Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(2)

Nine versus Kellyn, Petrik, and me.

We’ve certainly faced worse odds.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to Temra, even though she probably can’t hear me.

I jump over the side of the cart and right myself. The man nearest me takes a step back.

“Whoa,” he says as he looks up at me.

Yes, up. I’ve always been taller than most men, reaching just over six feet. Normally, I hate my height. It makes me the object of constant staring and commentary. But right now, I like the way the brigand is looking at me. Like he’s intimidated.

His eyebrows lift when I pull my twin hammers out from my belt.

I may not be a trained fighter, but I am a trained smithy, and there’s nothing I know how to do better than swing a hammer.

Kellyn leaps down beside me, in front of my sister’s side of the cart. I watch as Kymora holds her hands out to Petrik, a silent plea to release her. I can help, her face says.

But Petrik wordlessly grabs a long metal pole from inside the cart and joins us. It was once used as a cart axle, but now it’s a magicked staff.

“Friends,” Devran says, “you’re outnumbered, and my men will be far more gentle if you put down your weapons. There’s no need for anyone to lose their heads today.”

“I can take them,” Kellyn says to me, “if you’d rather wait in the cart.”

“If I’d wanted to wait in the cart, I’d be in the cart.”

“Okay.” His response is quiet, but I don’t feel bad for snapping at him. Everything Kellyn says these days seems to set me off.

Devran listens to the exchange with amusement. “Maybe you got the wrong idea about us because we’re being so polite. But you realize we’re brigands and we’re going to use force to rob you if need be?”

“We’re aware,” I respond. “It’s you who has the wrong idea by believing we’re easy pickings.”

And I charge forward with my left hammer extended.

It’s magicked, of course, like everything I’ve ever made. This one works as a shield, an invisible barrier between me and any oncoming enemies. And should anyone approach me with force? The weapon rebounds on them.

The first brigand plants his legs and raises his club to ward me off, but I plow him down and step right over the top of him before charging onto the next fellow. He retreats several feet after seeing me trample his friend, before finding his nerve.

He sidesteps me, swings toward me with his staff. I fling my left hammer outward, catch the blow on the invisible shield, and the man falls on his rump from the strength of the magical rebound.

With the swing of my right hammer, which doesn’t have a lick of magic within it, I cave in his skull.

That’s two down. Seven remain, staring at me like they’ve seen some mystical creature fall from the sky.

“Let us pass,” I insist once more.

Flecks of red paint my fingertips. Blood and brain matter and Goddesses know what else. My stomach rolls over.

I’ve no taste for violence, but I’ll do it to protect those I love. Even when it horrifies me.

Devran hefts his club in two hands. “Charge!”

I let Petrik and Kellyn handle the rest, preferring to stay near Temra in case I’m needed.

Lady Killer, Kellyn’s beloved longsword, was magicked especially for the purpose of taking on multiple foes at once. Though Devran’s men surround Kellyn, the mercenary grins as they approach him.

He dodges a swinging club from the left, strikes out toward the right, thrusting the tip of his sword into another man’s gut.

Lady Killer encourages him to spin, nudging him in the right direction, and Kellyn just misses the tip of a staff jabbing where he once stood.

Three weapons swing toward him at once, and Kellyn bends backward in half, swinging Lady Killer in a wide arc to deflect every strike.

Petrik stands close to the wagon still, but that’s only because his weapon works better from afar. He casts the metal staff, which twirls end over end until it makes contact with one of the brigands. He wears no armor, and I hear ribs crack before the staff flies back toward Petrik, the magic causing it to return to the caster, always.

Five left.

Kellyn and Petrik wheedle down their numbers until only Devran and one of his men remain.

The extra man flees while Devran stares at us in wonder. “Who are you people?”

Kellyn Derinor, the mercenary.

Petrik Avedin, the scholar.

Ziva Tellion, the bladesmith.

Our relationships with each other are more complicated than ever. But we’re willing to fight, each and every one of us, to protect the other. Our adventures together have bonded us through blood.

Another cough comes from the wagon, and I’ve no choice but to wipe my hands on my own pants before climbing in to see to Temra.

“We’re travelers in a hurry,” Petrik answers, “and you’ve kept us long enough.” He throws the staff, catches Devran at the temple, and the leader goes down in a heap of limbs. Petrik runs after the bandit who fled.

I pull my sister’s hair away from her lips, trying to keep it from the blood gathering at her mouth. I look over my shoulder, about to throw another hateful glare at Kymora.

But there’s no one else in the cart.

I blink several times, as though that will conjure the warlord.