Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) by Timandra Whitecastle Page B

time, it had seemed that Owen and Becca might…but Becca’s mother had found a more promising future husband among the merchants of Dernberia. And so Becca’s visits had stopped abruptly. Nora heard Becca run past the smithy.
    Nora hesitated. She risked a glance over to the inn. Three men were standing in the light now. One was fastening up his trousers, slapping one of the guards on the back. They seemed to be in no hurry and like they were having a good time. She loosened her grip on her knife and then tightened her hand around the hilt once more. It was still there. In the shifting reality around her, she had one constant. The knife was still there. She moved through the kitchen, through the doorway, and into the garden.
    Her garden was trampled. Sheets and clothes were strewn among the beds and rows of vegetables in disarray. Nora saw her own trunk split on the side, its contents scattered among the winter cabbage. Her brother’s few books, spines snapped and pages torn. And they had been so expensive.
    The garden was fenced in by trees, old trees that grew on the edge of the Ridge. Here stood oak and beech and sycamore. Nora ducked under the leafless branches and listened for noise. Before her, the white of Becca’s garment shone clearly in the dark night. The other girl was standing at the edge of the Ridge, one arm around the trunk of the oak tree to steady herself, barefooted among the dead leaves, eyes as wild as her sobs. One false step and she’d topple over the cliff. But maybe that was what she was planning to do anyway. It was a bad plan, though. You could fall and break your neck, true. But you could also fall and only break your legs. With the men at the inn, lying helpless with a broken leg or two was not an option. Nora sneaked up as quietly as she could and held a hand over the girl’s mouth. She bucked and struggled, and Nora fought to keep her away from the edge and close enough to whisper into her ear.
    “Becca! Becca, it’s me. It’s Nora.”
    Becca threw herself into Nora’s arms wide-eyed. For a moment the two girls embraced, both trembling.
    “I thought you died,” Becca wept. “I thought you all died.”
    “What happened?”
    “I don’t know,” Becca sobbed. “There was fire in the night. Someone shouted that the bakery was burning. And it was, but then there were these men. All these men. And they…they killed everyone, my father, your father. And then, and then…the heads, they piled the heads before the butcher’s. And the women and children were…” Becca couldn’t speak on. Her formerly pretty face was a mask of grief and bitterness. Nora held her tight until she quieted.
    Becca looked up with red eyes, wiping the tears from her cheeks with her fingers. Her eyes went wide as she took Nora’s hands. The red marks around Nora’s wrists were still visible. Though the pain had gone, the stiffness was still there.
    “What happened to you?” Becca asked.
    “Nothing like what happened to you,” Nora said, squeezing Becca’s fingers before letting them go.
    “Where’s Owen?”
    “He’s…” A choke stopped her. “Everything’s going to be all right now.”
    “No, no, Nora. You don’t know.” Becca’s blue eyes were wide in terror and she grabbed Nora’s cloak, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “You don’t know what they’re like. And now you’re here, and they’ll get you too and we’ll all die.”
    Their heads snapped around as they heard someone stumble over a chair in the garden and curse drunkenly. Becca flattened herself against the oak tree. Nora squeezed her arm and melted into the shadows. Her palms were sweaty. She signaled Becca to crouch down low. Becca mouthed, “Stay with me.” Nora shook her head and held up her knife. Becca snapped into a rigid pose. Her eyelids closed and her lips quivered as though saying a prayer. But the gods were dead. Long gone. The wights, who the people thought were gods until they saw they could bleed, were