Chapter 1
CARIS
Ten winters later
The jagged stone walls of Murus rose before me cold and unyielding, and I wondered if he was behind them. The man whose hands had stained my life with blood and grief – the one who had torn the light from my mother’s eyes.
The sun reflected off a helmet, drawing my attention to the gaps placed at even intervals along the wall, where several sets of eyes watched the flow of people passing through the gate.
So, the rumors were true. An army of red-caped soldiers had taken up residence inside Murus. I had been right to come.
Nightmare’s hooves sounded over the stone bridge, taking us over the dry moat that encircled the city and its fortress. Even though I was careful to steer her through the crowds, people were startled by her presence.
She was a frightful beast. Nightmare was larger and blacker than any mare had the right to be. She was perfect.
‘Halt!’
Two soldiers stepped out of the shadows, blocking the only entrance into Murus. A murmur of frustration rippled through the crowd behind me.
‘Name?’ A soldier with black bushy brows and a bored expression came to stand at Nightmare’s shoulder. She turned her head and showed him her impressive teeth.
He took a step back.
‘Caris Ironside,’ I said.
‘And what is your reason for coming to Murus?’
‘Why are you asking me, and not those who went before me?’
His gaze went to the swords strapped to my back. ‘Just answer the question.’
‘Hurry up, will you?’ came a gruff voice behind me.
The soldier and I both turned to look at the man who spoke. He carried several sacks, and under a curly black beard, his face was red with the strain. He was glaring pointedly at me, not the soldiers blocking the entrance.
‘I’m here to work.’ And to kill a man.
‘Doing what?’ the soldier asked.
‘I’m a blacksmith.’ The soldier’s bushy brows rose so high they disappeared into his hair.
‘Plague, take it!’ The bearded man behind me threw down his sacks and put his hands on his hips. ‘Women can’t be blacksmiths!’
Impatient people annoyed me, but rude people made me angry.
I considered dismounting and standing over the man, who was a head shorter than I, and telling him to be quiet.
Instead, I took a calming breath and tugged my braid over my shoulder to inspect the blonde ends for any debris I might have collected during the nights I had slept on the ground.
It had taken several days to get here, and I didn’t want to give the bushy-browed soldier a reason not to let me into Murus.
‘Is that all?’ I asked the soldier.
His bushy eyebrows returned to their bored position. ‘Yes.’ He gestured to his men to let me through.
‘Wait, you don’t believe her bullshit story, do you?’
‘Don’t start trouble again, Mac,’ the soldier warned.
I lightly pressed my knees into Nightmare’s sides, urging her forward.
The man the soldier called Mac raised his voice so I couldn’t miss hearing him. ‘Women aren’t blacksmiths!’
Well, this woman was.
Murus seemed to burst at the seams; the cobblestone street overflowed with other travellers, hawkers and residents, all passing in and out of the city gates on foot, in noisy carts and on horseback.
The blacksmith’s shop I was looking for was close to the ancient stone fortress. Murus’s fortress had been empty when I visited last, but the blue flags now on the turrets and the soldiers around the entrance signalled it no longer was.
I dismounted from Nightmare and peered into a tidy and neatly organised shop. The old blacksmith wasn’t inside. Remembering the forge was attached to the side of the shop, I followed the familiar hammering sounds of a blacksmith at work.
Two women gripping baskets filled with washing were standing in my way, chatting with each other while watching whoever was hammering.
‘Excuse me.’ They moved aside reluctantly as I walked between them with Nightmare behind me.
She flicked her tail at the pretty girl holding her wash basket on her hip.
She was frightened enough by Nightmare’s size to scuttle closer to her friend.
They both glared at me when I reached out to stroke the mare for her sassy behaviour.
The old blacksmith I had come to see wasn’t the one hammering.
A much younger man was hammering a large piece of iron, every muscle and vein in his arms straining with the effort.
He wielded the hammer expertly, and his blows were consistent and precise – something I knew from experience was very hard to do with a hammer as big as the one he held.
I watched him work, admiring his focus and skill. His shirt, adapted to leave his arms bare, clung to him with sweat as he laboured tirelessly, his back muscles flexing with every hammer strike. A wavy lock of fair hair had escaped the leather tie used to keep it out of his eyes.
I patiently waited as he took the piece he was working on to a large barrel and dipped it into the water using long iron tongs.
