Touch of iron the living.., p.1
Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1), page 1
Touch of Iron
Timandra Whitecastle
Edited by Harry Dewulf
Touch of Iron is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Timandra Whitecastle
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
IRON: The Living Blade: Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
AIN’T NO MOUNTAIN HIGH: The Living Blade: Book Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
BLACK HOLE: The Living Blade: Book Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Strange Fire
About the Author
The Living Blade: Book One
Iron
Chapter 1
Nora was out here because the baker’s wife couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Here, under the windswept trees. Here, on this hillock poised so neatly above the vast Plains she was tempted to believe the gods had created it to show off the horizon. The possibilities. The unfinished world to come. Nora stood with her brother at the brink of the Plains, in the wet, cold, gathering dark. It would take two days’ journey on foot to get back to the Ridge, and half a day to the nearest homestead. But after Mother Sara’s death, the twins were four years away from anyone caring.
The sky was tall. A huge crest of waves headed inland, shading the last of the sunlight in hues of orange and gray and purple. On clear days when the wind swept away the clouds, herding them over the Plains, Nora could just make out the line of the Crest Mountains in the distance. The Plains were a vast, flat bowl. Sometimes, when the summer sun shone down, the silver streams of water sparkled like jewels strewn among the green. It was pure pasture ground. Now, though, no herds of sheep roamed on the Plains. There were no trees, no roads, no shelter but little flocks of trees leaning against the wind. The long Plains were spoiled with space. You could see nothing but grass for miles and miles. And the sky. The ever-changing sky.
Crossing the Plains would take nearly three weeks. Nora sniffed the air. The autumn had been mild so far, unusually so. But surely Owen had no plans of actually crossing. It would be madness in the gathering winter, without enough warmth or shelter or food. They should sneak back home and at least stock up on provisions and warmer clothing. Maybe the clouds would bring more than rain this night. Maybe frost in the morning.
Her twin brother stood silhouetted before the glorious sky, unmoving, the high collar of his long cloak pulled up to his cheekbones. He turned when she threw down her backpack on the hard ground. Here the brown grass was undergoing its winter death. There was moss under the trees at the edge of the forest. As fine a place as any. They would camp here. And tonight, she’d talk to Owen. If she let him do the deciding, their bones would still be perched on this damned hillock before he reached a conclusion.
“It’s been two days. You want to go back already?” Owen said, watching the rolling sky before him.
Nora scowled.
“I’m getting a fire started,” she said. “It’ll be cold tonight.”
“Yes, do that. And cook us something hot while you’re at it.”
“You could help set up camp, you know.”
“I could.” Owen remained where he was, staring into the sky.
Nora set her mouth, stepped into the twilight under the trees, and kicked a dead branch. Dirt scattered. The earth was dark brown under the needles of the firs, closed cones lying around the visible roots here and there. She spotted some blueberry bushes under the conifers. It would be a good spot in summer to collect the berries. But now there was nothing, and they wouldn’t be here in summer anyway. They each had a little bread and jerky left. If they skirted the woods, maybe she could catch hare or fowl.
She heard the screech of a falcon and ducked. It had sounded so close, yet above her in the branches there was nothing to be seen. A falcon cry at dusk? Nora crouched beside a tender young tree, the rough bark flaking under her hand. She waited in the sudden silence and her breath escaped in thin wisps, one at a time, one at a time.
A branch cracked.
Men passed her by. She held her breath. One of them was so close she could smell beer on his breath. She counted seven men in the dim light, moving not silently, but as stealthily as the leaves and needles under their feet would let them. Nora’s heart was thumping in her chest. Her hand rested over it. She peered down. Her fingers seemed unnaturally white amid the black of her clothes. Or what had once been black but was now washed out, more charcoal gray. Still fitting, though—for a charcoal burner. And dark enough to fade into the twilight under the trees. Which was good, seeing as the men had weapons. And although they moved among the shadows with ease, no group of hunters would convene this large. For what prey? No large game lived at the skirts of the woods, though occasionally deer ventured onto the Plains to feed with the utmost caution. Soldiers, perhaps, but they wore no uniform. Mercenaries?
