Page 13 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame

A trap that’s all my fault.Her self-reproach bubbled up, a scream of frustration threatening to burst out from inside her.

Terryl studied Cahra before placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘Then we run. And leave the kingdom of Kolyath far behind us.’ He glanced about, the alleyway around them empty. ‘The fastest way to the gate is through the city.’

Cahra gasped at the young lord. ‘You’ll help me? How?Why?’

‘My trade in the Wilds,’ he said. ‘I have authorisation to leave Kolyath.’

She fought to understand. ‘But milord…’

He shook his head at her. ‘Please, Cahra, you and I are beyond such formalities, now. We must get to my residence,’ Terryl told her with conviction. ‘My people will need to be assured that I am safe. Then, we shall need their help to withdraw safely from the kingdom.’ He paused, meeting her eyes with grave concern. ‘It is not without risk.’

Cahra, still in shock, nodded. ‘All right.’ What other option was there?

Terryl gave her an assuring nod. ‘Then let us be off.’

Cahra hid her face behind her upturned collar, her length of hair still tucked away, the sword and satchel tight against her body. Terryl had ditched his fancy coat, ruffled his shirt and dirtied his face, trousers and boots; she admitted, she was impressed by his swift thinking.

They walked jauntily along, looking like a merry pair late for an appointment. Meanwhile, Cahra was moving on instinct, alert for any peak of noise or flash of motion – anything that might signal the Kingdom Guards. Then she realised where she was, her breath catching as they neared the place every low-born feared. The Red Square.

While the guards were nowhere to be seen, their presence was everywhere as Cahra and Terryl approached the execution centre. In the shadow of the Steward’s castle dwelled Kolyath’s open-air theatre of pain, the timbers of its platform stained a violent rust-red from countless slaughters. It dominated the expanse of public space, vacant nooses swaying in the frigid wind, and she shivered as the guillotine’s blade glinted at her with deadly promise. Nearby, iron cages displayed the gruesome bodies of those tortured for scrying magick, their remains left out to rot. Despite the horror clinging to the leaden air, the other low-borns she passed still cast fearful glances at the square, unable to look away. As Cahra hurried away, every plea for mercy she’d heard over the years haunted her, as if buried in the bedrock. Terryl gently urged her on, the square a spectre on the fringe of her awareness.

Relief washed over Cahra as the kingdom’s Red Square faded into the background, only to be replaced by a very different scene: the stately mansion Terryl called his home. She stared at the three-storey building, its facade adorned with hand-carved wooden shutters and plant pots brimming with blooms in vibrant marmalade hues. She’d never been close to anywhere so obviously for high-borns before, let alone permitted inside. It may as well have been the Steward’s keep. She couldn’t believe Terryl had come home to this every night, then gone to collect his longsword at the smithy where she’d slept in the corner of a giant shed.

But as the young lord confidently strode through his grand front door, any remaining doubts about her presence had to be cast aside. With a hesitant step, Cahra followed.

Walking inside Lord Terryl’s home, it was like someone flipped a lever. One moment, there was silence. The next, it was absolute chaos.

Three people descended on them: a man, clothed in finery like Terryl’s but simpler, with a face as hard as the marble bust she swerved to avoid knocking over. He was then joined by another man, taller than the first and dressed in hardy leathers, and a woman. The woman’s skin was dark as midnight with a glow that Cahra envied, her hair tied back in long, black braids, while the second man’s complexion was pale, with ash-blond hair that was paler still. Cahra peered at their jerkins, not dissimilar to her vest, except…There. Stitching for pockets.Or rather, for concealed weapons. Terryl employed his own personal guards?

‘Sir—’ The first man said, halting as Cahra stepped from behind Terryl. The young man’s hair was a lighter brown than the lord’s and short, his angular jaw tensing as he spoke. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’ He couldn’t have been much older than Terryl, she thought.

‘I see.’ He exhaled. ‘Am I correct in assuming that the time has come?’

The man nodded sharply, his eyes – grey like iron, and just as uncompromising – scrutinising Cahra. ‘The blacksmith?’

‘Cahra, this is Raiden,’ Terryl said, by way of introduction. He went on before she could ask how this man knew who she was. ‘Cahra will be accompanying us.’

‘Moving you is going to be mission enough,’ Raiden warned him, ‘without adding Commander Jarett’s next-most-wanted to the list.’ The man tossed Cahra a cool glance.

She swallowed her fear, eyes hardening in defiance.Who is this jerk of a high-born?

‘Cahra is with me.’ There was an edge to Terryl’s voice that made her look at him. ‘The time has come, and it is against us.’ The lord’s eyes flashed to the man and woman. ‘Piet, Siarl, evacuate the house and ready the transport.’ Terryl’s guards bowed and departed as he swept on down the hall. ‘The chest in my quarters and the papers on my desk?’

A woman on Raiden’s heels curtseyed. ‘It is done, H—’

‘Good, good,’ he said, cutting her off with a brief smile, then turned to Raiden. ‘No one in this house shall be left behind,’ the lord told him.

Raiden’s face was grim. ‘I’m working on it.’

Terryl took point, leading the way as they pressed down the hall, Raiden at his side, Cahra following closely. The rooms blurred into a rich tapestry of mahogany and dark velvet, with fleeting glimpses of elaborate oil paintings framed in ornate gold, as she passed.

‘My lord, Queran’s arrow just arrived,’ Raiden said. ‘We don’t have long.’

Terryl nodded. ‘Then Cahra and I shall depart.’

‘I’m with you,’ Raiden said, hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘No. I need you to finalise things here, ensure people’s safety.’

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