Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (3 page)

With her father distracted, Loren risked another look at Chet. He had stopped his advance but stood with folded arms and anger clear in his features. He would not leave so long as her father stood by.
 

“A man does, and a man knows it, but a man does a different sort of knowing when he chooses a wife.” Her mother strode up to Loren’s father and shoved her face into his, full of the anger Loren could never summon. Her sharp-nailed fingers seized Loren’s bicep, pinching into her skin. “We will never get the dowry without some boy who can afford her seeing some skin. Loren, you get in the house and put on that dress. Tear it, and I will lock you in the house for an hour with your father and blow a horn to cover the noise.”

Loren gulped and glanced at her father.

“What are you looking at him for?” she screeched. “Go!”

Loren remembered Xain and retreated. Her parents’ conversation dissolved to bitter, hate-filled argument behind her. She didn’t know if Chet still stood guard, but she dared not look back to see.

The moment she passed through her front door, anger reclaimed her gut. She should have struck back. Her father’s wrath would have burned like flame, but Chet would have stepped in. Together, they could have beaten her father to within an inch of his life, and mayhap beyond. And Chet would not be a kinslayer if he did.
 

But such thoughts would not help, not when Xain waited and nearly half her hour had passed.
 

Loren threw the ridiculous green gown from her bed. Its arms, like those of her tunic, hung long to bury her bruises. She threw it to the floor, ground dirt into it with her boot heel, and spit on the pretty cloth for good measure. Then she went to gather what she needed.

She took her father’s reeking cloak of dark green. She donned her own, throwing the cowl back to let her black hair spill down her back. A cupboard sat in her parents’ room, and Loren took her father’s travel sack from atop it. She stuffed his cloak into the sack, forming a soft lining around the interior. Two skins of water sat near the front door. She added them into the sack. Food came next, salted meats and several loaves of good hard bread, still fragrant from Miss Aisley’s oven.
 

Loren thought of Miss Aisley with a pang of regret, and her thoughts turned to those in the village that she would miss. Dear, foolish Chet, of course, and old Kris, who was decent to her when she did not wish to go home. But the names she would miss weighed less than the others—those who heard and saw what her parents did to her and never raised a finger or frown.

She would be well quit of the Birchwood Forest. It would not miss her.

Loren hesitated before her final acquisition. It sat tucked in an old chest atop a kitchen shelf. The chest held useless knickknacks in the main, but one item she might use. A long and curved dagger, its sheath made of cracked leather. As a young girl, she had drawn it for only a moment, and then hidden it away before her mother could know. The blade bore strange, twisting marks engraved in black. It was a weapon, not a tool for hunting or cooking, as any fool could see.

The night she drew the dagger was the first night Loren lay on her straw pallet and imagined herself in a black cloak. It was the night she first whispered the word, “Nightblade.”

But now, she feared to lift it. Could she really take it? Loren knew little of such things and yet would have wagered the dagger cost more than their hovel. Then again, her parents might never notice it gone. Loren had never seen them bring it forth from the chest nor lower the chest from its shelf.

Her hand closed around the dagger’s hilt. She almost threw it in the sack, but then paused. She untied her simple rope belt and ran it through the sheath’s loop.
 

With the dagger at her waist, Loren felt like a different person. Now, truly and forever, she was Nightblade.

But she had wasted too much time. She needed only one thing more before going to Xain. The wizard could hunt with his fire, yes. But Loren would not let herself fall under his care. What if the wizard left her upon reaching Cabrus? Or died on the road? No. She must be able to forage for herself.

She needed a bow, and knew where to get one.

Loren dropped her brown cloak over the dagger and slipped out the door, making for the trees once again.

four

Loren hoped to find Chet away from home, but that hope crumbled when she found him out back fletching an arrow with a knife and gutstring. She could not hope to avoid him. But she still had her tongue, and it had served her once already. She stepped from the trees.

Chet’s stern face softened. His close-cropped hair glowed golden in the sun, bare arms glistening with the sweat of his work.
 

Upon past years, Loren had thought to take Chet for a husband, dowry or no. They would find a way to pay it, or run away together. But that dream had dimmed with passing years and guttered out entirely when his mother fell ill. Now, two years later, she was as close and far to death as ever. A huntsman could never muster Loren’s dowry, and Chet would never leave his home to run away—not then, and not now with Loren and Xain.

All these thoughts filled her head before she shook them away and dressed her face as she must: unconcerned and gently happy to see him.
 

“Should you be dressing for the dance?”
 

“Should you? That cloak is not the dress your mother chose, I think.”

Loren shrugged. “I must wash before donning it. I make for the river to bathe before making myself a fair young flower.”

Chet lowered his arrow and stood. “I’ll come. This is dull work, and does little to calm my anger.”

Chet’s temper burned bright and long, though it sometimes took ages to stoke. Loren had often wondered what would happen if her father sparked it true, but now she would never know.

Loren cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “I think you presume much. A woman’s bathing is no time or place for a young, fair-haired man who holds her in no bond of marriage.”

That had the required effect: Chet’s face turned red as a beet. “I meant . . . I would wait behind the bank, of course.”

“Don’t fret so.” Loren laughed lightly. “Will you dance with me tonight?”

“And will you, with me?” He stepped closer.

“I would not have asked if I meant to cruelly refuse. But my parents might object. They require such a great dowry, and may refuse to let me dance with one who cannot offer it.”

Chet glowered. “Even they could not deny me so simple a thing as a dance.”

Loren both loved and bemoaned how easily she could sway his mood; a symptom of young love, she supposed. She had long known she could but rarely had the need. But it would not do to have him
too
angry.
 

