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NIGHTBLADE
Garrett Robinson
Copyright © 2014 by Living Art Books. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
To my wife
Who gave me this idea
To my children
Who just make life better
To Johnny, Sean and Dave
Who told me to write
And to my Rebels
Don’t forget why you left the woods
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one
Loren let her axe fall, and the log split with the sound of a skull cracking open.
She heaved a sigh and hoisted the axe to her shoulder. One hand rose to wipe sweat from her filthy brow, streaking it with dirt. She surveyed the pile of logs awaiting the kiss of her axe. There were many—far too many, if she had any hope of going to the village dance that night. Loren did not care overmuch for dances, but certainly preferred them to chopping logs.
Only a dance could unite the village where Loren had been raised, a tiny cluster of homes in the woods of Selvan, too few to warrant a name. She often went days or weeks without speaking to any other villager. Other than Chet, of course.
Loren let her eyes wander, gazing upon her tiny house where a thin line of grey plumed from the smokestack. She’d worked all day without seeing her mother, the one person who could rescue her from several more hours of backbreaking labor. Mother had sweet cakes and buns to prepare, hoping to lure with taste what Loren had not attracted with looks.
Far past the house, Chet emerged from the smithy and hailed Loren with a shout. She gave a wan smile and a wave. Dear, foolish Chet. He would happily have taken her to wife, though she stood three fingers taller and could beat him in arm wrestling. But Chet could not bring the dowry her parents demanded, and Loren feared the young man would waste away under his relentless affection.
She often wondered what would happen if her parents found a worthy suitor. Loren could imagine what Chet might think but had no idea what he would do.
“Why do you stand there gawking, girl?”
Malice dripped from her father’s voice. Loren stooped, batted the halved log with the blunt end of her axe, and fetched another, standing it upright before daring raise her eyes to his.
“Sorry, Father,” she mumbled. “I only rested a moment.”
“Why, when work’s still to be done?” he growled.
He stepped in close, the way he liked to—close enough to strike at a moment’s notice, and for Loren to faint from the stench of his sweat. Now he blocked her from chopping the log.
She fell a half step back. Her father followed. Loren gulped, body tensing in anticipation of a strike, arms still burning with yesterday’s bruises.
She could see Chet over her father’s shoulder. The boy had stopped walking, eyes fixed upon her, his face dark. Loren prayed he’d be wise enough to stay away.
Perhaps distraction would work. “Father, Mother said I am to ready for the dance. If I don’t go, she will be angry.”
“And you think I won’t be if you persist in disobedience?” His voice curled into a snarl. “You think to prance about in a gown while I break my back doing your work?”
Denial was a fool’s game. “I do not want to go. Only Mother—”
“You chop. Rest again before your fingers bleed, and I’ll see to their letting myself.”
He didn’t move. Loren had to step around him to bring her blade to the log. Her father waited for her to split another two before finally stomping off to vanish behind Miss Aisley’s house.
Chet still stood, staring at Loren. She gave him a frail smile and a quick wave before lowering her head. When she raised her eyes, Chet had gone.
Loren’s gut churned fear to rage. As always, she loathed herself for what she couldn’t control, hated that she could only summon such anger when her father’s hands were no longer a threat. If she could only bring it to bear when he stood close and the axe lay in her hands . . .
She muffled the thought and hissed in her mind: You have a murderer’s heart.
Constables would kill her slow and accurse her name across the kingdom . . . if ever she surrendered to such vile thoughts.
Loren’s mind turned from constables to the wide lands beyond her little forest, lands that seemed as far out of reach as the treetops. She could scarce remember a time before her unceasing dreams of wandering the world. Her reveries held great cities, strange mountains whose names she did not know, and swift rivers chasing endless miles.
Now her waking dream ran further. Loren saw herself in a cloak of black with a dagger at her waist, perched atop a spirited palfrey. Its harness bore gold, and emeralds the color of her eyes. She slipped into a city, robbing its nobles blind before vanishing into morning mist. And as she slid out through the city’s gates, guards quaked in fear and whispered the word, “Nightblade.”
Her mind shied away. Years had taught Loren to ignore childish wishes. She was fifteen now and a woman grown. She had no time for flights of fancy that could bring only the ache of want without hope. If ever she had dreamt of escaping her parents, the fantasy had withered long ago.
The axe fell, the log split, and Loren knocked the pieces aside. She moved to the pile and stooped to gather another.
