Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (2 page)

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.

Her heart sank. Their absence meant they would be in the house where she needed to go.
 

She flitted from tree to tree like a bird, keenly aware of the passing minutes. It took longer than she wanted to reach the village’s east end where her house sat far from all others.

There Loren saw something she did not expect: two strangers in brown and red garb. Chet stood by them, along with Bo, another young man from the village. Chet’s eyes were hooded and his brows close, but an animated Bo spoke loudly with gestures. The strangers listened patiently, only occasionally offering comment or a prompting question.

The constables,
thought Loren. They had to be. It would be too great a coincidence for any other strangers to arrive today. She had to fetch her supplies and be off quickly. She did not think anyone else in the village had seen Xain, but the constables might yet find his trail leading southwest.
 

Although . . .

She thought hard for a moment, reached a decision, and emerged from the trees. Chet’s face brightened when he saw her.
 

“Loren!” said Bo. “These men are constables. I’ve never seen a constable in the village before, have you?”

“Not once.” Loren dusted her hands as though she’d come from the axe and offered a palm to the men. “Well met, strangers. What brings you so far from any building of stone?”

One of the constables stood tall and thin but muscular as any village man. The other was at least two hands shorter, but his chest was barrel-wide and muscle bulged beneath his clothes. Both had boiled leather pauldrons and breastplates dyed a dull red and worn over long, simple tunics of brown. The taller one stared at Loren’s outstretched hand, but his companion reached across and took her wrist in a firm grip.

“Well met,” he said. “I am Corin, and my dour companion is Bern. We seek a man traveling through these lands. He was headed this way when last we saw him, and we wondered if he had come to your village.”

Loren’s eyes widened. “A man in a blue coat?”

Surprise lit every face.

“You have seen him?” growled Bern, the taller constable.

“In the woods, yes.” Loren nodded, speaking fast. “As I foraged for herbs, I saw him amid the trees. He fled when he saw me, and I could not keep pace. I soon lost sight of him.”

From the corner of her eye, Loren saw Chet’s face grow stony. He knew no foreign man could escape her in these woods but was not such a fool as to counter her before the constables.

“When was this?” said Corin. “My lady, this man must be brought to his justice. Tell me, when and where did he run?”

Loren laughed, with the perfect measure of giggle. “Oh, you are too kind, constable. You know well I am no lady.” She made a great show of thinking hard upon his question. “It could not have been more than a quarter hour since I saw him. As for where, he fled that way, though his path swung wildly about.”

She thrust a finger to the north and east, directly away from the birch copse where Xain awaited her.

Corin and Bern traded glances. Corin gave her an earnest half bow. “You have provided our lord a great service. If indeed we should find the wizard, we will return with a purse of his gratitude.”

“A wizard?” repeated Loren, her eyes wide. “Truly?”

“A purse?” said Bo.

Bern scowled at his shorter companion. “My friend speaks with a looser tongue than he might. Our lord would prefer that the lot of you forget his words.”

“Of course. I will say nothing. Nor will the boys, lest they catch my ready hand.” Loren stepped forward to hold a stern fist beneath Bo’s nose. He winced. Chet needed no such encouragement.

The constables ran off with a final hasty thank you. Bo wandered toward the dance preparations, leaving Chet to fix Loren with a knowing look.

“The man outran you?” Chet’s tone betrayed nothing.

“Well, I did not give him full chase.” Loren shrugged.
 
“How was I to know the man was worth a purse? I gave in when I tired, for why should I continue?”

Chet’s arms folded, and his eyes eased. To further his mind down the proper path, she smiled and set a warm hand on his arm before making for the village. He did not follow, and she was grateful. Loren had no desire to lie more than she must, and time grew ever shorter.

“Loren!”

Her stomach fell to her boots. Her bruises flared with pain. Her father stood there, his unkind face twisted in fury.

“Your logs lie idle, and your axe with them.”
 

She tried to talk, but her throat was desert sand. She tried again. “Constables, father,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “Two constables came in search of a man.”

“What worth are two constables and their man?” His eyes did not waver. “Will they chop your logs if they find him?”

“They offered a purse.”

He stepped toward her. Loren could barely stay rooted. She wanted to flee, to vanish into the woods and beg Xain to take her even without supplies. Instead, she stayed, refusing to run. Her father got close, the way he liked, and she craned her neck to see him.

“I will return to the logs, Father.” Loren could not keep the quaver from her words. If she could only make him let her go, Loren could take what she needed and slip away, never to fear his meaty arms or rank breath again.

“You will go to the house,” he said in a growling whisper. “That is twice you have tried to leave me your job, and twice too many. You will go to the house, and I will give you a lesson. Next time, your feet will stay planted, and your arms will swing.”

“I do not need a lesson, Father—”

His fist met her gut. Loren’s nose crashed into his shoulder as her body tried to double over in reflex. It was not his hardest blow. He would save that for the house.
 

“You are far too free with your tongue when speaking back to your elders. To the house. Now.”

She heard Chet’s footsteps and looked up to see the young man approaching, his face a mask of fury. She met his eyes, silently pleading for him to turn back around. He ignored her.
 

Then Loren heard a voice she was seldom relieved to hear: her mother, shrilling in the forest air. “Loren, where is your dress, you witless child?”

Loren fell a step back. Her father turned. “She’s still chopping for me.” He thrust a meaty finger in her face. “She will need to go all night to account for her lazy hands.”

“You know we need her to attend the dance. How you think we will get her wed, I will never know. Not when you never let her try her luck with a man.”

“The men can come to her. Let them watch her chop. A man needs a strong woman who can work.”