Folded Earth: Folded Series, #1

By Tracy Eire

Find the elf King or burn....

It's a pity he's only a legend. Right?

Ora has been a nomadic warrior and 'messenger-man' in the High North all her life.

But she's honour bound to settle in a foreign town with a very different culture. There, not a soul believes in warrior women, their leadership or authority.

Yet when the fires start -- burning unchecked -- and assassins hunt in the halls of the Council, she's among the first to act. Ora stops a killer and is soon drafted by the Master of Boats to deliver a critical message into the North.

To… a recipient who is a legend? And a people who are a myth?

Real lives are on the line.

So, Ora crosses through Warped lands and twisted monsters to make sure the message is delivered.

On the dark shores of a misted fjord, Ora must face the fears of a town desperate enough to send a message to a mythical race and a monarch out of storybooks.

However, by the time she arrives her heart is racing. Her disbelief, wavering.

If these legends don't exist, who made the structures that marked her way? The glorious archways. The wonderous groves. And a mechanism that allows ships to sail uphill?

What will befall the town when calamities spark like magic, and officials abandon their posts on pain of death?

Who are these Strangers, and the legend known only as the Lock-Maker King?

You'll love this Fantasy 'first contact' series, because Ora is a warrior for underdogs!

Get it now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Eire
• Release date: Mar 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201663582

Tracy Eire

My name, Tracy, means warrior in Irish, and that's apt. I come from a much-storied island off the coast of Eastern Canada, where kids weren't handled with kid-gloves. We had the run of the place -- icebergs and all! The land, the storms, and the beliefs shaped me into a storyteller. But I'm also an avid collector of things, like dolls, books, and... ghost hunting tips. I have a background in literature and psychology, with an entirely unhealthy dollop of technology (that's run a decade now and includes Clouds of all kinds)! I paint too much and think about trivia and oddities about the same, but it all comes out on the page! I've been writing professionally for about 7 years now. You'll like my work if you're interested in near-future science fiction, ghost-stories, or kick-@$$ heroes and heroines. And if you're Street Team Strong? Let me know on my site's Contact Page! Thanks and happy reading!

Book preview

Chapter 1 – The Council

Several miles from burgeoning Bridge Township rose some of the harshest foothills in the world. They were next to impassable, which had safeguarded the growing town from Northern approach all of its life. The stony labyrinth, which much resembled discarded wooden blocks in a child’s toy-box, was run through by the might of Wild River as it flowed from the highlands. This rumbling giant spread its fingers like a delta through the burgeoning town.

Ora watched the waters now in the turmoil of a distributary churning in the deep furrows it had cut through soil into the rock of the town.

Five rivers came through the Township to unite downhill in Green Mirror — the great mother lake, whose serpentine river of egress was the trade-route through woods and savanna, from Township to Portston. Each of the rivers that fed the Green Mirror had a size and depth that defined their characters, wild or mild, no different than people.

But without the regrets of people.

Ora Buckmaster threw scraps of bread into the crushing arms of the river beside her. Offerings of bread and wine were often made here in the hopes that the river wouldn’t demand any more children. Never mind that she thought it superstitious bunk. She did it just in case.

She knew about this place and its unspoiled day-by-day life, and because she didn’t stay in them long, she didn’t often get to know places. She chucked bread into the river more angrily now.

Incoming horses, Ora. One of the stable boys shouted from the front of the barn. Stop feeding that glutton.

She went to tend to the horses.

It was a job reserved for young boys in these parts. But the owner of these expansive stables had taken her on as he had a limited number of other young women. Since then, she’d come to understand that he’d planned to seduce her. But his fumbled attempts at exercising power over her were beneath her notice. She had patience for the horses, though. They were soothing.

She walked out to the courtyard and took in the tall lady in fineries who rode side-saddle. Like many of these Township folk, she had blonde hair and snowy skin. Her cheeks were flushed with wind. She sucked an unsteady breath. Seems to be some hubbub on the Highlands. She looked for the nearest boy in the crowd, as did the several riders with her, all of whom boarded their horses here.

