On the Wheel (The Living Blade Book 2) Read online

  On the Wheel

  Timandra Whitecastle

  Edited by Harry Dewulf

  On the Wheel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Timandra Whitecastle

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Map

  Books by Timandra Whitecastle

  Foreword

  PUTTING THE DAMAGE ON: The Living Blade: Book Four

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  FIRESTARTER: The Living Blade: Book Five

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  From the Forge

  Thanks

  Books by Timandra Whitecastle

  The Living Blade series so far:

  Touch of Iron

  On the Wheel

  Contributed to:

  The Lone Wolf Anthology, Undaunted Publishing

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  Foreword

  Stealing the idea from Mark Lawrence’s introduction to his second book in his Red Queen’s War trilogy, I want to provide a brief re-cap of Touch of Iron, Book 1 in The Living Blade series, for those of you who read it when it first came out. ‘So that your memories may be refreshed and I can avoid the exquisite pain of having characters tell each other things they already know for your benefit.’

  Thanks, Mark!

  Here’s a run down of what you need to know:

  • Noraya and Owen Smith are twins from the northern half of a decaying empire. Twins are regarded with superstition, and they have run away from home only to stumble on exiled Prince Bashan’s quest to find the Living Blade, an ancient relic of the old gods. Empowering its wielder with godlike power, it is sought by very dangerous people for very different reasons.

  • Bashan wishes to restore his throne by means of it, and also to mete out revenge on all those who have wronged him (or the the whole world, depending on his mood.) Self-acclaimed Queen Suranna, also High-Priestess of the Fire God Shinar, seeks the Blade’s power to revive her fallen god. A mistress of prophesy and seduction, she continues to manipulate emperors and zealots towards an endgame that might cost her ex-husband Master Telen Diaz far more than he is willing to give – and he has already given her control over his body.

  • After surviving imprisonment and near death in Shinar, Nora finds herself swept along once more in the quest for the Living Blade. It’s clear to her: the Blade must never be remade. Both Suranna and Bashan must never acquire it. Her budding relationship with half-wight Diaz lies in ruins. But at least she has her brother Owen.

  • Unknown to Nora, though, he has agreed to sacrifice himself to remake the mythical sword – and when she finds out, she will be furious.

  And now, read on.

  The Living Blade: Book Four

  Putting the Damage On

  Chapter 1

  Flames enveloped Diaz, licking his skin, charcoal fingers reaching, burning through the hardness of taut muscle, across old scars.

  “No,” he said, grappling with the heat plunging into his body, pulling at him, tearing, drawing, seeking.

  Queen Suranna’s tongues of fire struggled with him, moving against him in twisting eagerness at the prospect of their coupling. Her reach too greedy, her touch too demanding. He had felt the tidal change a few days ago. And she felt it too, rearing up against their inevitable parting. She lashed out with sudden ecstasy broken only by the pain as he pushed her away from him, bone-weary and disgusted. Again.

  “Enough.”

  Her husky laughter rippled, crawling across his mind. “It’s never enough, my love. It’s never—”

  He pushed her violently then, like a tug-of-war in his mind, his body staggering, making him fall to his knees. He could feel her hold the ropes tightly, binding him, watching him try to leave the dream she wove for him every night. Her shadows played with his vision, and his hands closed around soft, warm flesh. A pulse beat its frantic rhythm against his palms while the sun’s heat beat down upon him.

  “Stop it.” His fingers squeezed harder, a pain behind his eyes, his eyelids twitching.

  He saw what she wanted him to see. He was choking Nora, her unbound hair spilling over the back of his hands, tickling him as he lifted her off her feet. Her eyes open to the skies, face darkening, a forked vein in her forehead bulging, matching the throb in his hands. At first, she thrashed out with her legs and kicked against his hip. Then her hands scrabbled against his tight grip sluggishly, as though she were falling asleep in his arms.

