Page 1 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame

PART ONE

‘For when the Seers reappear’

CHAPTER 1

It’s just a sword.

But Cahra knew it wasn’t. She knew it with every faltering step she fought to take, the star ruby-encrusted rapier winking in the firelight of the blacksmith’s forge, taunting her as she balanced it across her outstretched palms. If she tripped, the blade would slice her open, a splash of red to complement its gems. Somehow that wasn’t her concern.

Her fear was for the sword. Because a blade for the Steward of her kingdom of Kolyath was never just a weapon. It was a symbol of his power over others. Over her.

She should know. She’d forged it for the ruler she’d once tried to kill.

Cahra blew a wisp of pale copper hair from her face, battling the urge to drop the sword and run. Instead, she set the darkened blade on the counter and glanced at Lumsden. The master blacksmith smiled, his hair a chalky stripe around the crown of his balding head. But the old man’s expression didn’t meet his deep-set eyes, and his gaze didn’t break from the figure dominating the smithy’s metal counter.

Commander Jarett, the Steward’s notorious head of the Kingdom Guards, bent to scrutinise Cahra’s creation; a feat of form and function, or so Lumsden had proudly declared.

‘Yes… His Excellency will be pleased,’ Jarett told him, mesmerised by the Haellium blade. The Commander straightened, the sheer height of him looming like a Kolyath ice storm, scowling down at Cahra.

She froze, waiting for the storm to hit.

‘I, however, would be pleased to be met with the decorum I am due. A bath and a comb of your girl’s hair?’ Jarett gestured to Cahra in distaste.

As the only female smith in Kolyath, her presence defied tradition, a fact that never failed to attract criticism. Mostly about how she looked.

The dread simmering inside Cahra boiled into a black fury. Would breaking Jarett’s high-born hand be worth one final trip to the dungeons?

Before she could answer insult with injury, an unfamiliar voice spoke.

‘Now, Commander, Master Lumsden’s apprentice has surely laboured to perfect our esteemed Steward’s sword, and what a sword it is! A weapon fit for a king.’

Cahra knew the manner of speaking well: smooth, enunciated. Definitely a high-born. A well-dressed young nobleman stepped from behind Jarett and smiled.

Great, another one. But the young high-born was right, she’d slaved over the Steward’s rapier for weeks. Only the electric sting of fear and anger kept her on her feet now.

Yet his word choice made her smirk. ‘King’, the one thing Steward Atriposte wasn’t. Her kingdom hadn’t seen a royal in centuries. Not since the fall of their realm’s empire and its capital of Hael’stromia – the jet-black city known as ‘Hael’.

In spite of herself, Cahra felt a prick of curiosity as she eyed the young high-born.

Commander Jarett’s eyes lit up, the storm cloud fading from his face, as if he’d realised the prestige such a blade would bring. ‘I must present it to His Excellency at once. Lumsden, where is the sword’s scabbard?’

Forgotten, Cahra made to slink back to the forge, the smoky scent and crackle of coals a balm against her ragged nerves and autumn’s bitter forward march.

Until someone cleared their throat.

‘My apologies,’ the young high-born said, interrupting her thoughts.

Cahra just stared. A high-born apology? That was new.

‘I do not wish to keep you from your work. I seek your services.’

‘Of course,’ Cahra said, bending to scrabble under the counter for a pencil and paper, and bumping a burn from crafting the Steward’s sword. She hissed, the jolt sending pain searing down her forearm, troubling her more than she’d like to admit.

Gritting her teeth, Cahra forced a vaguely pleasant look to her face. ‘And you are?’

‘Terryl.’

‘Terryl,’ she said, scrawling his name. Despite the clamour of the Traders’ Quadrant, she heard Lumsden shuffling back to the front counter. She’d always had a gift for senses, hearing in particular. It was a part of her, a necessity from growing up a beggar.

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