Ora took the bridle carefully in hand. I’ll take care of your horse.

You? the girl’s face screwed up and she looked over her shoulder at the young men who had ridden out with her. Is this girl to care for my horse?

She is miss, answered an older stable boy, Arnitz, as if he’d been asked.

The girl gave up and accepted the help of one of her men, getting down from her horse. She walked away without a backward glance after that and Ora took over care of the horse and tack. The bay reared a little when Ora walked the heat out of him. His brown eyes rolled until white could be seen around their edges.

More trouble in the Highlands, Arnitz said as he walked a long-legged gray beside her.

We have the Bridge Township Guardsmen and the Outriders for that.

The Guard and the Wolves, you mean? he asked innocently.

Ora was from the High North. There was no such thing as calling an Outrider a Wolf in her parts, but that was the only name they went by down here. Considered wild mercenaries for hire, unprincipled and harsh, they were warriors and raiders out of another age, bound by a different covenant than the gentlefolk to the Low North and Southern lands. In this tinker-town she’d learned that to call Outriders anything but Wolves was to confess yourself. She was of that same ilk. But Arnitz was mature compared to the other boys, and almost her age. He was patient with her, and, though a Londh, was like a good Wolf in that he told no tales.

His voice was low and private. The Northern Wolves... are they able to deal with the Warp on the Highlands, Miss Ora?

They are. She knew that to be true.

And... and they’re not here for plunder?

I don’t speak for all Wolves, Arnitz, she cautioned, and then added. All warriors are for plunder, if there are spoils to be had.

She cooled the horse down and stabled him. Then she sat washing the leather saddles and bridles of the riders. Raised to work, and to cleaning, and stronger than most of the boys, she often had this mindless task. She could carry it out wherever she liked, which, presently, was seated on a hay bale beside the river. She rubbed leather soap into saddle and hummed to herself as she watched the big river beside her.

She paused, exhaled the entrant warmth, and parodied a Northern walking song. I, a Northern woman, take no Southerly descent / I ramp upon the tundra deep, the icicles my tent / All Northern women strong and loud / upon the mountains tall and proud / come see this lowly beggar rubbing saddles for her rent. She hummed bright, melodic bars, but sang again at the end. This is who I am now / This is who I am.

Then she stared a while, saddles and bridles done, to listen to the laugher of children across the water, and the clop of hooves and wagons above the din of midday citizens abroad. She looked at her fingers on the leather soap and told herself, This is who I am now. Her lips compressed.

Ora — horses coming! Arnitz shouted. His voice was dim from where she sat. She set the soap into its pouch, dipped her hands in the icy water she’d drawn from the River, and dried off in a saddle cloth as she headed back inside.

Guards. One of the smaller boys said.

Get up out of the way, Ora admonished him with short-tempered practicality. They ride in tens and twelves, and you’re too small. Get or you’ll be trampled.

He didn’t move quickly enough, so she caught him up and set him on top of the gate. Whoever had thought that it was a good idea to send a child that small to work was either delusional or starving. She glanced over him, and four more like him, fearful, clustered behind the open gate, and Ora couldn’t help but sigh. Want will be your master.

Be careful Miss Ora, belled the boy she’d tucked away. He had a high and pretty voice.

Out of the way! blustered the Captain who arrived into the clay courtyard and turned his horse around with a yank of his reins. It crabbed sideways into Ora. She caught hold of the saddle the man sat in, front and back, and hopped when the horse threw out a long hind leg.

Though she was off in an instant, the rider shoved her aside with his stirrup and boot. He bit at her, Do I look like I have time for you?

Apologies, sir, she called out to him as he got off of his horse. The riders in here numbered eight, she noticed at the same time. When he was on the clay, she stepped forward for his horse. The animal reared, and, fed up with antics, he grabbed the reins and yanked hard.

A shrill whinny of pain made all the other mounts mill anxiously.

There’s no need. There’s no need, sir. Ora called. Let her go if you will. This yard is closed off. I’ll fetch her. She caught one of his hands upon the reins, and he glanced over his shoulder and elbowed her across the mouth.