  “No.” He drew a shuddering, weeping breath, feeling Nora break, feeling the struggle drain from her.

  He shook her then, and a sickening crack of bone left her limp hands sliding down his forearms in a final caress.

  His fists opened.

  Then his eyes.

  And he woke.

  The gentle sounds of night in the fields of Rheged closed in around him as dawn neared, the encompassing buzz of insects and the crisp chirps of birds drowning out the echoes of laughter reaching across the miles between him and the Temple of the Fire God. For the night, the small company had sheltered in a ditch filled with the crinkling, wind-swept leaves of autumn. The year had grown older while they had been in the ever-summer of Shinar. He looked around to check on his travel companions. It was his watch. He should never have closed his eyes, never tried to put up the mental barriers of his mind in meditation. The queen was still too close. But her influence was fading.

  He grimaced, exhausted, and then rose, making his way as though drunk, away from the small circle around the ruins of the campfire, his hands still shaking and his groin still tight. His gaze was drawn to where the twins slept. For a moment he was content to watch Nora’s chest rise and fall steadily. She was stirring, though, fighting against the lure of sleep. Her eyes twitched rapidly underneath their closed lids, seeing things in dream. There had been a time when he had waited for those signs of waking, ready to lead her off in the breaking dawn, to train, to spar, to sharpen his own skills on her quick learning. He still waited for them, but that was all. Waiting. Seeing whether she was still alive after he killed her in his sleep over and over again. So dark, his dreams of late. He pressed his lips together. The breeze took the current of sensuality along with it, the scent of honey-dripped lips and myrrh, and left him cold and empty. A new day. Another few miles. He’d try again tonight, raise the barriers, keep the queen out. One day soon, he would manage. They would only be traveling for a few more weeks, far into the wight territories in the north, to get the Blade from its hidden location revealed by Sur—the prophetess. And then he could mend her damage. Perhaps. At least some of it.

  He stoked the campfire’s embers when he returned, l
aying on a few more branches, then settled down before it, unsheathed his sword, and started to run his whetstone along the blade. The rhythmic ringing woke Nora, always first to rise. She sat up, stretching, her face pale and gaunt. A nightmare, then. Maybe like the ones she used to have when they were traveling together across the Plains. He thought he had given her comfort then. But he couldn’t now. He paused his work, watching her check if her brother was still alive. Ah, one of those nightmares. The ones that were to become real if Owen was to succeed with his plan—whatever that was.

  Their eyes met for a brief moment over the fire. She scowled at him, rose suddenly, and stomped away between the trees.

  A new day, another few miles. The whetstone rang across his blade.

  * * *

  The setting sun bled orange into the white mists rising from the riverbanks. Rheged’s fields were black and hung with shadows, but light gleamed before the inn and people still walked the dirt trodden streets of the settlement. A gust of night wind brought the fecund scent of autumn rain, and Nora clutched the rim of her hood to keep it close to her face. Prince Bashan skipped down the steps to the sunken entrance of the village’s only inn, and entered first.

  A silence swept the main room of the inn. A dozen or so occupants sat in the dark recesses of the deep benches dug into the floor. A serving man and woman stood open-mouthed, gazing at the newcomers. Their guests’ conversations died, their pints still raised in midair.

  “Good evening, all,” Bashan said, wearing a smile.

  No one moved.

  “Is there a room or two left to let in this inn? It seems there will be rain tonight.”

  The skinny serving wench signed the ward against evil as she glanced at Diaz’s looming figure just behind Bashan. She touched the serving man’s arm for support and he flinched, spilling the ale in his hands. Her husband? Nora wasn’t sure. She kept close to the door, her own arm touching Owen’s. The air was warm and thick with the scent of cooked cabbage and fish, stifling after the coolness outside. The rough cotton of the hood rasped over the recently grown fuzz on Nora’s shaven head, and she resisted the urge to take it off and scratch. The serving wench was giving her a look anyway.

