Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(98)

“Many of you are familiar with the warlord Kymora Avedin. She was my late father’s general. Since the division of our realm, she’s been maintaining a large personal army—which she claimed was to keep other kingdoms from thinking us vulnerable.

“However, Kymora was only biding her time, gathering more soldiers to her cause. She intends to rule Ghadra herself. To beat every territory into submission under her rule. She has already accomplished this in my territory, and she is headed here now to do the very same with Marossa.”

More murmurs, louder this time, arise from the mercenaries. Some start pacing in place, fidgeting noticeably. There’s a lot of restless energy among these fighters. I worry some of them might bolt, but they stay in place for now.

Skiro continues, “I’ve come with my men and joined forces with Marossa. The other royal siblings have sent aid.”

Very little aid at that, but the prince doesn’t elaborate.

“But we hope to add you to our ranks,” Skiro says. “That is why you have been called here today. Now, who will join our cause for country and liberty?”

Dead silence meets the prince’s request.

He quickly adds, “You will of course be paid for your services.”

More silence.

Then, someone shouts, “Is the tournament still happening?”

The prince, baffled by the question, says, “No, the warlord will be here by then.”

“So I traveled all this way for nothing?” another asks. “Is someone going to reimburse my travel fees?”

“You could definitely take it out of the sum you will receive for aiding your countrymen,” Skiro says diplomatically, but I can tell he’s starting to grow impatient with the sellswords before him.

“How much are you paying us?” someone asks.

“It’s a modest sum, but—”

“Isn’t this warlord rich?” another asks. “I feel like she would give us a better wage if the tournament is out.”

At that, Skiro’s face turns to horror. I’m sure mine must match it.

Kellyn releases my hand to step up next to the prince. “Fellow mercenaries,” he says. “Ghadra will be forever changed if Kymora conquers it. Think of your families and friends. Think of those who pay your wages. Everything will be ruined if you join her—if you don’t agree to fight for us. I understand your minds. I am one of you. The sword is also my trade. But Kymora is evil. There will be no freedom under her rule. Think of your futures.”

A pause.

Someone says, “Still sounds to me like working for her wouldn’t be such a bad option. What does it matter who rules? A tyrant is a tyrant is a tyrant.”

More gradual assent gathers as the mercenaries catch on to that idea.

And I realize, It’s not going to work. We can’t convince them to join us. If the prince can’t do it and Kellyn can’t do it—who else are they going to listen to?

They might listen to you.

The voice is the barest whisper in the back of my head; it sends a jolt of fear through my entire body.

Stop that, I command my limbs, the blood pulsing under my skin. The horror spreading throughout my very being.

It doesn’t listen.

I won’t do it. There’s no way I would stand up there next to Kellyn. To speak to these people. I’m a nobody. Literally no one of consequence in the world.

But you made their weapons. You know what they can do and how best to use them. They respect you.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not a ruler. I’m not a mercenary like them. I’m seriously one of the worst people with words on the planet. I am no public speaker. I would only make things worse.

More questions are directed at the prince and Kellyn. Some mercenaries start walking off. Others are arguing among themselves over who the better fighter is.

Some seem to have already forgotten the threat of Kymora and are arguing over nothing relating to the upcoming fight at all.

How quickly their attentions stray. Fighters aren’t always the best listeners.

But as I look at the retreating backs of those who intend to leave the city with their weapons, my feet step forward of their own accord.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


“Wait!” I shout.

I feel my voice drift up from my throat, but I have no memory of giving it the command to speak. I feel alight with painful electric shocks. My hands are shaking, and all my limbs feel some confusing mixture of lightness and unbearable weightiness at the same time. Like I’m not actually present.

The retreating figures halt in place. They turn around or look over their shoulders.

Kellyn puts what he hopes is a comforting hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off. I can’t stand to be touched right now. I’m already feeling way too much, and I can barely think.

Start with your name, the little voice encourages. The brave me who is always hidden in the far reaches of my mind.

“I’m Ziva Tellion,” I say, weakly at first. I repeat the words again with volume. “I made your weapons,” I tack on foolishly.

Some of them were made years ago. They might have forgotten what you looked like. And some of them only interacted with Temra, so they wouldn’t even know you on sight. It’s okay to introduce yourself.

I still feel like an idiot. Every word out of my mouth burns. I try to mentally validate myself. Assure myself I’m okay.