Ora reeled away.

This is my mare, is it not? He turned her way and growled. A slattern of the stable-master should not touch the likes of me!

Of course not, Ora’s bloody lips twisted. It was two quick steps to cover the ground between them before she let sail her right fist. She connected with his face, and the sound of his jaws ricocheting shut warmed the cold places inside of her a little bit. He slammed down on the clay of the yard like a sack of wheat.

His horse bolted a few steps, and Ora let her. The horse simply rejoined the others among the troop and huddled there.

I’ll be sure, Ora wiped her bloody lips in her sleeve, to tell any slatterns I see... but I know enough of them to say they’d never want the likes of you without a pretty penny.

When she turned, she saw a large number of armed men staring at her in disbelief. Arnitz took the Captain’s horse in one hand and another with his second, wide-eyed.

A soldier leaned toward her, horrified. Miss, he’ll have you horse-whipped.

A jolt of cold rushed through her veins and Ora backed away.

No, run, the same man told her. Don’t be here when he wakes!

Arnitz handed off the reins he held, caught hold of Ora’s elbow, and steered her through the stables without a word. He rushed through the cloak-room, took down her threadbare cape, and shoved it at her. Do you need some food for the next hours, Ora?

Don’t fuss. She told him, but her voice was pale.

He gave her the hunk of cheese and bread he had for himself. Do not come back before tomorrow morning. I’ll talk to Mr. Hedgewove, okay? And it wouldn’t hurt you to be kind and smile at him when you get back. If you do. He hustled her out the back of the stables just as shouting started in the front.

Ora’s bloody teeth flashed, Don’t let that ruffian touch you, Arn.

He pressed a clean cloth to her face and frowned. I’m sorry, Ora. Now run.

Then he shut and bolted the back door used by the hands here. She stood outside for a moment, a long moment. Then clocked her head on the wood in defeat.

She headed away from the stables alone and ambled through town with her little bag of bread and cheese and some small coinage. This allowed her to grab chicken bones and some meager vegetables for the pot. The way across town was thick with carriages and men moving dung to be carted out to the fields. She was outside of the limits of the city, though not in the sad shanties that dotted the banks of the Silken. She was further still, in the shadow of the wood, in a tent.

Outrider guards stood at the perimeter and didn’t stir as she passed. Here were the so called ‘Northern Wolves’ with their yurt tents and their airborne wood-cage caches draped in drying furs and full of birds or braces of rabbit. Things were organized in an Outrider camp. The tents were staggered to offer cover, and there was no mess to be seen lying around. The smell of food wafted. Bread. There were some Wolves here, even in the day.

She was just inside the forest, under towering trees. Ora’s tent was dyed to match the evergreen that surrounded it. It had been white before they’d come down from the mountains, and she well-missed those days. It was too early for her to be back.

She lifted the tent flap.

There was only one person inside. He lay on bedding stretched beyond the narrow yurt-stove, flat on his back, throwing a woven ball in air and catching it with the same hand. When he heard the flap flip aside, he sat up and drew a dagger.

Put it down. We’re not in the killing fields now, Airic. She told him as she walked in.

He chucked the blade into the tree stump they’d built around and used as a table. He rubbed his blue eyes and blinked, Yes, well, if you’ve got all the answers today, what are you doing back?

She laid down the supplies she’d bought on the table — actually bound planks of wood laid atop carefully piled stones. She fussed with a turnip, I might have lost my situation.

Airic threw his hands up in air when he saw her. Yay!

Ora threw a sack of onions at him. "No, you scat. No."

They fell into silence in the yurt tent in which they lived. After a moment, and considerably more quietly, Airic said, Yay. He picked at a loose onion skin as she set out the bread and cheese.

It’s... disappointing, she told him. She was frustrated with herself.

There was a long story between these two, between Ora Buckmaster and Airic Awns. That story went back three years, ninety days. With so much time, it was impossible to go back to the days when Airic Awns had been some young brawler who’d crossed her path. For someone with such a sour reputation, he’d been level-headed in person. Blessed with a hale body, strong and vicious whether armed or not, he still had the indefatigable elasticity of youth. Some purpose had made him better than good. She knew what it was now. His twin.

