CHAPTER ONE #2
Though Evylin hated to admit it, she’d begun to find herself relying on Deckard.
She fought it the first few days after Hewitt’s death.
As members of the Order of the King, the personal soldiers of King Ephren, their status earned them lower rates everywhere they went, allowing them to survive more comfortably than the average traveler.
At each inn, Evylin and Deckard acquired a separate room, which provided her the freedom to pull away from him to a degree she couldn’t in the company of their troop.
For the first several nights, she went nearly sleepless, curled away from him on the far side of the mattress.
She’d grown so used to his arms around her while they slept that her body had forgotten what to do without him.
Deckard noticed. One night, as they got into bed and she moved to turn away from him, he gripped her arm loosely. She refused to meet his eyes but could feel his steady gaze scanning her as he whispered, “If you keep this up, you’ll never sleep again.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered back, feeling a sob welling up in her tense throat.
“I do.” Gently, he pulled her closer. Evylin had grown weak in her resolve, too exhausted and distraught to maintain the distance. He’d carefully wrapped his arms around her as he always did, tucking her head under his chin. And she’d fallen asleep within minutes.
As the gates of Norhels loomed above their heads, Evylin forced herself to meet Deckard’s stare. Patient and steady as ever, he watched her. “That seems wise,” she agreed, her voice hollow to her own ears.
Deckard gave her a firm nod. “In that case, I’ll leave that to your charge,” he said with finality. But he didn’t move away from her side even as they entered the city, as though knowing she needed him.
Tightening her hands on the reins so she wouldn’t twist her wedding rings, Evylin stared at her horse’s mane.
Did she need him? She didn’t think she should.
The last two men she’d needed, she’d lost. The last two men who meant that much to her broke her.
Could she risk needing someone that much again?
The city of Norhels hardly constituted the status in Evylin’s mind.
Its large populace granted its qualification, but compared to Loclight or even Virwoud, it lacked the grandeur she thought a city should require.
Its walls were short, only about the average man’s height, more for controlling the comings and goings than real protection.
Its houses reminded her of the cottages in Estshire, and most of its streets were made of dirt with the occasional stone pathway worked into the wealthier areas.
As a port city, everything smelled heavily of fish, dampness, and salt.
Coming to a stop in the main thoroughfare, shops located in a wide radius, the troop dismounted.
Deckard gave his final orders, and they split off.
Deckard and Auden went to sell the horses to the stablemaster.
Thom, Rafferty, and Ilain went to sell whatever else they might and then purchase rations and other necessities for their time in Wauld.
And Evylin and Ethenn went to the smith with the weapons.
The smoke of the forge singed Evylin’s nose, calling forth memories of Hewitt and Whickam Village. Her skin warmed as they stepped into the interior. The tang of iron and soot filled the air. She could almost imagine her uncle, the bear of a man he’d been, laboring at that anvil.
Instead, a bald, barrel-chested smith looked up at their arrival. He scanned the pair of them warily, their arms laden with swords. “May I help you?”
Dumping their haul onto a clear-enough workbench, Evylin took the lead. “Yes, sir. My comrades and I require repairs. We’d also be interested in seeing what you have in stock.”
The smith looked at Ethenn with a frown. Apparently deciding that a man barely in his twenties held little more qualification than a woman, he turned back to Evylin. “That’s a load of weapons there, lass. What sort of business are you in?”
Pushing back her braid, Evylin uncovered the insignia on the left breast of her gray coat. “The King’s,” she replied.
The smith’s mangy eyebrows rose in shock as he gave her another scan. “My apologies, ma’am,” he stammered, then glanced at Ethenn, taking in the patch on his coat as well, and added, “Sir. How soon do you need these done?”
“Immediately,” Evylin said, clasping her hands behind her back as she’d seen Deckard do when he was addressing those under his command. “We need to leave as soon as possible.”
The smith’s brow furrowed nervously. “Yes, of course. One of my assistants is out on deliveries, and another is home with a cold—the youths are rather unreliable these days. My son and I will work as fast as we can, but as this is quite the order, it will take three hours, at the least.”
Readily, Ethenn stepped forward, unbuttoning his coat. “I’ll help,” he offered.
The smith and Evylin both stared at him in surprise. “You will?” she asked.
