Page 73 of Death Will Follow

The guard nodded. “Let’s have a look, then.” He held a hand out, flapping his fingers, urging Callan to be quick about it.

Callan removed a bundle of rolled leather from his saddlebag and handed it to the guard, who turned and disappeared through the darkened doorway of the guardhouse. Slipping in behind him, Callan peered over the male’s shoulder as he unceremoniously plucked at the bundle’s laces and unfurled the roll intended for tools onto the tabletop, nearly toppling a mug of ale beside a plate of half-eaten food. With the shards on display, the black metal glinting under the light of a single candle, the guard’s demeanor shifted, his back going rigid as he took a swift step away from the table.

“I’ll, erm—” The guard pulled once more of the ends of his beard. “I’ll need to send for our Guild Leader to grant you entry to the Forge.”

Callan left the guardhouse and stood beside his horse, stroking the animal’s broad side while he awaited the arrival of the Guild Leader. The great gate eased open a short time later, parting only enough for a tall female to exit the Forge.

“Greetings,” she said, swiping a wrist across her forehead. An apron of thick brown leather covered her broad chest, the loose sleeves of a stained shirt rolled up over muscled forearms. “I’m Lyra, the Guild Leader. Skad tells me you’ve brought an unusual piece.”

She jerked her chin at the guard who stepped aside, allowing her entry to the guardhouse, and Callan followed her inside. For a few moments, she didn’t speak, her head bowed over the sword shards as she ran calloused fingers gingerly along the black metal.

“A most unusual piece,” she murmured. Straightening to her full height, Lyra turned to Callan, an unreadable expression on her face. “This”—she jerked a thumb at Kinslayer—“is a darkblade.”

“I’m not familiar with that term.” Callan shifted his stance, clasping his hands behind his back.

“A darkblade is a weapon forged from a rare metal found deep underground. Much deeper than any of our mines reach.” She pursed her lips, appraising him for a moment. “It’s an unstable material. What’s more, your sword has a powerful enchantment upon it. But I assume you already knew that.”

Callan waited for a beat before nodding once. “It does.”

Lyra shook her head slowly, eyes darting past her shoulder to the broken blade.

Callan furrowed his brow. After all they’d endured, he hoped the quest to find the shards hadn’t been in vain.

“Are you saying you’re unable to fix it? Because—”

Lyra held a hand up in the space between them. “I can fix anything,” she asserted, the hint of a self-assured grin clinging to the corners of her mouth. “I’m saying that blade is dangerous for the wielder. Deadly, even. If I’m going to reforge a blade like that, it’ll cost you.”

Callan produced a leather purse, heavy with coin, and tossed it to the smith. She caught it, dark brows rising as she weighed its heft in her palm.

“It’s a fine start.” She dropped the coin purse in the pocket on the front of her apron. “But not enough, I’m afraid. I’ve never even seen a darkblade. There were whispers of one, centuries ago. A cautionary tale about some sort of accident where the smith shaping the weapon lost his sight. If I’m to risk myself in this pursuit, I’ll need more.”

“How much more?”

“What more can you offer?” The smith’s lip curled, revealing a thin strip of white against her soot-stained face.

Callan glanced at the guard—Skad was it?—who leaned one shoulder against the stone wall, a solemn expression on his face. Blowing out a breath, he pushed the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbows, exposing the black cuffs marking his wrists.

“Would a bulk commission of enough blades for Noble Lord Thorn’s personal guard suffice?”

As far as Callan knew, Thorn’s Guard wasn’t in need of new weaponry, but he was desperate. He’d arrange the details with his uncle later.

“Well, well, well.” Lyra clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, golden eyes flicking from Callan’s markings to the guard on her left. “Skad, I hope you practiced your curtsy. Looks like we’re in the presence of a Nyhauslen.”

“I go by Callan.” He lowered his sleeves, averting his gaze but catching the look of astonished recognition crossing Skad’s face as the guard’s eyes fell upon the hilt of the sword sheathed at Callan’s back.

“That ought to do it.” Lyra grinned, displaying several teeth covered with decorative silver caps. She extended a hand, and Callan clasped forearms with her, binding them both to the arrangement.

The following day, Callan sat alone at a worn wooden table in the tavern at The Rusty Dagger. After escorting him into the Forge, Lyra had parted ways with him in front of the inn. With the leather roll containing the Kinslayer shards tucked under her arm, she left him with a promise to meet him by the lunch hour the next day.

He’d chosen a spot by the front with a view of the street. The underground city was vast and remarkably warm, lit with great torches burning atop poles that lined the busy thoroughfare. Between small sips from his mug of ale, Callan lost himself in the steady rhythm of folk rushing past the windowpane and perusing wares ranging from skillfully crafted armor to simple pots and pans.

When his eyelids drooped, he scrubbed a rough hand over his face. Sleep had eluded him as he tossed and turned in the strange bed the night before, acutely aware of the absence of Nova’s warm body beside him. It returned him to the agony of the months they’d spent apart. After weeks of sleeping with an arm hooked between her breasts and her ass pressed to his lap, Callan imagined he’d never be able to sleep comfortably without her again. A heaviness had settled in his chest as he stared at the ceiling, sweating in the stifling heat, until a soothing voice—Nova’s voice—drifted across his consciousness.

All is well, my love. All is well.

His mate had repeated the words in his mind, her voice lilting like a lullaby, until, at last, he’d fallen asleep.

The chair across from him scraped over the stone floor, the grating sound rousing him with a flinch. Lyra fell into the seat, setting a heavy item rolled in dark fabric on the table before pouring herself a hearty mug of ale. Downing the amber liquid in a single go, she swiped a shirtsleeve across her mouth when she was through.