Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) (8 page)

“Bracken?” Annis cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.

Loren raised her hands. “I doubt he gave his true name. He used to say that names held power, and that only fools gave theirs away. He was old when my parents were children, and he came to our village in autumn every year. He carried a great sack filled with metal pans and hunting knives and old boots. He would trade them in the village, but never for coin. Always he traded for food or trinkets or a nice strong bow.”

“A peddler!”
 

Loren cocked her head. “I do not know this word.”

“He was a peddler,” said Annis, drawing up straight and puffing out her chest in pride. “They move from town to town, selling and trading. They often tell stories as well. ‘Tall as a peddler’s tale,’ we say on the Seat.”

Loren shrugged. “Well, Bracken told tales, true enough. Simple tales of things happening in the nine lands today, and grand tales of knights and dragons from faraway yesteryears. When I went out to fell trees, often he would follow, sitting in a crook or hollow to spin his stories.”

“I love stories of dragons,” said Annis. “Is it true they’re still to be found out in the world?”

Loren gave a little smile. “Truly? Dragons? I did not take you for one who sought to be a mighty warrior.”

Annis smiled. “My tutor said the same thing. Soon, I turned it into a joke and said that I only liked the dragons because they had so much gold, just like my family.”

Loren chuckled. “I like a quick wit.”

“But come, tell me. Did you have favorite stories? Did you like to hear of the princesses who overcame their wicked stepparents? You must have hoped to escape as they did.”

Loren sat silent for a moment. She feared it unwise to speak of her purpose with just anyone. But Annis was only a child. Who would believe her? And if they did, what then? Loren had done nothing wrong. Yet.

She leaned forward and pulled the sticks of quail from the fire. “Have you heard the tale of Mennet the Mist?”

Annis took a stick, her eyes alight, and leaned back to wrap her arms around her knees. She took a large bite and chewed noisily. “No. Who was he?”

“There never lived a greater thief than Mennet the Mist,” said Loren, trying to mimic Bracken’s voice when he began a tale. “They say he struck a deal with the shadows themselves. He wove them into a cloak to melt into any darkness and appear in another shadow wherever he wanted. Even in the vaults of cruel kings and tyrants.”

“Oh,” said Annis. “He was a good man, then?”

“Not always,” said Loren, shaking her head. “He grew up poor and barefoot in the streets of some city—I forget which. He fell in with cutthroats and brigands. He lived as a highwayman, waylaying caravans. Like this one.”

Annis looked over her shoulder into the night. Bracken would have been proud.

“But one day, as he and his men rode through the land in search of more plentiful bounty, they came upon a village. The King in that land treated his subjects poorly and met any insolence with fire and sword. Some man in the village had delivered insult, so the King sent his army to burn it to ashes.

“Some of Mennet’s men wanted to ignore the fire. Others wanted to steal what they could. But Mennet spurred his horse into the town, for he had heard a babe’s cry. He found her in a house in the middle of the village, her parents fled or lying cold in the dirt. Mennet leapt through a window and scooped her up, but fire blocked his escape. That is when he pleaded with the shadows he had befriended all his life, and they swallowed him. The house collapsed, and Mennet’s men thought he had died. But he stepped from the shadows, the babe in his arms. Terrified, the men fled.

“Mennet had finished his days as a highwayman, and he turned his talents to doing good. First, he stole the King’s gold and brought it to the villagers who had lost their homes, repaying them ten times for the damage.
 

“Then he traveled across the land seeking other wrongs and turning them right. If a nobleman plotted the death of his lord, he might find his private letters taken and constables soon knocking at his door. If a King plotted a rebellion, Mennet would know, and that King would find the other lands united against him.”

“I’ll bet he slipped his sharp blades into more than a few backs.”

Loren shook her head quickly. “No. Mennet never took a life. He preferred cleverness to strength, speed to skill with a blade. No one could bring him to a fight—they found themselves outmaneuvered first, their weapons vanished, their men unwilling to battle. Mennet thought that only Kings could judge, and only if justice lay on their side. When they abandoned justice, Mennet turned it upon them. But even then, he refused to deal it. He never saw it as his place.”

Annis sat in silence, chewing her quail. Then, in a small voice, she said, “Do you mean to find Mennet, then?”

Loren stared at the flames. “He lived many and more a yesteryear ago. No. The world has not seen his like in an eon. But when Bracken told me those tales, they stayed in my mind. I could not forget them. And whenever father grew angry and struck, when my mother shrilled and pinched and locked me in a cupboard, I remembered Mennet. I remembered that he did more good with his mind and words than any King with a mighty sword and an army at his back. My father seemed weak then, my mother foolish. And I hoped that one day I could escape and become the kind of person they should have been.”

“Where is Bracken now?”
 

“Three years ago, he stopped coming. He must have died. He was very old.”

Silence descended again. Loren realized that she had not yet touched the quail, and Annis had eaten nearly half. “Are you going to eat all my hard-won bird?”

Annis smirked and took another bite. “Only if you refuse to.”

Loren picked up a stick, eating without her eyes finding the food in her fingers. She could see only the fire, its red-and-orange shape leaping up and down, swaying with the dancing wind.

ten

Loren tried to find a place to sleep after they ate. But it felt strange to lie in firelight, surrounded by strange men with long blades. After a time, she rose and took herself beyond the line of wagons where her head rested easily upon the ground. Soon, she fell asleep.

The next morning dawned bright and early. Loren woke before most in the camp. She felt no surprise to see Gregor had risen earlier still. His gaze fell on her hard as she stood. She gave him a little wave, but he did not even blink.

The caravan seemed to take an eternity to get moving, and Loren nearly screamed from impatience. But eventually, the drivers mounted and spurred their horses south.
 

