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

now-blushing light bathing her upturned face and somewhat squashed nose. After a spell, she turned to Gregor. “I need my privacy.”
    He nodded slowly and gestured at Loren. “Very well. Come with me, girl.”
    “Not from her,” said Annis. “We are maidens both. Besides, dawn rises—she must need to relieve herself.”
    Loren shrugged, giving Gregor a dead-eyed stare. “I suppose.”
    Gregor backed off, none too pleased. Annis pretended to squat, and Loren joined her.  
    “Our time runs short,” said Annis, her voice a low whisper. “Today we must escape.”
    “I have an idea.”
    Annis blinked in surprise. “Truly? Tell me.”
    “If I can distract Gregor and his men, can you acquire one of your mother’s brown cloth packages?”
    Annis blanched. “Perhaps, but why?”
    “Damaris told me that the world runs smoothly as long as no one must face the deeds of her and her kind. I plan to turn things rough.”
    Annis shook her head. “If I am caught . . . ”
    “I can provide ample distraction. Can you do it?”
    “I can.” Annis did not sound pleased.
    “Good. Come, then. Let us return, for we must act before the caravan moves on.”
    They made their way back. In only a moment, they spotted Gregor through the trees. He watched them with an unreadable expression, trailing in silence.
    Once they neared the road again, Annis bid Loren farewell and headed off on some pretense of preparing her carriage. That left Loren and Gregor alone. Loren increased her pace, making for the third caravan from the end—the only one she knew for certain held the brown cloth packages.
    “Where are you going?” said Gregor.
    Without meeting his eyes, Loren said, “Oh, nowhere of consequence. Tell me, when did you learn swordsmanship?”
    Gregor did not answer.
    “Come, now. Surely no harm can come from my knowing. Were you as old as me? Younger? Older?”
    Gregor sniffed. “Younger. I began my training as a boy of ten summers.”
    “Ten!” Loren allowed shock to claim her face. “Then you have the advantage. I greatly desire to learn how to protect myself. Could you teach me?”
    Gregor did not answer.
    Loren spotted a guard near the wagon, standing near its head. She made for him quickly, her pace just below a run. “If I wish to catch up, I must start immediately. Do you think you can teach me what you know today, before we reach the city walls?”
    “I trained for years,” said Gregor, now with an undercurrent of exasperation.
    “I fear I have no years to waste on such an endeavor. We must speed the process.”
    The guard noticed them at last, looking up in confusion. Without warning, she sprang forward and dragged his sword from its scabbard. The man shouted in alarm, but Loren danced away on the balls of her feet. The sword felt much, much heavier than she had expected.
    “How do you manage such a thing? I can scarcely lift the blade!”
    “Drop it.” Gregor’s hand shot to his sword, scowling. The guard came after her, arms outstretched, but Loren turned and ran another few steps.
    “I mean no harm! I wish only to learn!”  
    She must not appear a threat. Loren had no desire to end this day on the end of Gregor’s blade. She danced down the line of wagons, waving the sword in the air in what she hoped passed for an imitation of a true fighter. “Come! Teach me the intricacies of parry and thrust, the elegant dance of death!”
    She let her feet tangle beneath her and crashed to the ground, careful to land away from the blade. The guard leapt forward, but Loren shot to her feet, just out of reach. It was a dance, she realized, though her partner seemed unwilling. She took a fighter’s pose, one arm behind her and the sword held forward.
    “Now, how does one manage the thrust?” She tried it, and the guard cried out as he fell back. He stumbled over his heels, barely managing to stay his footing.
    “If you do not drop that weapon—” said Gregor.
    “You will take it from me? I welcome it! Come,