Where’s Icari? she set out the bread and cheese and picked up a knife reserved for cooking and cutting up food. Come and eat some of this.

He’s working.

She gritted her teeth, "How the Fires can he be working? The cheese jumped apart on the wood planks with a crack, she’d brought down the knife so hard. Here I am, and I can’t manage to keep at a job for longer than a few weeks."

Airic sat down on one of the tree stump seats and looked up at her. Let me ask you something, Ora. Does your dismissal from... what were you doing this time?

Stables. She said.

Did your dismissal from the stables have something to do with your bloody mouth?

She reached up and gingerly touched her fattened lip. Somewhat.

Airic tore the heel off the segmented loaf of bread and smeared some of the baggy of white cheese onto it, What about the other guy?

She daubed blood from her lip. I hit him in the mouth and he took a nap.

Ah, he smiled and nodded at her. Okay. So, that’s good, at least. He offered her the bread and pointed at the kettle on the yurt stove. There’s tea. Should still be warm. Then he went and poured for them both.

Ora sat on a stump with a cloth to her mouth. The tea burned and the first swallows tasted of blood, but then, few things were much of a comfort to her these last months.

Airic nodded. "I hate getting hit in the face. After that... everything you have to do hurts." His words were rueful. She remembered one of the best things about travelling with a band of Outriders was that there were moments of compassion somewhere in the world.

They ate in silence. It hurt. And when the tent flap moved, Ora pulled a fighting knife as along as her forearm from its hiding place, strapped under the table, and she spun up to the ready. Beside her, Airic snickered. Icari, if that’s you, speak now?

It’s Redd, came the boom of his jovial reply.

At that point, Redd, who more closely resembled a giant than a man, crouched down, squeezed his muscle-smothered bones through the door, and rose up so that his head brushed pine branches overhead. Always with him, there was a moment where one nearly heard a flourish because he’d accomplished something that, for a normal sized man, would be of no particular note. He stood smiling. Well, I didn’t expect—

He truly saw Ora and his happy mood vanished. It was saying something, Ora realized, because when you were as large as an Ice Bear, no one wanted to spoil your mood. There were ways. One could elbow his best friend in the face. What happened, Ora? He scurried up to her like a fretful cat, except very much larger.

I will need a new situation. She told him.

Why? Did you fall and do yourself harm? Are you bad at this job? he turned to Airic. What is she doing, Airic?

Stables.

You’re good with horses, Ora, his fist popped off the planks and his face reddened. "Who said you weren’t good with horses?!"

With the tent flap open, it was no trouble to see the young Outriders next door sprint away.

It hurt to smile. Redd, you’re scaring the locals.

He forced himself to breathe and hunched against the table. What happened to you?

A man called me a slattern and hit me. She noted. I dropped him on the dirt. However, it’s likely I also dropped my position there.

You can’t go hunting for work looking like... Redd reached out a hand and tipped her head up a little. He might have covered her entire face with that paw, but he was, in fact, a gentle soul at heart. My, he did a job. Do you know his name? He tipped her head and went for the small kit of expensive salves.

No need, she told him.

Let him, Airic said without looking at her. He filled a cup with tea for Redd instead. And he’s right. You can’t go job hunting with a split lip and bruised... his blue eyes darted up, "unless you want to do a certain type of job."

I can take her to the Council yard where I work. No combat involved, so far. They were happy to have someone with experience at the gate. Redd jabbed a finger upward in air, It’s important to appear intimidating.

Airic started to smile, That describes you perfectly. He suffered a shove from Redd’s massive hand that tipped the stump on which he sat. Airic, used to the huge man, simply stood up as it happened and righted the stump under him again.

By then Redd had started to attend to her bruises and the cut in her lip. I’m rusty.

Don’t do that, Airic started to clear up the table. Everyone gets hit. That’s what a sucker punch is, Ora. It happens.