She sensed others moving among the trees behind her and remained as still as she could. The seven men were bent low, creeping toward the last of the trees. They had spotted Owen for sure, although Nora couldn’t see him from where she crouched. Slowly, she let out her breath and took a deep one. Her thighs tingled, making her want to rake her fingernails over her legs to massage the numbness out of her flesh. She ignored it, accustomed to wearing light garments in all weather. They made it easier to go from motionless tending a charcoal burn to frenetically working hard and fast should a burn go wrong. Now, it seemed, she’d have to move hard and fast to save her brother.
She had a long knife tucked into her belt at her back. Slowly she reached for it. Eyes fixed on the men before her. Wary of the men she heard behind. Careful not to let any motion give her away. Just as her fingertips touched the smooth hilt, a soundless edge of steel slid close to her throat.
“Don’t move.”
The man’s whisper sounded as loud as the falcon’s cry had, though none of the creeping men had heard him. Or none turned around to see. The cold steel bit into the skin just below her chin. A warm hand took her own knife. The dagger at her throat remained. It tipped twice against her jawline, the thin cut burning. She rose.
“Be still.” His whisper was a deep growl.
Nora watched as the seven men in front of her moved out. One of them gestured to the others. They had seen Owen and were fanning out to encircle him. She forced herself to breathe calmly. In through the nose, out between parted lips.
The blade moved to a hair’s breadth away from her skin. Pins and needles rose in her feet now, the cold numbing them. She felt the warmth of the man’s body radiate against her back. He was close. Very close. But he was careful not to touch her. She licked her lips. Of the seven men in front, she could only see four now. The one farthest back, closest to her, nodded toward another man in front.
So, now.
She rammed her left elbow into her captor’s face and ran.
“Owen!”
She screamed her brother’s name as she hurtled past the surprised men hidden in the undergrowth, who half rose, clutching their weapons. She heard heavy footfalls behind her as her captor gave chase. The second graze at her throat burned where his blade had left its mark. A trickle ran down her skin.
A few steps left. Five, perhaps six.
Now she saw Owen’s surprised face in the twilight beyond the trees.
Now his wonderment.
Now his alarm.
But four men were already on top of him, wrestling him to the ground. Then something hit her in the back. Hard. She fell forward onto the roots. One chafed against her cheek, tearing the skin open as she tried to move her head, winded, struggling to breathe, although in the confusion it seemed as though her lungs had forgotten how. Being pressed down wasn’t helping either. Her mouth was filled with dead pine needles and earth. Rough hands pulled her up, and her arm was twisted painfully behind her back. Still no air. Face raw.
As the man’s hand buried itself in her hair, his fingernails scratched her scalp. The tug on her head and the grip on her arm shoved her forward, regardless of whether her feet would follow. She was half dragged toward her brother. Owen was on his knees, bent over, as his arms were bound tight with rope behind him. His hair fell into his face as he looked up and saw her.
“Let her go, you bastard!”
The group of men gathering laughed. They seemed to be the dregs from the bottom of the wine cup—tavern brawlers, thugs who’d happily kill for money, and not even a lot of money at that, Nora thought. One of them strode into the middle of the loose circle the men had formed. The night was coming on quick now. His face was half shadowed but had finer lines to it. The man spoke with a quiet voice, but within the velvet was steel.
“Such passion! Your lover, boy?”
“My twin sister.”
There was a pause as the man looked over at her and studied her face, then her brother’s. Owen’s eyes were narrowed on the man before him.
“Let’s say I believe you,” the man said. “What are you doing here? Speak quickly.”
“We live here. Or not here, exactly. But near here.” Owen swallowed and scrunched up his face. “We burn charcoal for the forge and are nothing but your humblest subjects, sire.” His eyes flew open. “I meant lord. My lord.”
The man’s face paled. He pressed his lips so tightly together they were a mere line. “What did you just say?”
Nora closed her eyes. They were going to die. The leader drew his sword and held its edge to Owen’s throat.
“I’m sorry,” Owen babbled incoherently. “I’m sorry. Your ring! Your ring gave you away!”
“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.”