He tucked the escaped strand of hair behind his ear, drawing my attention to his face.
The blacksmith’s features were pleasant enough to look at.
When our eyes connected, I couldn’t help admiring the thick, dark lashes surrounding his golden-brown eyes.
He was not the old, gnarled blacksmith I sought.
He glanced at the women standing on the street, who were no longer pretending they were there to chat, then turned his golden gaze on me. Setting down his tools, he nodded towards Nightmare.
‘Are you wanting the mare reshod?’
He pronounced his r’s with a slight roll of his tongue, the depth of the burr in his voice bringing to mind honey warming in a pan. I shook my head, but he continued to approach me.
‘She’s an extraordinary mare. May I?’ he asked, coming closer.
Nightmare didn’t tolerate strangers touching her, especially men. ‘She isn’t the petting type,’ I warned.
He smiled warmly at me, then unhurriedly reached an enormous hand towards her black muzzle.
Not touching, just waiting.
Nightmare let out a slight puff of air through her enlarged nostrils and trod forward, pushing her nose into his palm. He smiled, raising his other hand to her neck.
‘You little hussy,’ I muttered.
‘Don’t be too mad at her,’ he smirked. ‘I have this effect on most fillies.’ His chuckle sounded more self-deprecating than cocky, despite his words.
I found that to be oddly charming.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked, crossing his arms.
‘I was hoping to rent accommodation above the forge for a time. I was here three winters ago, and the blacksmith and I agreed that I could work in the forge for a place to stay.’ This wasn’t exactly true.
Yes, I had stayed here, but it wasn’t me who had worked in the forge for the accommodation.
I was an apprentice the last time I was in Murus, and the future agreement was not with me, but still, I had hoped the old blacksmith would remember me and allow me to work for him now that I was fully trained.
The blacksmith uncrossed his arms, surprise written all over his face.
‘You apprenticed as a blacksmith?’
‘Yes. Five years.’ I was well-trained, and I enjoyed my work very much.
‘Can I see something you’ve made?’ he asked with a tilt of his head.
I reached behind me for the sword I had strapped to my back. If he were a good blacksmith, he would be impressed by the sword I had spent months crafting.
The broadsword wasn’t too heavy or too light. I had folded the metal as much as sixteen times. I had measured the level of iron ore carefully to ensure the blade had some flexibility but wouldn’t cause the sword’s life to shorten with rust – all things I had learned as an apprentice.
The blacksmith took my sword and ran a finger along the delicate engraving on the pristine blade.
‘You engrave your own swords?’
I knew it wasn’t unusual for blacksmiths to outsource to engravers, hilt makers and even grinders who would sharpen the blade, but along the Red River, there was no-one to do that work, so I had learned to do it all myself.
‘Yes, I can engrave.’ Would he say it was a waste of a blacksmith’s time?
He studied my sword for a long time, inspecting every inch. I had etched a mountainous landscape beneath a full moon into the steel and carved the oak hilt into the shape of a horse’s head.
He looked up at me. ‘Beautiful.’
My face grew warm as he handed back my sword hilt first.
‘Do we have a deal?’ I asked. ‘Accommodation above your forge for my skills?’
‘Are you sure you want to stay here?’ he asked with a slight frown. ‘I’ve done nothing to those rooms since buying this place, and it gets unbearably hot up there when I light the forge fires.’
I nodded, remembering that the rooms were basic but adequate.
‘I have well-furnished rooms in the blacksmith’s cottage, but I have no wife, and we would be alone …’ His words drifted away, and I saw a slight flush creep up his neck.
Before I could respond, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, it would be inappropriate.’
I bit back a smile and waited for him to decide.
‘No customers here would appreciate fine sword-making skills like yours. They want tools, horseshoes, pots, pans. All rather mundane things,’ he said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.
‘I know the rooms are simple, and that is all I need. I like to make fine things, but I understand there isn’t always someone to buy such items.’ Hopefully, my words reassured him that my expectations for the work and the accommodation were not more than what was available.
‘Well … if you’re sure?’ He started to take off his work apron.
I didn’t hold back my smile this time.
‘Go settle your horse around back, and I’ll find the key.’
The two women still stood on the street. The pretty one carrying her basket on her hip gazed yearningly at the blacksmith’s disappearing back.