Free Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) by Timandra Whitecastle Page B

the edge with care. The chief moved in his sleep, rolling his large body over to the side. She held her breath. But he slept on. His long black hair fell into his face, and his lips were fat and protruded out of his black beard like those of a sullen child. Here and there little trinkets had been tied into the hair: a pebble with a hole, warrior rings made out of the spear tips of his enemies, red prayer ribbons like those at the shrines all over the northern wastelands, pearls and glass beads, and a little bone that seemed tipped with gold. It all jingled as his barrel chest rose and fell.
    Nora wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her tunic and held the two knives loose. She licked her lips and swallowed dry. The thirst made her head feel light, and the hunger made her giddy. She stepped away from the bed.
    “Ethelwyn?” She breathed the name into the darkness. No response.
    Nora searched the room, careful not to make any noise, watching the mountain sleep with one eye.
    “Ethelwyn? It’s me. Nora.”
    Nothing. Maybe Ethelwyn had been sent back downstairs again. Maybe they were all still alive. There were a few hours left until daybreak. If her luck held and all the men were asleep, she could unbolt the kitchen door from within and the women could sneak out into the dark, safe if not sound. There was a cave hidden in the woods close to the spot Owen and Nora had often used to burn charcoal. They could hide there until help came tomorrow. If her luck held.
    The chief stirred and opened his eyes, only to close them again and snore. Nora froze before the pale light of the window. Had he seen her silhouette?
    “Ubba?” she spoke in a low voice, testing whether he was still asleep. For a moment, she was unsure whether she had remembered the right name. The man’s ragged breathing was all she heard. What had Becca said his name was?
    “Ubba,” Nora said once more, a little louder, gripping the daggers tight.
    His eyes opened and darted around the dark room. His large hand slid under the pillow and, finding his dagger gone, his body jolted awake. He half rose and then he saw her. Nora nearly stepped back. She was tired to the bone but stood as tall as she could.
    “Who are you? Are you—my queen, is it you?” His voice was soft and carried the lilt of the northern coast. “My dagger is gone, Prophetess.”
    Nora hesitated. Play along. She held up the gold dagger in her right hand and kept her own blade hidden in her left. The gold gleamed in the torchlight from the window.
    “I took your dagger from you, Ubba.”
    He rolled out of the bed and landed on his knees, bowing low before her feet, blubbering. “No, I am worthy, Prophetess. I am worthy. Give me, please, your favor. Please.”
    It took all of Nora’s self-control not to run away or scream. She held her breath until the urge subsided.
    “Ubba, tell me what you have done here.”
    He peered up at her, squinting. His eyes were small and piggish compared to his large mouth. The lower part of his face seemed consumed by hair. He wrung his large hands together in anguish.
    “I made them dead, Prophetess. I’m a good deadmaker.” His voice broke. “I did as you told me. I did. I went to your shrine. The pilgrim master there, he was suspicious. But I lost your girl. And I thought—I thought you’d be angry. Because your pretty one was lost. There was some trouble in the big city. Men were raiding the countryside. I joined them and so I came here. Don’t be angry, my queen.”
    “Where is Ethelwyn?” Nora asked.
    “Ethelwyn? Was that the true name of your pretty one? Is she not with you, my queen? I—”
    Waking realization was slowly creeping into his large black head. Nora had been lucky so far. She gagged in panic, swallowed. Her knuckles whitened on the hilt of the dagger as she turned it in the ray of pale light.
    “I see a soul standing at the far shore. It is lingering. I have a message for you from the girl, Ubba,” she heard herself