“Fetch me your own dowry. Weave it of dandelions and lilacs, and place it upon my head. Then I will give you your dance, and you can give me mine.”

He flushed again, gentler this time. “A crown of pretty flowers for a pretty flower of a girl? This I can do, and gladly. But no dandelions and lilacs lie near the river.”

“Then I am astute in my planning.”

“Very well.” Chet chuckled. “I’ll see you at the dance. Denying myself the sight of your dress will sweeten the pleasure of its revelation. Ready your hair for my dowry.”

“I will.” She touched his arm as she had before—for the final time. Her fingers lingered.

He wandered off to the southeast. Loren watched him go, catching a spring in his step that had not been there before. She kept a gentle smile in case he turned around, but inside she quailed. Chet, her only true friend in the world. Chet, foolishly and incurably in love with her. She would miss him more than all the rest, more than the forest itself.

As soon as he had gone, Loren slipped in the back door of his house. His mother’s room lay quiet and still. She chanced a look through the door and found the woman asleep. That was fortunate. A sudden scream would unravel her plan.

Loren went to the wall rack and pulled down one of Chet’s hunting bows. She took the one of poorest make—it would serve for rabbits and squirrels, and she needed nothing grander. Loren strung it quickly. She slung it on her back and stooped to a low shelf where a pair of quivers waited with arrows. One she took, but she left the other. She had no wish to leave Chet a pauper, unable to hunt.
 

Nightblade must always have such honor.

It was time to go. Loren had what she needed and would not be beholden to the wizard for her hunting. Her throat grew dry as she realized this was goodbye forever; she was leaving home to fend for herself among the nine lands. How could this be, when only that morning her greatest aspiration had been to find a way out of chopping logs?

She made for the back door, and disaster struck.
 

The door swung open, and Chet’s father, Liam, stepped across the frame. Old and stooped, he was a genial man but never seemed to notice Loren’s existence. That was not the case now. He froze on the spot, his watery eyes growing ever wider while gawking at Loren. He opened his mouth to cry out.

She had the bow in her hands. Before she could think, Loren leapt forward and slammed the wood into his temple. His eyes fluttered and closed as he fell to the dirt floor, an angry red welt blooming to life on his forehead.

She stifled a cry with the back of her hand and dropped to one knee. She placed a palm on his chest and felt a strong heartbeat.

Her eyes went to his heavy red welt.
Chet.
He could have forgiven Loren for fleeing the village without telling him. But he could never forgive this. Could he?

It matters not
.
 

Soon, she would be in the forest, never to return.
 

Loren shot to her feet and ran out the door.

She made it to the trees and almost kept going. But at the final moment, she paused, realizing she couldn’t leave without a final look. She stopped beneath the low branches of an oak and turned to her home one last time. Her eyes roved across the simple houses, the smoke from the smithy, the pile of wood outside her house, her father.

Her father.

He stood by the chopping block, Loren’s axe in his hand. And as her eyes found him, he saw her.

He stood dumbstruck for a moment. He took in her cloak, the sack hanging from her shoulders, the bow slung across her back.
 

His face warped with fury.

Loren turned and ran into the woods.
 

Once the village fell from her sight, terror turned to rage, far too late to do any good.

five

Loren pounded through the woods, wasting no seconds to cover her trail or silence her footfalls. She could hide her trail from most, but Father called the forest home as well. He had spent many more years under its boughs than Loren, and she knew he could easily track her. She would have to rely on speed and hope that his age would lend her advantage.

Every odd noise sent a trickle of terror through her. But then she would recognize the sound as a bird taking flight or a doe fleeing from her footsteps. Even in her terror and haste, Loren’s instincts sensed what her mind could not.

It seemed an eternity before she saw the white bark of the birch copse far ahead. Summer sun beat down through the leaves, and sweat soaked her every inch. She weaved among them, her travel sack repeatedly snagging on branches. She slung it off her back to carry at her side. In a few breathless minutes, she emerged from the copse to find the forest empty.

Panic seized her. Her hour had yet to pass. Where had Xain gone? She scanned the ground for his trail. Then she heard the snap of a twig, and he rose from behind a fallen log.

“I am pursued,” she said quickly.

His eyes flashed. “The constables?”

“No, I sent them the other direction. But my father spied me as I left the village.”

He muttered a curse. Loren thrust a hand into her travel sack, wrapped it around cloth, and tugged.

“Here. Leave your coat—it will get in the way, and shine like the sun besides. Put this on.”

He obeyed without question, dropping the garment to the dirt and donning her father’s green cloak. She saw his nose wrinkle at the smell, but he issued no comment.
 

“Come, and quickly. Shadow my path exactly. The track will be difficult to follow. Mayhap we can lose him.”

“I have no quarrel with your father,” growled Xain. “We should split up, or you should stay.”

Loren’s stomach spun circles. “I had no quarrel with your constables, and yet I would have gone with you. You cannot leave me!”

His eyes darted back and forth. “Very well. But if he should catch us, I will not raise my hand to him first.”

He will raise his, I assure you
.
 

But Loren said nothing. Xain would go with her, if she did not scare him off.
 

The land fell away before them as they headed south. Sloping ground lent them speed, and Loren used it to their advantage. Once the land began to level again, she swerved suddenly right and up a low rise. At the top, broken rocks formed a sort of circle. The Giant’s Crown, some called it, where the forest floor grew hard and stony beyond. She followed the rocky terrain as long as she dared, but when it turned north she abandoned it and plunged again into the trees.