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.”
Nine versus Kellyn, Petrik, and me.
We’ve certainly faced worse odds.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to Temra, even though she probably can’t hear me.
I jump over the side of the cart and right myself. The man nearest me takes a step back.
“Whoa,” he says as he looks up at me.
Yes, up. I’ve always been taller than most men, reaching just over six feet. Normally, I hate my height. It makes me the object of constant staring and commentary. But right now, I like the way the brigand is looking at me. Like he’s intimidated.
His eyebrows lift when I pull my twin hammers out from my belt.
I may not be a trained fighter, but I am a trained smithy, and there’s nothing I know how to do better than swing a hammer.
Kellyn leaps down beside me, in front of my sister’s side of the cart. I watch as Kymora holds her hands out to Petrik, a silent plea to release her. I can help, her face says.
But Petrik wordlessly grabs a long metal pole from inside the cart and joins us. It was once used as a cart axle, but now it’s a magicked staff.
“Friends,” Devran says, “you’re outnumbered, and my men will be far more gentle if you put down your weapons. There’s no need for anyone to lose their heads today.”
“I can take them,” Kellyn says to me, “if you’d rather wait in the cart.”
“If I’d wanted to wait in the cart, I’d be in the cart.”
“Okay.” His response is quiet, but I don’t feel bad for snapping at him. Everything Kellyn says these days seems to set me off.
Devran listens to the exchange with amusement. “Maybe you got the wrong idea about us because we’re being so polite. But you realize we’re brigands and we’re going to use force to rob you if need be?”
“We’re aware,” I respond. “It’s you who has the wrong idea by believing we’re easy pickings.”
And I charge forward with my left hammer extended.
It’s magicked, of course, like everything I’ve ever made. This one works as a shield, an invisible barrier between me and any oncoming enemies. And should anyone approach me with force? The weapon rebounds on them.
The first brigand plants his legs and raises his club to ward me off, but I plow him down and step right over the top of him before charging onto the next fellow. He retreats several feet after seeing me trample his friend, before finding his nerve.
He sidesteps me, swings toward me with his staff. I fling my left hammer outward, catch the blow on the invisible shield, and the man falls on his rump from the strength of the magical rebound.
With the swing of my right hammer, which doesn’t have a lick of magic within it, I cave in his skull.
That’s two down. Seven remain, staring at me like they’ve seen some mystical creature fall from the sky.
“Let us pass,” I insist once more.
Flecks of red paint my fingertips. Blood and brain matter and Goddesses know what else. My stomach rolls over.
I’ve no taste for violence, but I’ll do it to protect those I love. Even when it horrifies me.
Devran hefts his club in two hands. “Charge!”
I let Petrik and Kellyn handle the rest, preferring to stay near Temra in case I’m needed.
Lady Killer, Kellyn’s beloved longsword, was magicked especially for the purpose of taking on multiple foes at once. Though Devran’s men surround Kellyn, the mercenary grins as they approach him.
He dodges a swinging club from the left, strikes out toward the right, thrusting the tip of his sword into another man’s gut.
Lady Killer encourages him to spin, nudging him in the right direction, and Kellyn just misses the tip of a staff jabbing where he once stood.
Three weapons swing toward him at once, and Kellyn bends backward in half, swinging Lady Killer in a wide arc to deflect every strike.
Petrik stands close to the wagon still, but that’s only because his weapon works better from afar. He casts the metal staff, which twirls end over end until it makes contact with one of the brigands. He wears no armor, and I hear ribs crack before the staff flies back toward Petrik, the magic causing it to return to the caster, always.
Five left.
Kellyn and Petrik wheedle down their numbers until only Devran and one of his men remain.
The extra man flees while Devran stares at us in wonder. “Who are you people?”
Kellyn Derinor, the mercenary.
Petrik Avedin, the scholar.
Ziva Tellion, the bladesmith.
Our relationships with each other are more complicated than ever. But we’re willing to fight, each and every one of us, to protect the other. Our adventures together have bonded us through blood.
Another cough comes from the wagon, and I’ve no choice but to wipe my hands on my own pants before climbing in to see to Temra.
“We’re travelers in a hurry,” Petrik answers, “and you’ve kept us long enough.” He throws the staff, catches Devran at the temple, and the leader goes down in a heap of limbs. Petrik runs after the bandit who fled.
I pull my sister’s hair away from her lips, trying to keep it from the blood gathering at her mouth. I look over my shoulder, about to throw another hateful glare at Kymora.
But there’s no one else in the cart.
I blink several times, as though that will conjure the warlord.
“Kellyn!” I shout.
When Temra’s fit subsides, I lower her gently to the floor once more and leap over the other side of the cart, where the cut ropes dangle.
Once my feet hit the ground, they’re pulled out from under me. My hands catch most of my weight as I hit the ground.
I flip over to find the warlord under the wagon. She rolls out, clambers atop me, and jabs the flat of her arm against my throat. I claw at her face, try to roll the woman off. My lungs search for air that won’t come.
And then Kellyn is there, hauling her away.
Kymora elbows him in the gut, and Kellyn bends in half as the air leaves him. I roll up onto my legs as she begins to flee. For a woman with a shattered knee, she limps along at an impressive pace, as though she doesn’t feel pain.
I race after her, grabbing for my hammers once more. On anyone else, it might be excessive, but Kymora is the most fearsome warrior in the whole of Ghadra. She intends to overthrow all the royals, to subject all to her rule. In our last fight, it took Kellyn, Petrik, and me working together with our magicked weapons just to bring her down.
This woman who brought my sister to death’s doorstep. Who made me an orphan. Who thought to use me to make magical weapons for her private army so she could take Ghadra without any resistance.
There is no one more dangerous.
She cannot be allowed to escape.
I dare not throw a hammer at her, for fear of giving her a weapon. The woman could make a twig threatening. Instead, I slam into her from behind with my shield hammer, sending her careening to the ground. She crawls along the grass, not missing a beat, reaching for a large stick—
“Touch it, and I will break your other knee,” I say, my voice dropping to a tone I don’t recognize.
She ignores me, her hand catching hold of the branch. She uses it and a nearby tree to hoist herself to her feet.
By then, Kellyn arrives, his sword at the ready.
“Get behind her,” I order, but he’s already moving that way.
“There’s nowhere for you to go,” I say. “Surrender.”
Kymora flicks loose, greasy strands of hair out of her eyes. Her usual no-nonsense bun has come free, and she’s slipped off the gag that was hiding the smooth scar on her cheek. Somehow, her disheveled appearance only makes her look more intimidating.
“How much time will you waste chasing me when your sister needs to reach the capital?” the warlord asks. “I would have thought every second counted by this point.”
Her words do their job, infuriating me, renewing my sense of urgency, probably making me reckless.
I grind my teeth as I leap forward, and Kellyn does the same from behind the woman. She can’t properly deflect us both with only one good leg to stand on, but that doesn’t keep her from trying. Her stick catches my hammer, and she spins into me to avoid Kellyn’s strike. My instinct is to step backward, away from the hateful woman.
I ignore it and kick out at her shattered knee.
Kymora screams as she falls, dropping the stick.
I grab one of the warlord’s arms, attempt to pin it to her back. Kymora swings outward with her other arm, tries to catch me in the head.
Copyright © 2022 by Tricia Levenseller
