Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)
Tricia Levenseller
For my fellow warriors who battle with social anxiety every day, You matter. I see you. Keep fighting. There is so much good to come.
“I HAVE FOUND IT IS THE SMALL THINGS, EVERYDAY DEEDS OF ORDINARY FOLK, THAT KEEPS THE DARKNESS AT BAY. SIMPLE ACTS OF KINDNESS AND LOVE.”
—Gandalf, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey
CHAPTER ONE
We don’t have time for this.
There’s a fallen tree in the road, blocking our access to the bridge ahead.
I glance down to my sleeping sister, noting the red dotting her lips as another wheezing breath turns into a cough. I turn Temra onto her side to prevent her from choking on her own blood. We’re keeping her unconscious with a tincture so she doesn’t jostle her wounds and make them worse. The stitches at her arm no longer seep blood, but the slice to her side nicked a lung. Blood continues to ooze in, which is the reason for her labored breathing.
She’s fading away before my eyes, and we’re still days away from reaching the magically gifted healer residing in Skiro.
My murderous gaze lands on Kymora, the warlord tied up only a few feet away from me in the cart. She is the reason for Temra’s current condition, and if my sister dies, no force in the world can stop me from what I will do to her.
Kellyn stands from the driver’s bench, removes the scabbard from his back, and unsheathes the longsword I magicked for him.
“What is that for?” Petrik asks. “You can’t hack your way through.”
“Quiet. Slip into the back with Ziva. Keep your heads down.”
The scholar does as told, and I scan the surrounding trees, finally registering the danger we’re in.
Our party is small, and only three of us are trained fighters: my unconscious sister; Kymora, who is wounded, bound, and going to stay that way; and Kellyn, a mercenary for hire, who is somehow still tagging along after our group despite the fact he’s no longer being paid.
The latter is impossibly still, his eyes peeled for danger.
A company of men rushes up from the slope to the river, staffs and clubs held loosely in their grips. Petrik’s breath hitches, and I hover protectively over my sister.
The newcomers stop a mere ten feet away.
“Hi, friends,” one of the men calls out. He’s a big fellow, though not as big as Kellyn. He’s got a rounded sort of muscle about his gut and hands big enough to palm a horse. His club drags along the ground as he walks ever closer toward our cart. His eyebrows have grown into one straight line of hair.
“We want no trouble,” Kellyn says. “One of our party is sick. We seek help in the capital.”
The eight men behind the leader grunt, loose grins upon their faces.
“That’s good. We want no trouble ourselves. We’re here to offer our services, see. Fifty ockles and we’ll help you move this here trunk off the road.”
Since one of the men is not so subtly gripping an ax over one shoulder, it’s not hard to guess their game.
“That’s a problem, because we haven’t any money,” Kellyn replies.
The club-toting leader uses his pinkie finger to clean out one of his ears. “I must have heard you wrong, friend. Sounded to me like you said you didn’t have any money. Now, who travels to see a healer and doesn’t carry any money with them? The price just went up to seventy-five ockles for our generous assistance.”
It feels as though I’ve got a family of worms wriggling within my gut. I hate confrontations, but my anger and fierce need to protect my sister supersede all else.
I stand. “My sister doesn’t have long. Let us pass. We’ve truly no money. The healer is a friend of ours. We’re not paying for her services.”
A different man comes forward, his staff clopping the ground in front of his feet. He peers into the back of the cart, and Petrik shifts with his movements, keeping himself between Temra and the danger. “Your sister might as well be dead. You needn’t be in a hurry.”
I try to force the bandit’s fatal diagnosis to roll right off me, but I feel as though I’ve been punched in the gut.
He doesn’t know about the magical healer. She’s not beyond saving, I remind myself. There’s still hope.
“Devran,” the bandit continues, “they’ve got a woman tied up back here!”
The leader, Devran, tsks. “That’s not very nice.” He curves around the cart to get a better look at Kymora. “She got a bounty on her head? If so, we’d be happy to take her off your hands.”
They absolutely cannot take Kymora. She’s our bargaining chip. We need to turn her in to clear the bounty on our own heads. We’re hoping her capture will endear Prince Skiro to us and convince him to let us use his healer.
And we need to be moving. Right now!
“Move back,” Kellyn says, “and let us pass. I won’t say it again.”
Devran sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, looks around at our small party. “You’ll pardon us if we don’t take your word regarding that money. Lads, give ’em a thorough search. And if they don’t have anything on ’em, we’ll just be taking the horses and that sword.” He points to Kellyn’s longsword, Lady Killer. “It’s real pretty.”