Loren had grown somewhat bored with the countryside, so she spent her time inspecting the caravan instead. A pair of carriages led the way, followed by a dozen wagons of varying sizes. The two biggest wagons had eight wheels each and were nearly wide enough to swallow the road.
 

Loren let her course run back and forth across the column, peering into the backs of wagons. She wondered how many hid packages swaddled in cloth.
 

What could be so valuable that Damaris would hide it from the constables? Something outside the King’s law, no doubt, but Loren had not the faintest idea of what that could be.

Annis tried walking with her, but soon she tired. “I don’t know how you do this for hours and hours,” she said, cheeks puffing in and out with each breath. “I can scarcely keep pace with the wagons.”

“The drivers hardly touch their reins.”

“The horses seem not to need it,” said Annis. Soon, she abandoned Loren and retired to her carriage.

After some hours had passed, Damaris emerged and mounted a horse brought by Gregor. She rode beside the caravan, sometimes spurring to a gallop and ranging ahead at the edge of eyesight, occasionally content to walk beside the wagons. Wherever she went, Gregor came close behind on his steed. Loren watched with interest.
 

After some time, Damaris turned her horse toward Loren. She reined in a few feet away, while Gregor sat behind her, his eyes never leaving Loren’s face.

“You seem quite interested in our horses,” said Damaris.

Loren flushed. “Where I come from, no one owns a steed. I have seen them only rarely, though I always dreamt of owning one.”

“Would you like to ride?”
 

For a moment, Loren could not speak. “I . . . I am afraid I would only embarrass myself. I have never sat a saddle.”

“It is not so hard. And you wear the right clothing. You need not ride sidesaddle, as I do.” Damaris slid from the horse’s back and drew its reins into one hand as she approached.

“I . . . you do not look . . . ” Loren’s heart raced as the horse neared, staring at her with wide and gentle eyes, like great pools of ebony water.

“Come,” said Damaris. “He is gentle, I promise. Give me your bow.”

Loren unslung the bow from her back and handed it over, never taking her eyes from the horse.

“Raise your foot.”

Loren obeyed without thinking. Damaris rested her boot in the stirrup and set Loren’s hand on the saddle horn.

“Now step up. Imagine you are climbing a rock. The horse will remain as steady as that.”

Loren took a deep breath and pushed. She swung her leg up and over. Before she knew it, Loren had gained the saddle. She sat there, both hands wrapped around the saddle horn, too terrified to budge.

“Your other foot,” said Damaris.

Loren looked down. Her right boot hung loose. Flushing, she placed it in the stirrup. “Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

“Come now. I will walk with you.”

Damaris tugged on the reins and walked forward. Loren did not anticipate the sudden motion and nearly pitched backward, but somehow she held her balance. The saddle bounced uncomfortably against her rear. She feared that if the horse sped its pace even a little, it would send her flying. And yet Loren rode atop a horse for the first time in her life.

“You sit too high and work too hard for balance. Bend your back somewhat to lower your weight, and cling tighter with your thighs. Do not fear to hold the horse’s neck. It will not mind unless you tug too hard on the mane.”

Damaris pushed Loren’s leg to demonstrate and hunched her own body lower to show her how to sit. Loren tried it and felt the saddle’s impact lessen. Unbidden, a grin spread across her face.

“It is so gentle! I thought it would be harder.”

“Well, you are only walking, after all.” A smile had crept into Damaris’s words. “Travel at this speed grants little benefit, other than freedom from your burdens.”

They walked that way for a while, Gregor close to Loren’s right, Damaris walking to her left. She felt more comfortable with the rolling motion of her mount’s back with every passing moment. But after a time, she felt a soreness creeping up her legs, the muscles growing tense and knotted. Her bottom felt bruised.

“I thank you greatly, my lady,” said Loren earnestly. “But perhaps I shall walk again. If I stay here too long, I fear I will lose the use of my legs.”

Damaris chuckled. “You take to horseback easily, but perhaps you are right. It is not wise to overexert oneself on the first day. But before you dismount, you must try trotting. Gregor.”

The man rode up. Damaris passed him the reins over the horse’s neck. He seized them in one hand. Loren’s stomach did a somersault.

“Remember, balance yourself with the horse’s neck.” Damaris stepped away and gave the horse’s haunch a gentle slap.

The horse broke into a trot, but to Loren it seemed as if the earth had buckled beneath her. She wrapped her legs around the horse’s belly and bent over its back, gripping its coat as hard as she could with both hands. Somehow, she stayed on, but the saddle horn slammed into her stomach until she cried out with the pain.

Gregor tugged the reins, and both horses came to a swift stop. Loren shook for a moment, unable to move. Finally, she pulled her right foot from the stirrup and swung it over. At the last moment, her left boot caught in its stirrup, and she spilled backward onto the ground. Loren felt her face blushing like a beet.

Damaris approached, holding out Loren’s bow. “A fair effort, for your first time. Do not be discouraged. No one learns to ride well in an hour, or even a day.”

“Th-thank you again, my lady. You are too kind. But I think I will walk by the wagons now.”

Damaris smiled and remounted. “Very well. If you are still with us tomorrow, we will try again.”

She and Gregor rode off before Loren could explain that she had no intention of leaving. Terrified as she might have been, riding a horse had been a lifelong dream come true. Even as she winced at her aching legs, she envied Damaris as the merchant cantered away.
 

Midday came, and the caravan halted for lunch. They moved so slowly that Loren would have preferred to eat on the road, but of course such a suggestion was not her place. Annis disembarked from her carriage and came to eat with Loren again. She did not enjoy the thought of hunting with her throbbing body, so Loren gratefully accepted the girl’s offer of food.

“You looked so funny on the horse!” said Annis. “I fared much worse than you on my first day. But then, I was much younger.”