Nightblade: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 1) by Garrett Robinson

She forced herself to relax and move with the horse. What manner of people had she fallen in with?
    “Do you know that there has never been a Merchant’s War?” said Damaris, again shifting subjects like the wind. “Neither in name, nor in practice. Wars are brutal, messy things, far below our station. Yet men insist upon fighting them, and we are only too happy to lend them the coin. But while we do not go to war, that does not mean we have forgotten the benefit of a swift killing. We deal death in dark and silence, the bodies quickly buried and more quickly forgotten. Many know of it. None acknowledge it. As long as it remains well out of sight, most would sooner ignore it. Thus it has always been, and thus it will always be. Do you understand?”
    Loren could not begin to understand. But she nodded quickly atop the horse. “I do, my lady.”
    “I doubt it. But one day, you might.”
    Loren knew it would be better to still her tongue, but she could not avoid one question. “My lady, why do you tell me all this?”
    “Because,” said Damaris, “I see precious things in your eyes, child. So much fear and anger, well met with wonder. You have suffered much, and yet you still believe the world can hold more than suffering. Who has not felt the same? Girls such as yourself are like pure white eagles found in the woods; rarer than elves and twice as sacred, treasures we must preserve at all costs.”
    The flowery words drifted though Loren’s mind like a dream. She remembered Annis’s words and tried to find her senses. Damaris sought to flatter her so she could be more easily deceived. She would not fall prey to such a simple scheme.
    And as she thought on them, Damaris’s words touched off a thought in Loren’s mind.
    Damaris clucked her tongue. “Come, try trotting again.”
    Gregor spurred his horse and tugged on Loren’s reins. Both beasts erupted into motion and trotted off together, Loren clinging to the mount’s neck, glancing every so often at the sword at Gregor’s belt.
    That is the truth of this world . Not flowery words, but a large man with a blade at his waist.  

fourteen

    The final morning dawned, the day upon which they would reach the walls of Cabrus. Loren woke earlier than normal, when the sky held only a tease of grey with no trace of blush.  
    She looked up and, for once, did not see Gregor standing nearby. So the giant did sleep. She rose and took a hesitant step from the caravan. A guard melted from the darkness to watch her.
    She could not shake a persistent feeling that nestled between excitement and apprehension. Today, her journey with the caravan would end in one of three ways: Loren would escape, the constables would take her prisoner, or someone would kill her.
    Kill me.  
    The thought that she might die today did not cause her nearly as much worry as she thought it might. After witnessing eight men murdered, death seemed common, a trite thing, almost too often done.  
    Gregor appeared, and the other guard vanished into the diminishing darkness. Soon after that, Annis emerged from her carriage. She stretched and yawned in the early light, her eyes finding a sparkle as they fell upon Loren.
    “Good morn! We reach Cabrus today.”
    “So I have been told.” Loren had decided the day before that she must maintain an air of sullen silence and resentment around Annis. Gregor must not suspect the girls of plotting. Annis, for her part, seemed to understand, for she wore the same chipper, vacant smile she had worn upon the constable’s slaughter.
    “Come,” said Annis. “Let us visit the woods before we set off. You may not see them again for a while, I fear, and you have spent your life among trees.”
    “I suppose.” Loren laid the waterskin in her travel sack and slung it over her shoulder. The sack bulged with provisions. The waterskin sloshed full and noisy, refilled from the caravan’s stores.
    Annis held her chatter as they came under a swath of tree boughs, the