It took a few minutes to clean up her lip, accomplished with an application of ‘healer’s’ honey after cleaning the cut with alcohol. Sweetness flooded her mouth and she sat back, contented in spite of the pain in her face. Anyone know how Icari is doing?

Both Redd and Ora looked at Airic. "I don’t even understand what Icari is doing," his twin admitted.

Redd closed his hands together and chuckled. I do.

Of course you do, Airic said in disgust. "You’re from a family of giant librarians."

Even Ora had to smile at this notion, which, oddly, was one-hundred percent factual.

Icari was Airic’s twin brother. She’d met him shortly after she’d sought out Airic for her Crew. She’d come far enough along to know that more could be accomplished by a Crew in the wide Northern expanses and towering mountains. More could be learned with and from them.

Airic had been a gambler. Like anything that stood to be lucrative in a Northern mining town, that could be a violent pastime the better one got at it. Going by the sheer amount of violence involved with his winnings, she’d assumed nothing held him to the squalid Northern town he squatted in. After all, any personal associates would have met with disaster. When she’d asked him to join her, he’d taken her to the anchor that tied him to that place. She’d learned what exceptional really looked like. Icari Awns, the younger twin, was a bit strange, even now that she knew him. He’d been, and remained, one of the most naturally gifted swordsmen she’d ever seen.

Ora had bought their service, thick and thin, blood and bone, for three years.

But the price had been her next three. To be spent in one place, it appeared.

Icari had chosen Bridge Township, and a chance at what he wanted most in life. This growing town was full of artisans, and even blood-soaked Ora well understood this was exactly where Icari belonged. No matter how deadly he was, he wanted the kind of peace and stability he’d never known, and Airic, she knew, would follow him to the grave.

That was what held her here.

Part of the problem was that she was on peace bond as a duty of this agreement. In other words, they didn’t want her remarkable skill with her fists to get them thrown out of town. As it was getting her thrown out of work.

She set down her weapon, which she wasn’t supposed to touch anymore, and felt the borders of the bruise on her chin and cheek. I don’t suppose he’ll mistake this for a spill, Icari.

He won’t, Airic laughed at her. But nothing says you mean business more than a facial injury, Ora, particularly when you’re heading for an interview. I’ve got a caravan to escort into town in the afternoon.

He didn’t peace bond you. She said with venom.

Airic was quite serious when he replied. "He won’t let me play at cards, bones, runes... he won’t let me play checkers, Ora. How is that not a peace bond?"

She stood and snickered at him.

Nodding, Airic said, You should use that time to go with Redd and, I suppose, look dangerous.

Finally, something you’re good at, Redd clapped the table, cheerily.

She backhanded his upper arm, which was rather like a chickadee bouncing off the prow of a war-wagon, but it was the thought that counted. She finished her cup of tea. He’ll have to understand. She went to the small divider in the back of the tent, which was created by hanging drying blankets over green boughs. There, she got out of her button shirt, bound her chest, and put on her thick leather shirt. Over that, she put on green metal mail preferred by the Outriders during the spring and summer months. She strapped on scarred vambraces before she came out again.

Airic was already by the rough-hewn weapons stand in the corner.

There, polished and gleaming, due to Icari’s ministrations, were her weapons. Airic took up the fighting knives. If you leave the sword here... there is some chance he will not count this as a broken oath, Ora. He glanced up to study her face for assent.

She strapped them on and studied the sword the man who’d raised her had given to her. It seemed very long ago now. But she knew it had only been five years.

In the end, she bowed to it, and, by Outrider custom, and by extension, to him.

Throwing knives. She pointed at a strap he wore.

Airic took them off and handed them over. She strapped them on and pulled in the leather. His chest was no small thing.

She set off for the tent flap, watched Redd fight his way through, and followed him. He was a gregarious and well-liked bookworm of a man, Redword. If anyone could talk her into a job, she had full faith that it would be him.

