Free Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) by Garrett Robinson Page B

They sent me to see if such might be found.”
    Loren’s throat went bone dry. Silence lingered outside the wagon.
    At last, the man spoke again. “What say you, my lady? Must my men break your wagons apart plank by plank?”
    Damaris hesitated only a moment before answering. “There is no need. The girl hides within that one. Come, and I will take you to her.”

eleven

    The constable’s thin, wheedling voice rang out in the still air.  
    “Surround the wagon! Leave no space for escape.”
    Loren feared she might vomit. If she had held any illusion of walking with Damaris outside the law, that fancy had gone. She must flee as fast as she could, before the men surrounded the wagon.
    Loren flung away the wooden panel. With no one standing at the wagon’s rear she still had a chance.
    As she tensed to run, a cry of alarm sounded from outside the wagon: Damaris.  
    “She has fled!” Damaris cried. “Where did she go? Gregor!”
    “I know not, my lady,” said the captain. “My men stood vigilant.”
    “Vigilant as sleeping bears,” snapped Damaris. “Find her, or it will go ill with you all!”
    Loren stood rooted to the wagon’s floor. No one stood near her wagon. What game did Damaris think to play? Loren could not know, but she had no choice but to place her faith in the merchant.
    Quick and quiet, she settled back into the hidden space. Her fingers slid across the wood panel, and she winced as a splinter sank into her flesh. Silently, she lowered it back into place.
    The wagon shook under heavy feet just seconds later. A man climbed inside. Loren heard shouts farther down the line: the lawmen had split up, searching the wagons in ones and twos.
    In a moment, they would find Loren, and all would converge upon her. Whatever Damaris planned, Loren hoped it would take place soon. The wood shook beneath her head. Her breath fell fast and ragged.
    The man grunted and heaved. The wood panel flew up to reveal her. Not the constable, but one of his riders. A grey mustache sat atop old, weathered lips. Deep lines creased his face from cheeks to eyes. Those eyes squinted, and then widened.
    The man’s chest erupted in a spray of blood, twelve inches of steel protruding from his breastbone.
    Loren screamed.
    The man gurgled and sagged. His lifeblood soaked her, dousing Loren’s cloak. She saw Gregor behind him as he fell. The giant’s eyes shone cold and baleful, like the blue flame of an ancient king’s funeral pyre. His boot lashed out, kicking the man toward the wagon’s front.  
    Outside, Loren could hear the sounds of ringing steel and men screaming death. The wagon’s canvas could not mute the screams. Loren feared she would hear them as long as she lived.
    Loren leapt up and threw off her cloak. Blood had soaked through it in places, and she could feel it pressing upon her skin. She stumbled past Gregor, who did not move a muscle.
    She lost her footing on the wagon’s edge and crashed to the ground on her shoulder. Pain lanced her chest. Loren scarcely noticed it as she rolled over onto her stomach and retched. She lost the night’s salted meat, thick and chunky, reeking of bile. She vomited until her stomach offered no more, and then lay unmoving save for her heaving chest.
    Loren had known death before. No one went forever without accidents. She had seen people crushed by falling oaks, or wasting away from infection after a wayward axe claimed a finger. But never had she seen a man murdered in cold blood, stabbed through the back.
    The sounds of death subsided. Gregor’s men had won before their foes knew of the battle. A half-dozen corpses littered the ground.
    Soft footsteps drew Loren’s gaze upward. Damaris loomed. Her dark eyes found Loren’s green ones.
    “Whose blood stains your tunic?”
    Loren looked down at herself and saw the crimson streaks.  
    “Why would . . . they were King’s men!” Loren tried to stand, but wobbly knees soon made her think better.
    “Aye, and with noses too