As she grasped the log and stood, Loren saw a thin figure in a bright blue coat darting through the woods at the clearing’s edge. The man—for she could see it was a man now—scurried from tree to tree like an animal hunted, looking over his shoulder before becoming one with the forest.
Loren glanced again toward the village. She saw her father nowhere, and no villager looked her way.
That blue coat was no woodsman’s garment. The man came from beyond the forest, from the lands Loren had seen only in dreams. What was he doing? Where was he going
?
She knew only one way to find out.
Her mind raced with the possibilities of what might happen if her parents caught her. Anxiety was ugly inside her. But a voice within cried, Go!
Loren flung her axe to the ground and ran into the woods, chasing the flash of blue.
two
By the time Loren reached the trees, the man wasn’t even a shadow. Loren knelt where she had last seen him, inspecting the ground. Crushed blades of grass told the tale of his flight. She threw a final, hesitant look over her shoulder but saw no one.
Loren would leave for a moment and return before anyone could tell she had gone. A few minutes and no more.
Her feet fell swift but silent as a tomb. Loren prided herself on her woodcraft and knew how to move swiftly while avoiding detection.
Only a few short minutes passed before she saw the man again. His telltale blue coat stood out like a beacon fire among the brown trunks. Loren slowed her pace to match his and peeked out only when he moved.
She needed but a few glances for measure. Neither short nor tall, his height matched her own, though he looked more than twice her age. He wore his dark curled hair longer than most men in the village. Dirt flocked his every inch. His boots looked fit for the road, but his clothes bore rips and tears from travel.
A town man, then, or one from a city. Loren wondered at his purpose. Certainly running from something. His filth spoke of hiding in ditches and under the roots of trees. Loren knew well his panicked look from the eyes of prey she hunted. Furtive feet and jerking hands betrayed his fear. She glanced behind her as they ran but saw no sign of pursuit.
Eventually, Loren grew careless. The man turned when she stood exposed, and his eyes fell upon her. He gave a strangled sort of yelp, redoubled his pace, and vanished.
“Wait!” Loren cried, too late.
The man was gone, and her voice would not carry far in the forest.
But if the man hoped to evade her, he would find that a folly. She had seen his unease beneath the trees, his steps more used to streets and floors than forest ground.
She struck wide, making for a thick copse of birches memory promised nearby. The man would avoid them, but Loren could pick her way through the trunks like an open road.
Her feet devoured the ground, breath rising in excitement, her heartbeat thunder to her ears. She was a wolf on the hunt, and her blue-coated rabbit could not escape her.
She burst out the other side of the copse, exulting at his shock. Her joyful cry withered to a yelp as the man raised his hands, eyes glowing, and fire bolted toward her.
Loren skidded on her heels and crashed to the ground. But at the last moment, the man twisted his hands. The firebolt turned aside and crashed harmlessly into the dirt. Loren flinched at the impact, and though a wave of heat washed across her face, she shivered.
“What do you think you are doing?” A pale white glow faded from the man’s eyes. “I nearly killed you!”
For a moment, Loren shook too hard for reply. The man’s shoulders heaved with deep breaths, his eyes fixed to hers. A curious color: a light brown verging on grey, a sharp contrast against the dark curls of his hair. She could see now that he wore a short blade on his belt and a few pouches of leather. One was cloth, hanging small and curiously heavy; it bore coin, Loren suspected. She composed herself and stood, brushing soil from the seat of her pants.
“Why are you running?”
The man blinked as though reminded of something. He looked behind him, but the forest lay empty.
“There’s no one there,” said Loren, her own breath still steady. It took more than a jog to rob her wind. “I kept a careful watch as I followed. No one pursues you.”
The man snorted. “Oh, they do. You may sleep assured and bet your last coin, if a gambler you might be.”
“Not I. But foresters have little opportunity to wager with wizards.”
An eyebrow arched. “Though ample opportunity to raise daughters with quick tongues and quicker eyes, it would seem.”
“You are a wizard, then.”
“You saw my flame. It renders your guess less impressive.”
“A firemage as well. In that case your flight is curious, for who could you fear?”
He glanced behind him again. His feet twitched as though itching to run. “A man need not fear his pursuers to wish them no harm. Though it may look ignoble to flee, who would praise my honor if I caught constables in a blaze?”
Loren’s eyes grew wide. She cleared her throat and tried to look calm. “Constables? Are you . . . dangerous, then?”
His mouth twisted in a smile before barking a laugh. “Dangerous? A slain patch of dirt lies to prove it. Were I a touch slower, the dirt’s fate would have befallen your remarkable green eyes.”
Loren blinked. “What about my eyes?”
