Page 8 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

‘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.’

‘Respectfully, I need to ensure your safety.’ The hard look to Raiden’s face returned.

Cahra watched as the two men stared at each other. Terryl’s expression was resolute, and he wasn’t backing down. Wow, so he can act like a noble . She almost laughed out loud.

Raiden let out a resigned sigh, his chin lowering in defeat. ‘Do you think you can make it to the carriage?’

‘We got this far,’ Cahra said, folding her arms.

Raiden turned, as if remembering she was there.

‘Is that the sword?’ She stilled, then handed it to him.

Raiden lifted it gingerly, inspecting the pommel.

He looked first at Cahra, then at Terryl.

‘You’d better hurry,’ Raiden said; to her or Terryl, she wasn’t entirely sure.

‘You can’t be seen with this.’ But as Terryl turned to leave, a skulking figure prowled in from the doorway to their left.

Cahra threw her fists up before Raiden’s sword was half out of its sheath. But the man just exhaled and nodded to the figure. ‘Queran! Thank the Seers, you’re here.’

‘Did you get my arrow? They’re minutes behind me,’ the tall man told them from the shadowed cowl of his cloak.

‘Go,’ Raiden said to Cahra and Terryl. ‘We’ll follow.’ He flicked his head to Queran. ‘You’re up top. Move fast.’

Queran nodded. ‘Understood.’

Terryl exited the mansion into his immaculate rear garden, overflowing with topiaries and white snowdrops that wafted nectar.

Already planning their next move, Cahra noted the service lane for the other wealthy houses on Terryl’s street at the far end of the large garden, a better escape route than going out the front door.

He paused at the arched gate to the lane. ‘My caravan has been relocated, now that Commander Jarett’s Kingdom Guards are searching for us, to mere streets from the stables.’

Cahra didn’t ask how Terryl or his people knew to do that; she was too busy trying to visualise the path to get there and the streets they’d be forced to tread by foot to even make it near the stables.

She watched as the cloaked man, Queran, eased himself from the mansion’s top-floor window and swung, flipping spryly onto the grey tiles of the building’s roof.

A moment later, a sleek bow was taut within his grasp.

Private guards, an acrobatic archer… Terryl was definitely full of surprises.

Clearing her throat, Cahra asked, ‘We need to get back on the main street, don’t we?’

‘It is the only way,’ Terryl confirmed. She glanced to the left, where the abandoned temple to Kolyath’s ancient Seers bordered the nobles’ neighbourhood.

Meanwhile, the Steward’s grounds stretched right, fortified by imposing stone walls that marched to the ever-watchful castle towering on its high hill.

Cahra repressed a shiver, the tension in her body returning as she thought about the dungeons awaiting her in its depths.

And started to remember.

Cahra pressed her scrawny body, huddled and shivering, into the rear corner of the dungeon cell.

She could feel the bricks through the rips in her shirt and the chill of snowflakes whispering from a far-off grate, dusting her hair as they seeped into her skin and little bones.

She shifted the weight of her crouch from one foot to the other, trying to fight the bitter cold.

Behind her, the wall felt like the safest spot.

No one could cut her from behind now. That scar, like so many from living in the kingdom of Kolyath, had taught her so.

Hugging her scraped knees, she squinted in the darkness.

All she could see was torchlight flickering from the steep, snaking steps onto a locked gate at the dungeon entrance.

At least she’d know if anyone was coming.

But what would she do when they did? She traced her hand along the wall, picking for loose mortar.

If she could just break off a stony shiv, maybe she’d be the one doing the cutting.

‘The goods wagon attached to the carriage is your hiding place,’ Terryl was saying.

She nodded absently.

It had been so long…

She froze, tilting her head towards a creak, followed by a louder bang, then hushed footfalls on slick stone. The kind men made when they thought they were being quiet.

The steps continued downwards. She watched as a silhouette reached through the barred gate like a ghost, then flinched as the figure emerged from the shadows, snapping a key into the lock and turning it with a screech. The dungeon gate swung open.

Cahra bit her lip, digging her fingernails into the wall, faster now.

‘We will make it to Kolyath’s gatehouse, Cahra,’ Terryl told her softly.

So long, but she’d never forgotten…

The first thing Cahra saw were shoes. Shining in the gloom, like someone had polished them until their hands bled, her nostrils filling with the sooty beeswax used to blacken boots.

She peered at the pressed trousers, looking for the familiar red stripe of the Kingdom Guards.

But the flash of blood-red she spied in the dim light wasn’t a uniform. It was a velvet cloak.

Her hand stilled against the bricks.

A large figure halted outside her cell. ‘Come forward,’ he ordered.

She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she could tell from the bite in his command that he was a high-born used to getting his own way. His wasn’t the grunt of the stupid guards that had arrested her for stealing. This was someone important.

She hesitated, feeling the hot prick of fear at last.

‘Finally, I meet the urchin who has given my Kingdom Guards such trouble,’ he said, as she took step after cautious step, stopping several feet away from the cell’s locked door. ‘You are smaller than I imagined,’ the man mused.

That’s what they all thought. Just a little girl. How much trouble could she be? Until she was scampering off to peddle their high-born trinkets.

But the man was still speaking, apparently also used to people paying attention.

‘Listen to me, you miserable little guttersnipe,’ he hissed, a gloved hand shooting through the bars of her dank cell to seize her chin.

‘I am Atriposte, Ruler of the Kingdom of Kolyath, and you will heed me!’ The man shook her – hard.

Terryl drew her gaze, his eyes alert but gentle. ‘Cahra.’

Everything her life had taught her. She would need those lessons now.

Steward Atriposte, the ruler of Kolyath. His eyes were filled with hatred and rage.

She knew what he saw when the Steward’s bulging amber eyes glared into hers: the layers of dirt so caked they were a second skin, the hair that hadn’t been washed in months, the muddy-coloured eyes to match.

She wasn’t pretty. But gulping back the bitter acid in her throat, she didn’t need to be.

She only needed to do what every beggar in Kolyath did.

Survive.

‘I bet you’re smaller than every girl imagines,’ Cahra said, clenching her fists and spitting a gob of saliva right in the Steward’s face.

He recoiled, dropping her, his face inflaming to a tomato shade of red as he wiped furiously at his cheek. With a snarl, he fumbled to unlock her cell. She inched back.

Then he charged, as she’d guessed, hands reaching for her. Bad men liked to hit. Before he could, Cahra leapt to headbutt the Steward’s chin with the top of her small skull, slipped the mortar shiv between her fingers…

…and stabbed Steward Atriposte, Ruler of the Kingdom of Kolyath, in his thick neck.

She’d never return to the dungeons, never let the Steward’s guards capture her alive. She’d made a vow, and Cahra knew she’d face any peril, even death, before she’d yield to Atriposte, the ravager of Kolyath.

‘Terryl.’ She closed her eyes. ‘There are things about me, things that you don’t know—’

But their conversation came too late. The sounds she’d been dreading since she’d said goodbye to Lumsden had finally found them: raised voices, the stampede of boots on stones and the harrowed peal of an alarm bell in a high tower. The Kingdom Guards were coming.

Cahra turned to Terryl. He was a noble; surely he’d trained in fighting and endurance. ‘I know what we need to do,’ she said, gazing in the direction of the rising uproar.

And the chase began.