  “Well?” Bashan asked.

  The man nodded at him and pointed toward a wide wooden staircase at the back of the room.

  “Only one, my lord. Up, to your right, last door on the left.”

  Bashan considered this, then smiled, tossing a silver coin that the man caught clumsily.

  “Excellent. Good man. Bring us some dinner and a few pints of beer.”

  Murmuring arose once more as the prince moved toward the stairs. People pointed. Someone laughed shrilly. Nora sidled up beside Owen, not counting on the darkness to mask her marred features. Maybe if she kept her head down, this night would be different than the others.

  Several men were sitting on the low benches and spoke in hushed tones as they passed.

  “…the girl.”

  “That’s not Noraya Smith.”

  “Don’t you see the scars? I’m telling you, it’s definitely her.”

  “Nah, can’t be. Noraya Smith defied the Queen of the South in the arena and lived—what’d she be doing in this place?”

  Nora felt the heat rise to her face and she tugged the hood farther down. At the foot of the stairs, Bashan stopped, turning back to stare at the man who had whispered to his mate. The two men quickly busied themselves with their beer, so the prince’s cold eyes searched for Nora’s face. He pressed his lips together tightly.

  Fuck. This would be exactly like the other nights at the other inns. Noraya Smith—the girl who defied Suranna and lived. The news of her fight in the arena had washed over the southern lands like an endless siege of waves, unbreaking at first in the settlements of the matriarchs, now gradually spending itself the nearer they drew to the Suthron Pass. But still…one last wave crested, rearing its ugly, scarred head. Again. Bashan would be chuffed. Again.

  She walked briskly to the stairs, overhearing her whispered name at least a dozen times. The serving wench gave her another look, touching her own unmarked cheek. Nora’s hands curled into fists. Owen bumped her shoulder. She looked up.

  “Just keep the hood up until we’re in the room,” he said.

  She nodded and followed him up the stairs.

  The room was a small space, with a bed that was fitted in a cupboard—the doors painted with garish, ornamental flowers. Little else was in the room, a small table, a fireplace. Nora imagined how close these quarters would be when they slept and chose a spot directly next to the wall, confident that Owen would lie next to her. Bashan sniffed and rubbed his hands together in the clammy air. The room smelled of the summer flowers wilting in a glass jug on the table and its former occupant.

  “Well,” the prince said, “at least we’re out of the rain. I’ll take the bed.”

  As though anyone else would want to sleep in that lice-ridden thing.

  “Shade, go get some extra firewood and a flame from below,” Bashan ordered. “Definitely need a fire.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Shade threw his pack on the floor in front of the fireplace and headed back out the door, nearly jostling the servant wench arriving with six pints of beer. The girl blushed and cast her eyes down as Shade caught her tray and gave her a smile. Nora rolled her eyes under her hood. The girl bobbed before Bashan and placed the tray on the small table next to the cupboard bed.

  “Thank you very much.” The prince smiled. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I do, Lord Prince.”

  The prince’s smile broadened and he looked over at Nora. The girl followed his gaze with a puzzled expression.

  “Splendid. Just checking.”

  There was an awkward pause in which the girl bobbed another curtsy. Nora was embarrassed for her servility.

  “I won’t drink alcoholic beverages.” Diaz’s voice was harsh, and the servant girl winced. The half-wight cleared his throat and pointed at the beer. “Take one back with you.”

  “You will do no such thing.” Bashan caught the girl’s hand. “It will be drunk. I guarantee it.”

  “Yes, Lord Prince.”

  With one more nervous glance at Diaz’s black eyes, the girl fled back downstairs. Diaz rolled his shoulders and gave the room a look over before declaring he would take first watch. As his gaze touched Nora’s, her guts twisted. Gods. It wouldn’t stop hurting. The slagging witch queen had been right. Every time she caught Diaz’s eye, she saw him with her. Every time he thought no one was looking, his jawline tensed as his brow furrowed, and Nora knew the queen’s hands were touching him. Every time Nora closed her eyes at night, listening to the men’s quiet breathing, she recalled the sound of his moan when he broke and lost control in Suranna’s arms. It sent her to sleep in a simmering mix of choking rage and arousal, an exquisite kind of torture.

