Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Somebody is cooking strips of meat on the flat blade of a massive broadsword.
And I’m wrong. It’s not a proper fire, as in one set with logs, and there’s no flat hearth to contain it. A torch is being held upright between a pair of leather-clad knees, and the sword is being held over it.
Confused, my eyes trace the corded thigh muscles that run down, right-angled, into the profile view of a hip. Rising up from that anchor, the torso of a man is clad in a long-sleeved black tunic, and tilted against a rough-cut wall, waves of long black hair drying in corkscrews—
I wake up in a rush, my lids flipping all the way open, the sound of the Gauntlet crowd dimming in a flash, the familiar glow of the pine tables and floors extinguished as if all the lanterns in the place are turned off at once.
Just a dream.
And where am I? I seem to be lying on my side with my cheek on a damp stone floor, and an essential exhaustion keeps me in that position as I try to figure out—
Merc.
Through the linen veil that covers my face, my eyes take in all the details of him, and my brain connects his grim presence with our grim present. A ringing disappointment blooms in my chest: I am in the tunnel. With him … and the balas that followed him out of the moat.
Which he’s turned into dinner.
The predator we bested is on its back by the murky pool, and a wide block of flesh has been taken from its ribs, the anatomy far too obvious and bloody for my tender eyes.
So my gaze returns to the man with a greed I don’t want to acknowledge. In the torchlight, Merc’s legs and clothes are clean of both colors of blood, so I guess he gave himself a thorough bathing. And as he monitors what he’s cooking, the planes of his lean, aggressive face are remote, his stare fixed on what he’s doing, even though I suspect his mind is far away.
I trace the scarring across his eye. Where have his thoughts gone in a private moment like this? To his family, whoever they are? A woman he once knew and loved? Children he’s had and misses dearly?
A wife he provides for by doing brutal things for money?
As misplaced jealousy digs into my hollow gut, I lift my aching head—
“So you’re awake then.”
His voice is low and deep, full of gravel. And then he turns his head and looks at me. As I am careful to focus on his throat, I sense that his eyes are hooded, and watch as his mouth flattens into a tense line.
In any other circumstance, I would ask him what’s wrong. As it goes, that would be a long list and all of it is very obvious.
“We need to eat as much as we can of that beast.” He returns to staring at the meat. “As much as you can stand. And we won’t be able to take the bread with us through the water, so we might as well consume it, too.”
I sit up, and the tunnel swings around like the bow of a ship. Throwing out a palm, I brace myself to keep from falling back over. The thought of swallowing anything but air makes my throat tighten to a gag.
“We wait until dawn.” He brings the broadsword around to inspect his cooking. “I could not find a way through the collapse in the dark. The daylight will show the way. If there is one.”
Not yet satisfied by the meat’s appearance, he returns the blade to the torch, and the sizzling resumes.
“You did well,” he mutters gruffly. “With your blade.”
It’s as close as he can get to thanking me for saving his life. And I’ll take it. “You’re … welcome.”
“I’ve cleaned and sharpened it for you.” He nods toward my feet. “That little thing was made well, by someone who knew what they were doing.”
Right within my reach, the knife is gleaming like a gem, and my hand trembles as I pick the familiar object up. Somehow, he’s brought it back from the dull and grungy state it’s always been in, and now every part of it shines as if new.
Clearing my throat, I say hoarsely, “I found it in the village square. After the traveling merchants’ day a couple of years ago.”
“Somebody is still missing the thing, I’ll tell you that. Made of fine steel and the handle’s honed alaight.”
“I don’t even know what kind of wood that is.”
“It grows in the northern territory.” His face seems to soften. Or maybe I’m about to pass out again? “Those trees are the only thing that live on the mountain slopes. They’re small, and their trunks are twisted, yet the branches are only ever straight. You have to hike to reach them, and when you get in range, the raagles will come after you because they nest in them.”