Any Outrider worth her salt could run for hours. It was no different among the men. They breezed through town and every footfall sent a jagged jab through her chin and mouth, a reminder of what she couldn’t do in a new situation. Ora crossed a narrow street, just flickers of motion before she was gone. At the same time, she hoped she would not, again, be called upon to stand by while innocents were mistreated. Her face felt like it had been buffed with sandpaper. But her expression was sedate. She scanned the townspeople around her, most of whom naturally cleared out of the way of running Wolves.

They reached one of the second river arches and drew up, side by side. Redd’s stride devoured the meters and meant she was travelling well past his speed to keep up. He slowed to spare her face the jarring run, but she began to overtake him.

Soon they were in the heart of town. Here, the stone buildings began, their faces mingled with wood stained brown and white at first. Then the stone became increasingly more expensive, and the buildings grew taller. She glanced across at Redd, wide-eyed, "Where the Fires did you find work?"

Maybe it was some library or archives where he could file, catalog, root around and make a nest like some oversized, red-haired gnome.

It’s the building, just up ahead.

‘Just up ahead’ was Township Center. This was, in fact, the old, walled town of Bridges. Now the home of elites and the center of governance, it was a great bluish-white stone plaza so full of finely dressed people it nearly caused her to flag. But even they were keen to keep out from under Redd’s feet. He could blunder through the entire town like a massive bull moose, erudite as he was, she supposed. And no matter what he said or withheld about it, Ora knew quickly that he loved being in this place. Going by the placards hung out, it boasted several libraries and open book rooms.

At the center of the plaza, they passed a mound of green studded with... she had to brake for a moment. The bushes were cut into the shapes of animals. There were several of the long-haired local goats and soft-sided sheep with a green sheepdog at their heels. Several ‘horses’ were being trimmed as she stumbled by.

All right, Ora?

I... yes.

He chuckled, Never seen topiary before?

She’d spent most of her life above the tree-line. She wasn’t even completely certain ‘topiary’ was a real word. Redd’s lack of a pranking nature argued he was serious — she glanced back at the looming bushes — and what else would someone call those strange things?

They went up a set of stairs and now the buildings were large and official. They gleamed in their facing of blue-white stone, and Redd slowed as he passed through a tall archway. She followed him and glanced up as she did so. Beautiful arch of expensive stone or not, there was no mistaking a portcullis. She’d just entered a fortification, and inside the yard opened up on orderly streets of astonishing beauty — the inner city of the city. She slowed because Redd did, and they walked along, mindful of the many scholars carrying books, pages running around, or scribes with notes. She could hardly take her eyes off the buildings in here, because there were several towers and most stone structures had eight or more rows of windows.

She wasn’t in the wilds and stables here.

Redd, I’ll take this out of your hide.

He huffed with amusement. But he also didn’t doubt her. Instead he led her up the stairs to the doors of a long, tall, inner city building. It had a façade of white stone with the wildflowers reproduced in it, and reliefs of the tall trees around here were reflected on its bright face. Redd was recognized at the door and the two guardsmen there glanced over Ora.

Berrin, this is my dangerous friend, as I tell you about most days. Redd rocked from heel to toe and back proudly.

The man glanced at his younger partner. He blinked at Ora a few times, seeing as she was slightly taller than he was, and then looked to Redd. His voice was cool and logical, You left out a few things, friend Redd.... Like the fact she’s a woman.

Ora’s eyes slid sharply right and up at Redd, though none of the rest of her moved. That was a fine thing to leave out.

Doesn’t change a thing, he set a hand on Ora’s shoulder, about all she’s done. Ora. Berrin Angati, and Witt Dorst. Berrin hired me on. Berrin, this is, indeed, the Ora I’ve given you stories about. He released her and stepped back with his arms extended.

Dorst’s head tipped back. He was a young buck, she saw, and a proud one, And now we know you exaggerated, Redd.

Her head tipped a little to the left. You go on thinking that, little man.

She’s certainly... tall. Berrin stepped up to her. He was at her eye level. Large and gnarled as a tree. His face was scarred with time and, she caught in his posture, experience. Gray had started at his temples and the short beard he kept tugging at. Most men with as many scars didn’t live long enough for white hair. What happened to your face, girl?

Look who’s talking. But she didn’t say it. A man beat a horse. She told him.

