Page 7 of Slaying the Shadow Prince
Talemir tensed as those words found their mark and Wilder twisted in the saddle, his usually handsome face contorted with unrestrained violence.
‘What do you mean by that, ranger?’ he bit out.
Talemir didn’t blame him. In fact, the same rage simmered in his own veins. Wilder’s older brother, Malik, who was also Talemir’s dearest friend, had suffered greatly during the ultimate battle for Naarva. It had been he and Talemir who had fought at the centre of the horrific skirmish, and both had endured a fate crueller than death.
‘Wilder,’ Talemir barked, sensing that his young protégé was about to do or say something brash. And as much as he wished to throttle the woman for her thoughtless words, he knew better.
But she turned in the saddle, meeting his gaze, her own blue eyes intense with interest, as though she had just pieced a puzzle together. Her attention unnerved him and he pressed his stallion into a canter, so she was forced to face forward. The sooner he and Wilder spoke to the forge master and found his wayward son, the sooner they could leave the festering shithole of Naarva behind.
For it was festering. He had seen it before it had fallen – the kingdom of gardens, it was once called. Both the citadel and the university on the eastern island boasted the most extensive range of blooms the midrealms had to offer. Everything had crumbled after the shadow wraiths broke through the Veil, rendering it nothing more than an overgrown nightmare now. First, his own homeland, the kingdom of Delmira, had been taken… Naarva had followed years later.
He straightened in his saddle as the remains of the citadel came into view.
‘You’ll direct us to the forge?’ he asked.
‘If you insist,’ she muttered.
‘I’d happily enjoy your warm and welcoming company a little longer.’
‘Then ride on, wraith. Perhaps the forge master has a special blade for your heart.’
He ignored this, ignored her as they approached the iron doors of the city.
He peered across at Wilder and gave him a subtle nod. For beyond those doors was their enemy: the man who had sabotaged the magical steel source. The consequences of his actions were dire – the weakening of Warsword blades and the consequent strengthening of the shadow wraiths. Talemir himself had sworn to kill the bastard…
Without further comment, the woman nodded to the guards stationed above the gates and directed them through the eerily quiet citadel.
‘Where is everyone?’ Wilder asked, his brow furrowed.
‘Underground,’ the woman replied tersely. ‘The citadel has been empty for a long time. It’s no safer than out in the open. The only thing that operates above ground is the forge.’
Talemir shifted in the saddle, trying to ignore the press of her backside against him. Then, the woman was swinging down from the horse, catching him in the stomach with her boot. He let out a grunt of shock, rather than pain.
‘Apologies,’ she said, without an ounce of regret. ‘You can leave your horses with Brax,’ she told them, waving to a youngster who had appeared from the shell of a nearby building. ‘It’s not far from here.’
Talemir shook his head in disbelief as he dismounted.This woman… She’s something else.
He stared in awe as that giant hawk soared towards her, landing on her shoulder, its yellow eyes flicking from one man to the next, full of suspicion. The Warswords followed her and her friend down several abandoned alleyways. All the while, Talemir’s skin crawled as though he were being watched. No doubt they were. If the survivors of Naarva had sense enough to send rangers to scout the perimeters of their territory, then they’d have sense enough to have people on sentry duty. He’d have wagered that the woman leading them through the empty streets was a leader here. She certainly acted like it.
At last, they reached the forge. It was a simple building at the end of a laneway, but Talemir could hear the strike of a hammer ringing out from within. He knew all too well the calibre of the weapons crafted here, his hands drifting to the grips of his swords sheathed at his sides. Like all Warswords’ blades, the iron had been mined from a Naarvian source said to have been created by the Furies themselves with a star shower. The steel forged from such a place was known to be the strongest in all the midrealms, was known to hold the power of the gods. The very same source that was now being threatened by some meddlesome fool.
The woman pushed open the door before them and strode inside, clearly familiar with the blacksmith and his family. ‘Fendran!’ she called loudly, scanning the somewhat cluttered space around them.
A giant hearth sat in the centre of the forge, with a bellows positioned right beside it. Numerous stands of smithing tools lined the walls, and several long benches, as well as a trough with water for cooling steel, took up the rest of the room. It was sweltering hot, and Talemir could already feel his undershirt growing damp with sweat.
The hammer struck again and his attention cut to the far corner, where a middle-aged man stood tending to the blade of a dagger. Sparks flew as he hit the steel anew.
‘What is it?’ he near-shouted, not looking up, hammering away at the weapon. He was a muscular fellow, perhaps in his fiftieth year. His beard was scraggly and his face was lined with sweat and grime. He wore a thick leather apron and protective gloves.
‘Warswords here to see you,’ the woman called, leaning against a nearby bench and crossing her arms over her chest. She looked from the blacksmith to Talemir and Wilder, her gaze filled with disdain.
At last, the man named Fendran glanced up from his work, wiping his brow with the back of his glove, his eyes falling to the Warswords in his forge. Recognition flashed, and he approached them, huffing from the exertion.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said by way of greeting. He surveyed Talemir with particular reverence. ‘Starling, isn’t it?’
Talemir inclined his head.
‘I saw you fight in the final battle of Naarva.’ He turned to Wilder. ‘And you – you could only be the brother of Malik the Shieldbreaker…’