“I mean no insult. I said they are remarkable, not ugly. I have never seen their color.”
Loren felt a growing frustration. Her hands rose of their own accord to tug at her hair. The man was trying to distract her.
“I have not forgotten my question, firemage. Why do the constables pursue you?”
His face grew dark, and for a moment Loren felt afraid. But the shadow passed, and he tossed back his hair. “You will withstand their questions better if you do not know.”
“Whence do you come?” She pressed. “Where are you bound?”
But he only looked back over his shoulder.
She had to get him talking. “I am Loren, a daughter of the family Nelda. If your purpose must remain a secret, surely you can tell me your name. I am sure the constables are free enough with it.”
“That they are,” he muttered. “It is Xain. Well met.”
He gave no family. Loren knew a thousand reasons for that, but her first thought was bastard. The word was a thrill. No husbandless mother bore a child within the Birchwood—fathers and hefty axes saw to that.
“Well met, Xain. How closely are you pursued, and for how long?”
“For a girl, you bear little fear.”
Loren stood straighter. “For a woman, you mean. No man my age can beat me at arm wrestling, nor can any two years older in the village. Nor can they climb as high nor run as fast. What would I fear from you and your pretty blue coat?”
Xain balked, and then he looked down at his coat and laughed. “When one must flee in haste, one must seize upon the garment closest to hand.”
He had distracted her again. Perhaps she could turn the tables upon him. Loren thought hard about all she knew. He had come from the east and made for a southwesterly course. The east road ran straight through two cities to the bay of the High King’s Seat. And the closest town to the southwest was . . .
“Cabrus,” she said, gratified to see him give a little start. “You make for Cabrus. There’s nothing else the way you are going.”
“The road is long,” Xain grumbled. “Cabrus is scarcely a dot on the realm’s great maps.”
“A place may be a way stop, yet men make for it when occasion rises,” Loren said. “And you do not deny it. But you will never reach it.”
His nostrils flared, hands clenching at his sides. A shiver ran down the small of her back. Voice grim, Xain said, “Do you mean to lead the constables to me, then?”
Loren shook her head. “I bear you no ill will, and you saved me from the flame.”
“I sent it after you also.”
She shrugged. “A weight on both scales clears the account. But only your boots can bear the long road to Cabrus. Your stomach will not, even if those pouches at your belt hold nothing but salted meat, which I doubt. After the Melnar, you will find no fresh water on the road. Thirst and hunger will claim you before you can glimpse the walls of Cabrus.”
Xain frowned. He held forth a finger and whispered a word. His eyes glowed with pale white light, and blue fire sprang to life above his fingertip. “I can hunt. A bolt of fire or thunder can best an arrow; the squirrels know no difference.”
; Loren’s cheeks flushed. “Water, then. I do not think you can draw the rain from the sky unless you are Dorren in disguise.”
“You have me there.” He smiled. “Perhaps you are correct, and the constables will catch me. I can always beg them for a drink. They are most accommodating once you are within their grasp.”
Loren felt her pulse quicken. A half-forgotten dream tugged at the back of her mind, a destiny she’d long abandoned.
“Mayhap you will not need their courtesy. If you stay here, I shall run and fetch you water and provisions, enough to make the journey.”
“Why?” Xain looked over his shoulder again.
“Because I want you to bring me with you.”
He took a quick step backward. “That is what I feared. No. I will not.”
“Then you will never reach Cabrus.”
Xain’s mouth soured. “I will find a way. I have made it this far.”
“Following the King’s road and the river that runs beside it, I do not doubt,” Loren said.
Xain growled and ran a hand through his hair. “You are a foolish girl if you think to follow me on an adventure. I am wanted, and not for a feast of honor. If they find you with me, it will go ill for you.”
Loren avoided his eyes, uneasy. Then she unlaced her cuff and raised it to her elbow. Ebony welts and bruises shone like beacon fires against her pale skin.
She saw a flash in his eyes—not only anger, but recognition.
“I will await you an hour,” he grumbled. “Then I move south without you, and if I die of thirst, so be it.”
“I will take less than half that.”
Loren turned and vanished between the birches, hoping it looked as magical to him as his fire did to her.
three
Loren approached her village quick and quiet, wary of meeting her parents. Many villagers had gathered in the open space to the west where the setting sun cast a ruddy orange glow long into the evening, perfect for merry gatherings. Such a congress would soon be afoot. Some folk readied stout tables for food, and young children tramped a wide space in the grass for dancing. But Loren did not see her mother or father.
Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) Page 1