Tipping up a shoulder in a shrug, Ethenn continued to work off his coat. “My uncle is a smith,” he explained. “When I wasn’t hunting, I was at the forge.”
A subtle memory sprang from the recesses of Evylin’s thoughts.
Vernon Loxley was the smith in Trollenston, and though she hadn’t known him then, Evylin had seen Ethenn working as an assistant when they’d said goodbye to his uncle.
Remembering the smith brandishing a poker at his nephew during that occasion, she understood why Ethenn hadn’t bothered to claim the relation before now.
“That explains the muscle,” Evylin teased. Of a stocky, short build, Ethenn was the picture of a Shireman. “I always chalked it up to the fighting.”
Carefully rolling up the cuffs of his tunic sleeves, he gave a dry grin. “That was just for fun.”
“Mm.” Evylin felt her mouth turn upward in humor even as she addressed Norhels’s smith to determine the price of the labor.
With Ethenn’s help, the smith and his son, a strapping lad of seventeen, completed their work within two hours.
Every blade was sharpened to deadly precision, all nicks mended, and scrapes polished.
When the rest of their troop arrived, they practically bought out the smith’s stores.
Ethenn was loaded with a full quiver and an extra bundle of arrows.
He looked particularly fearsome with his sword hanging on his right hip, his hatchet and a large hunting knife on the left, and a leather band across his chest with a dozen small throwing knives.
“Look at you, kid,” Thom said, straightening Ethenn’s collar in jest, then fluffing up the front of his shaggy brown hair. “You’re practically the whole Ephrian Army in one.”
Brushing down his hair, Ethenn scowled at Thom. “Your things are over there,” he grumbled, gesturing to the far bench.
Once they were all fully equipped, most looked as stocked as Ethenn.
Rafferty carried a short sword on each hip along with his own bandolier of daggers.
Evylin, Deckard, and Thom all wore broadswords and several knives.
She’d had to purchase a new sword, having lost the one Hewitt made for her in the Water Keep.
Her sensibilities grated at having to use a weapon forged by anyone else, but after the smith refined the weight and flex for her, she slid the blade into a scabbard at her side.
Only the Calders were weapon-free, though their bright green gazes held a dangerous glint. Ilain’s rings glittered in the forge light anytime she moved, reminding them of the Elemental resources she wielded.
After paying a fair sum to the smith, they departed for the nearby tavern. “Auden suggested we eat before entering the Keep,” Deckard explained. “We’re not sure when our next meal will be.”
“I didn’t think it was wise to eat before a fight,” Rafferty commented. “You know—stomach cramps and the like. Can’t have Thommy here losing his lunch on his fair highlady’s skirts.”
Thom whacked the back of Rafferty’s head, and Ilain chortled.
“Better that than any of us fainting due to hunger,” Deckard said, ignoring their antics.
Over lunch, they reviewed all their supplies.
They’d procured three packs full of dry goods and the barest necessities.
They wouldn’t even have bedrolls for the first several days of their journey.
But Deckard insisted they replace any clothing with worn holes or fraying edges.
“We need everything we carry with us to last the rest of the way through Wauld,” he said.
“What about our coats?” Ethenn asked, then gestured to the insignia of the king’s Order.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to leave them behind,” Deckard said. “We can’t very well journey through the country wearing the sigil of their enemy.”
Rafferty frowned down at the coat. “I suppose they’d fetch a pretty penny.”
“I don’t think the king would want other people having them.” Thom tapped his patch. “Can’t say I’m keen on some fisherman earning the rank of captain all at the cost of a coat either.”
“We’ll leave them with the farrier,” Deckard said. “I’ve already arranged it with her.”
“You have?” Evylin asked, surprised.
“Farriers board horses, Colonel,” Rafferty mocked. “Not coats.”
Deckard leveled a dry stare at him. “Yes, and she’s boarding my horse,” he explained. “She’ll keep the coats in a small trunk in the stall with her.”
“You’re keeping your horse?” Thom asked with a somewhat incredulous air.
Evylin shared the sentiment. “Won’t that cost a large sum?”
Deckard shook his head. “I worked out a deal with the farrier. In exchange for her board, she’s allowed to rent her out for labor around the town. She readily agreed, as my mare is of strong, well-bred stock.”
“You’re keeping your horse?” Thom repeated.
Deckard shrugged. “She was gifted to me when I earned my captaincy, and I’ve gotten attached to her.”