And you, it appears. The man clucked his tongue and made to turn away.

And they carried him away like a sack full of cabbage. She told the back of his head.

Dorst shook his head. She’s not formidable enough, Redd. He glanced over her quickly and gave a sudden wide-eyed exhalation. It will take more than a bloody lip and a bruise to change anything about that.

Berrin, flask of tea in hand, half-turned to face her, We don’t hire lambs, Miss. And I’m sorry about your face. That was a shame, and if you care to report who did it, I’ll seek recompense for you personally.

Redd was boggled. He actually scratched his head. What’s this? Berrin? Sirs? Didn’t you hear her? She punished the man — laid him out flat on his back.

Careful how you put that, Dorst’s forehead wrinkled with dismay.

Ora held her temper. This lamb runs her own Crew.

Now Berrin stared at her and chewed the few leaves that had come up in his tea. He glanced around at the yard, though she didn’t know what he was looking for. He turned to Redd, "This is not a good time to bring someone unproven, Redd. Do you understand? It is a bad time."

Any man who looked at our line would see her as a point of weakness. Dorst shook his head.

Yes, Ora nodded solemnly. He would. She didn’t seem offended, or afraid of this.

Berrin whistled up a pair of passing guards and nodded at the door. They stepped up to take his place, and he pulled a face at Redd. What happens to her is on you, Redd... but all right. He glanced over at Ora. Follow me. We’ll see how you stand up to some of my men.

She glanced at Redd, and he smiled. His eyes narrowed as he shook his head minutely.

No problem, huh?

Ora stretched as she headed off behind these two strangers. Her fighting style wasn’t one they would have encountered much in the past. It relied not only on strength and speed, but on flexibility. She worked her neck a little. It was stiff from the blow to the head she’d taken.

What do they feed you in the North? Berrin asked Redd, and glanced at the woman with him, who was fully his own height.

Redd smiled at the sound of this, In the North, the goal is less... be fed than feed yourself. He meant it lightly, and the men with him laughed. But he also knew this was particularly true of Ora and he glanced at her gaze as it darted into the rooms she passed.

For her part, Ora counted people. She counted doors. She remembered the route she was taking into the belly of this building. Ahead, there was a spat of noise in the rooms and she went out around Redd’s right shoulder and put her hand on a throwing knife.

Glass broke.

They took off, all four of them, at a flat run.

A shrill scream cut away badly and this was followed by a woman’s howl, "Assassins!"

Dorst swung out a sword. He was closest to the door and he led with it, going in, which presented some dangers. Someone inside made a long and pained howl as Berrin plunged in.

Redd! Any other way out? Ora asked.

Rooms have doors on both ends, he raced down to the door at the top of the hall.

Ora glanced at the floor and walls around her. It was insane to come into an inner sanctum like this one to start a fight. She backed up and eased to the wall. The only escape that made sense was either to go into the sewers or up and out, and she knew which one she would prefer. Unless they meant to die trying.

People were yelling through shrieks and cries of agony.

A bloodied man in a deep cowl shot out the door. She tangled up his legs with one of her own and he slammed to the floor as his buddy exited. She darted after the man still on his feet. She gained on him quickly. The ring of her steel startled him, and he threw his weight back and pulled a sword. Ora slid down low and drew her fighting knife across his thigh.

He bellowed and clapped a hand over the injury. She slid up to her feet on the other side and slammed him in the side of the head with the hilt of her blade. The man reeled down to his knees, but the man she’d dropped on the rugs was running up the hall now, and another man followed him close behind. She hurried back toward him along the opposite wall, stepped up on a lip of wall panel and threw herself across at him.

She knew what to expect from the impact. But she was in armour and he wasn’t. That meant when she slammed him to the wall, momentum they’d both carried snapped panels of wood. The man dropped down in a boneless heap, and Ora, bounced back and out into a spin. She smacked the next man, who was trying to stop, with the back of her blade across the forehead. The top of his head jumped up in air like a hat thrown in celebration. And he was no more.

