was against the iron. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall. I angled the edge down a bit—I didn’t want to miss anything—and applied steady pressure.

  Dark blood welled from Finnead’s palm. He breathed in sharply and I heard a sound of sympathy from Merrick. But I kept pressing, testing with the edge of the knife until the shard of iron lifted slightly when I applied pressure upward. I cut quickly, prying up the bloody shard with my other hand and trying to ignore Finnead’s low sound of pain.

  “There,” I said breathlessly, tossing the shard to the floor and pressing on the freely bleeding wound with both hands. “Done.” I peered down at the gash, thinking sickeningly that I had made it. “You might need stitches—I mean, if your healers use stitches—”

  “No,” he said without looking at me.

  “I’ll just wrap it then,” I said.

  Finnead kept his head tipped back against the wall. I dug in his bag with one hand, trying not to get his blood all over everything and only marginally succeeding. I found another package of bandages, ripped it open with my teeth and wrapped the cloth firmly around his hand, ignoring the tingling feeling at the base of my spine as my bare skin touched his. I cut the bandage with my own dagger, and tucked the edge in as neatly as I could. “Is that…is that all right?” I asked, blushing at my sudden stammer.

  Finnead raised his hand, looking at the bandage. “It will do,” he said.

  I sat back on my heels, trying to push down the wave of unhappiness that rose up in me at his indifferent tone, his cool gaze. “I just cut a piece of iron out of your hand,” I said to him. “The least you could do is say thank you.”

  He gazed at me for a moment, his face as smooth as marble. “Thank you,” he said finally.

  I picked up the iron shard and savagely cut a piece from the extra bandage, wrapping the iron and stuffing it into my pocket. Finnead stood and watched me, observing my jerky movements with a slightly arched brow. I smiled briefly at Merrick, and then turned on my heel and strode from the room.

  In the other room, I found Ramel, Emery, Donovan and other Fae I didn’t know still bent over the map, deep in conversation. Ramel looked up and the conversation stilled as they noticed me. Their gazes stayed riveted on my hands. I looked down and realized that blue-black blood covered my hands—Finnead’s, gleaming wet; an
d Merrick’s, from when I had wrapped the bandage around his chest. I quickly shoved my hands behind my back, clearing my throat.

  “How is he?” Emery asked softly.

  “He’ll probably live,” Finnead said, his catlike steps silent as he slipped around me, his own hands scrubbed clean and his healing-bag packed once again. The others made no comment about his wrapped hand, and I got the nasty feeling that Finnead and the healers were all too used to iron-burned skin and bandaged hands. He didn’t even look at me as he took his chair by the map again. I stood awkwardly, feeling distinctly out of place. Ramel caught my eye. He raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged. He said something in a low voice to Finnead and then stood, buckling on his sword.

  “I have to talk to you,” I said to him quickly as he neared.

  “I know,” he said in a nearly inaudible voice. Louder, he said, “Come on then, Tess, I’ll give you a proper tour of the place.”

  After tossing me a rag and waiting for me to scrub my hands clean as best I could, he led me out of the room, into the entry-room and out of the barracks altogether. I took in a breath of the fresh air gratefully, letting it wash away the lingering scent of the infirmary. Outside, dusk sat like a canopy of gray silk above the tree-branches of the nearby forest.

  “It’s past sunset already?” I asked in surprise. It had been just after midday when Vell and I had arrived at the barracks, and I couldn’t understand where the time had gone.

  “You were in the infirmary with Finnead for a good while,” Ramel said. He seemed distracted, his words lacking their usual humor and his eyes shifting restlessly, devoid of their usual flirtatious spark.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked quietly.

  We walked around the back of the barracks. Pairs and small groups of Fae walked past purposefully, giving us no more than a second glance. I liked the anonymity: unlike at Court, the Sidhe were focused on the serious task at hand, and they cared little about a strange-looking young woman in their midst, as long as she was accompanied by someone well known.