  Shade returned with fire, and shortly after him, the girl returned with plates of food, warm bread, smoked eel, and pickled sweet peppers, accompanying a large pot of fish chowder. Nora pushed over to the girl as she was leaving.

  “Is there a place where I can wash?”

  The girl looked up at her, then to the side of Nora’s face covered in scars.

  “We have a washroom in the back, adjoining the kitchen. I can show you the way.”

  Nora hesitated. To go down would mean to be seen by all those in the common room again.

  “I’ll find it later,” she decided, and disappointment washed off the girl as she made her way out.

  She stopped at the threshold, though, and turned to Nora once more.

  “Is it true? What they say?” she whispered, casting a glance at the men in the room, busy with dinner. “Did you really…spite her?”

  “Yeah.” Nora grimaced. Spite. That wasn’t the right word. But—“Yeah, I guess.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. Inwardly, Nora sighed. Everywhere they had stopped so far, it was always the same reaction. If defiance was such an accomplish
ment in the eyes of most southerners, what would their reaction have been if Nora had killed Suranna as she had intended?

  “The gods favor you, Noraya Smith. But…your face.” The girl reached out a hand as though she wanted to touch the scars and make sure they were real. Nora turned her head away, and the girl’s hand dropped to her side. “How will you ever be married now?”

  As the girl left, Nora stood in the doorway, grinding her teeth together. Of all the things that had happened to her—all the distance she’d traveled in the last months—why was it that the ghost of marriage never lost her trail?

  * * *

  Darkness rested on Nora’s shoulders, heavy and warm, as she stood at the top of the stairs. She knew Diaz would be around, lurking in the shadows, keeping watch. She couldn’t see him, though she felt his gaze and it was getting under her skin.

  She couldn’t hear the low talk in the common room anymore, though candlelight flickered at some of the tables. Garreth and Bashan had gone down a while ago. Shade, after fussing over his camp spot close to the cupboard bed, had looked over to where the twins were settling down. Owen had pulled out a book, flicking through its pages to find a passage he wanted to reread, but Nora returned the gaze. For a moment she thought Shade would say something, but he just gave her a pained smile and left. A strangled feeling of guilt choked her. They should talk. Probably. Maybe. They hadn’t really talked since…well, since the arena. She waited until his fading footsteps were gone.

  “I’m going down for a wash,” Nora told Owen, who grunted but didn’t look up.

  So much for conversation. She stood at the top of the stairs, the floorboards creaking slightly under her weight, and thought about how much noise the steps would make if she went down. And how many people were still down there? How many would see her creep out to the washroom—or more accurately, see what they wanted to see in her? At the last tavern a fellow had followed her into the women’s area. To talk with a hero, he said. An arena survivor. He wouldn’t back off, though, so she’d had to punch him in the kidneys. The good thing about a brutal blow was that it instantly changed anyone’s good opinion of her. Yeah. Better not risk that again tonight. She turned, stealing down the landing to the window, and peered out. Rain pattered against the glass, turning the trodden earth below into a landscape of puddles and mud. She opened the window, and fresh, cool air heavy with the scent of water filled the night as random drops fell onto the wooden floor at her feet. She climbed out of the window. Holding on to the wooden sill, feet bracing against the wall, she looked down to estimate the drop, then let go. Muddy water splashed her calves. She looked up at the window. The inn was built half sunken into the earth, so if she ran and jumped she could make it back in the same way she had crawled out. Probably. If not, there’d be even fewer patrons in the tavern at an even later hour. She trotted around the inn, following her nose to the kitchen. There. So the other door must be the washroom.