Blood shot along the oaken panels and thick glass transoms. Ora heard a sudden bleat of dismay at the door across that hall. She hadn’t seen the man who had taken a hostage over there. She had been only dimly aware of him until she’d dispatched this one. Now she lashed around because this runner had a knife across the throat of a man. She only had time for the glimpse and to aim as the cornered man began to shout something. It was cut rather short. At the end of her spin, she released a throwing knife that smacked into his face with terrific force. He fell over dead.

They’ve killed him! One of the staff shouted in the hall. They’ve killed the Warden!

Murderers! a woman howled and descended into an incensed belting of an assassin’s lifeless body with her fine leather boots. She had to be dragged away, screaming and swearing at the dead man.

Redd, his sword bloodied, hurried to join Ora in the hall. She glanced up at him, Are you all right, Redd?

Good, I’m fine. He brought his breathing under control. You’re bleeding.

She lifted her arms and looked down at herself, moving mail with her hands, but then saw a drop of blood skate down the links of chain over her chest.

Your lip, said the man who had, moments before, had a knife pressed to his throat. The fine Londh seemed more incensed about that than anything else. Now he stepped around the mess of the dead man on the carpeting. We’ll never get that out.

For the Land’s sake, Jhan, gasped a rounded man who leaned on the door behind him.

I’m all right, Karthok, he said, and returned his attention to Ora. He was tall, older than she was in that nebulous way of people in their prime, and broad-shouldered. He carried a book tucked under one arm, which meant he could read. That still wasn’t terribly common among the working class. His expression remained stretched between agitated and concerned. Then again, the man on the floor had been about to kill him.

Berrin cut into the hall and scanned the chaos critically. His gaze lit on the nearest of the guards that had flooded into the room from the top of the wooden hall. You? Who was this?

Me. Ora said with no uncertainty.

He pushed through the clot of guards and people in the hall. Did you leave any alive?

Maybe, she rolled her shoulders. I don’t know. Ora turned her head to cast her glance over the bloody furnishings, shattered wood panels, and dashed murderers. Berrin’s fellow guardsman, Will Dorst, stood up from the man Ora thought most likely to have survived and shook his head, so Ora revised. No.

There are four men out here, Berrin spoke it slowly. I don’t believe you did this. He looked at the guardsmen and then at Redd, even though he knew that Redd had been in the room with him, and protected the civil workers who had survived the initial attack.

The man with the book spoke up again, Oh, she brought down four men, all right, Angati. He laid a hand over his throat, and his tone was sunbaked as he said, I had the front row for that.

Karthok came back to the door with two alabaster cups full of wine. Here, Jhan. That was... this hall is too much for the constitution. He set his hand over his stomach and looked away.

Master of Boats, Berrin sketched a bow at the man with the book, too distracted by the dead to concern himself with obeisance. Are you injured?

That... he gestured the glass at the floor, that pile of mess had a knife to my throat. I believe there were demands he would have liked to make, but there was a knife in his eye before he had the occasion. I am unhurt. I have this... Wolf to thank. You are one of those ilk, are you not? He stepped up to Ora, unsteadily.

She glanced over the exceptional quality of his outfit, with its deep blue dye, and the fire-bells in her head warned her into civility. Sir, you must sit, she told him. He had gone damp and pale as events caught up with him. The pong of so much blood in the hallway left nothing to the imagination, and, in that moment, her mouth went bitter with pity.

He wavered and blinked at the floor. I believe you may be right.

Call the surgeon to him. To check him, Berrin muttered to one of the men who searched the building according to protocol. To check him for poisons. He turned and went down the hall, And hurry, Dorst.

Karthok hooked him around the ribs and said, Come sit, Jhan, for Land’s sake. You have a daughter not more than seven years who would have been alone in the world. There is some fracture involved in surviving this nonsense, Master of Boats. Let’s sit you down.

Even the most rugged of Outriders, the people townsmen called war-Wolves, whose lives were rife with the contests that sprang between forces of life and death, they began somewhere, with some living nightmare, in some forgotten place frozen in the Long Dark. At least he hadn’t thrown up as she had the first time. There was no peace