Page 11 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame

Breathe, Cahra told herself, sucking in air and trying to deaden her rush of panic. She could make it on the streets, she’d done it before. She could outrun this, scrape together some kind of life in the alleys of Kolyath again. But when her gaze fell to the old man, defeat hit her like a sledgehammer to the ribcage. Lumsden wouldn’t last one winter, let alone survive the gnawing hunger, the biting cold, the never-ending cruelty of life as a homeless beggar. She seized the edge of the workbench, her knuckles white. She needed to think, find a way out that kept them both safe, alive.Think. THINK!

‘Cahra.’ Lumsden’s words were soft. ‘Please don’t fight me. We haven’t much time, and you know that I’m too old to flee.’ His words, but they were confirmation. And it hurt.

There was only one thing for it, if Lumsden was to live. If she was going to save him. It was her turn, after all, Cahra thought numbly.

He couldn’t lose everything, his life, because of her.

‘Tell Jarett and the Kingdom Guards I did it,’ she said, inhaling as she straightened. ‘And that I acted alone.’ Cahra’s eyes caught a glimpse of Lord Terryl’s longsword, her seemingly perfect blade. ‘Why didn’t he take the sword?’

Lumsden’s gaze fell to the weapon he was holding. ‘Because he underestimates me.’ He lifted his eyes to Cahra. ‘And because what they really want is the omen-bringer.’

She nodded, swallowing, then ran back to her corner, throwing on her coat. This was the only way, she thought, to keep Lumsden safe. She yanked her pouch of off-cut gemstones and what little coin she had from her hiding spot. The old man grasped a satchel, tears welling.

‘You have to harden yourself against them all, you hear me?’ She gripped Lumsden. ‘You know the Commander and his guards, what they do to people. Give them nothing at all, nothing but me. Your allegiance to the Steward, his favour, will keep you alive. Okay?’

The old man’s voice shook as he asked, ‘What will keep you alive?’

Cahra smiled fleetingly at him, knowing the expression would never meet her eyes. ‘Experience.’ She slung the satchel over her shoulder. Jarett would be on his way back now.

Then she noted the bag’s weight, frowning.

‘The bread,’ Lumsden told her.

‘No, you need it—’ She opened the bag. The old man stayed her hand.

‘And a few essentials.’ He smiled, his words hanging in the air.

Realisation struck Cahra in the chest, piercing the walls she’d built around her heart. This was it. This was goodbye. When would she see the old man again? This kind soul who’d plucked her from the dungeon’s brink of death?

With a shaking hand, she extended her small fortune, the collection of gems and coins she’d scrimped and saved, placing them in Lumsden’s wrinkled palms. ‘Take it,’ she urged.

But he shook his head. Instead, he gave her Lord Terryl’s sword, squeezing her hands as he set them on the weapon’s hilt. ‘In case the Commander does have want of it, after all,’ he explained, eyes trailing across the corner of the smithy that was no longer hers.

It crushed her, all the things she’d never said to him. She’d never get the chance now. Without another thought, Cahra wrapped her arms around the little master blacksmith and held on tight, her tears threatening to spill. She didn’t want to let him go.

But Commander Jarett was coming for her.

‘Thank you,’ Cahra whispered to Lumsden. ‘For finding me that night. For giving me a second chance at life. I’ll never, ever forget you.’ She hugged him, crying in earnest now.

Lumsden’s response was a soft laugh, Cahra committing the familiar gravelly timbre of his voice to memory.

‘It was an honour to serve,’ he told her, dabbing his moist eyes. ‘Now be safe. Don’t waste your chance worrying about one as old as me.’ He looked down. ‘Go now, my girl,’ he murmured, as Cahra released him, clutching the longsword.

Before the old man could look up again, she had.

With nimble, dexterous movements, Cahra shifted the bulging satchel, concealing Lord Terryl’s sword under an oily rag. As she pressed the weapon against her leg, a wave of self-loathing crashed into her. Leaving Lumsden, relying on his sacrifice yet again… She swallowed her disgust like the bitter herb it was. But she clung to the knowledge it was the best way to keep him safe. He could say she’d overpowered him, stolen the blade and ran.

Ran where?

She dashed between the rotting piles of refuse on the maze-like backstreets, shaking her head at the angst and fear splintering her focus, as her heart pummelled her heaving chest.

Down the street, turn at the next alley and then what?

Seers, help me!

That was when Cahra spotted Terryl.

CHAPTER 6

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