by RJ Metcalf
Zane laughed. “About three weeks ago.” Mirth smoothed the lines of concern from Zane’s face. “Zak was watching us guys play discus, and he decided to try doing one of the flips he’d watched. Six-year-olds really shouldn’t perform aerial acrobatics. Especially when launching off a pillar that’s twice their height. He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck.” Zane dragged his hand down his face, still chuckling. “He was crying in pain while still protesting and saying he could try it again. Stubborn kid.”
“I wonder where he gets that from?” Slate rolled his eyes. Zane jabbed him with an elbow and Slate rubbed at his ribs, grinning. “Just saying! It runs in the family.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Zane smirked. He waved awkwardly at a pretty brunette, who stopped on the road to watch them walk by, then Zane grimaced at Slate. “I need a date with your sister. And not just for the added benefit of getting them to stop.”
“Sorry, you’re on your own there.” Slate turned to wink at the lady, then slung an arm around Zane’s shoulders. “Good looks run in your family. Embrace it.”
It was true. And though Slate had been interested in Zane’s younger sister, Zandra, she’d witnessed a few too many instances of Slate flirting with the lovely ladies around the Crimson Hawk. She’d never look twice at a man with any regard of romance unless the man was sincere. And Zaborah, the next sister down, was only thirteen, eight years his junior.
They walked in content silence, each in their own thoughts, and thus noticed the change in atmosphere immediately. Instead of the happy babble of civilians, soldiers, and messengers on the road with them, the quiet of the day was punctured with voices crying out, grunts of pain, and the heavy plodding of tired horses’ hooves. Slate and Zane looked at each other and rushed forward, hands on their sword hilts to prevent their weapons from throwing off their balance.
They turned the bend in the road, then stopped in their tracks, silently taking in the sight.
“By the Void,” Zane swore softly.
Slate nodded, stunned into silence.
The men rode on their horses, their eyes downcast. Everyone had at least one bloodied bandage, and even a few horses had wrapped injuries. Slate couldn’t see Captain Stevens, and his heart stopped momentarily when he spotted Cole sitting astride his horse, his head hanging as he stiffly moved with his horse’s gait. Cole was typically pale, but right now he was utterly pallid, dark circles under his eyes, posture screaming a story of pain and sorrow. Slate’s gaze snagged on the bloody blue armband Cole wore.
Grief slammed into Slate, knocking the air from his lungs. Memories flashed through his mind: Stevens at their dining room table, comforting Slate, his sisters, his mother, after his father died. Stevens, picking up where Clay Stohner had left off in training Slate in proper swordsmanship. Captain Stevens had been a permanent fixture in his life, the steady rock that wouldn’t be bothered to budge despite whatever life threw at him.
Slate distantly heard Zane swear under his breath before he ran forward to make contact with Cole. Slate lurched forward to join them, belatedly noticing Roney beside Cole, the green lieutenant armband on Roney’s bicep.
Cole said something to Roney, then turned to face the men behind him, pointing in the direction of the barracks, and then again to the field by the palace, where the beak-masked death-dealers waited. A fraction of the soldiers broke from Cole’s group, carting bodies of the fallen. Slate’s heart seized in his chest, and his breath stalled as he watched cart after cart make its way to those who’d prepare the bodies for the mass funeral later.
A hand gripped Slate’s shoulder, startling him into a sharp inhale. Zane’s eyes looked dark with concern, and he pressed his thumb into the muscle of Slate’s collarbone, grounding Slate firmly in reality. “You okay, there?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Slate approached Cole and breathed through his mouth to avoid being overwhelmed by the smell of blood, sweat, and old wounds.
Cole raised his tired eyes to look at Zane, then Slate. He smiled slowly, sadly. “We need to report right away. But you two are a sight for sore eyes. Thanks for coming to meet us.”
Slate nodded and clasped his forearms behind his back to stop them from trembling. “Had to make sure you’re okay.”
Sorrow weighed down Cole’s voice. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.”
Chapter Nine
Cole
A mug filled to the brim with an amber liquid slid across the glossy oak bar in front of Cole. He looked up to see Zandra give him a small, sympathetic smile, her dark hair braided up in a crown. He contemplated the mug in front of him. “I don’t recall ordering more.”
Zandra pulled a rag out from her belt and wiped down the counter next to him, carefully outlining the man passed out on it. “You didn’t. But you looked like you needed it.” She looked up, her green eyes studying the wrinkles in his uniform, the scruff on his face and chin. “You look like you’ve been through shehalla.”
Cole murmured a dull “thanks” under his breath while his fingers rubbed the clean captain’s band on his arm. He breathed in the pleasant scent of fresh bread, aged brew, and polished wood before letting out a sigh. Please, just don’t ask about it.
The barmaid moved on, rouge skirt swishing with her movement, her voice cheerful as she bantered with the noisy soldiers in the bar.
The Crimson Hawk Inn and Pub was crowded tonight, almost all the soldiers from under Captain Stevens’s command filling the pub to near capacity. Cole swiveled in his chair a bit to let his gaze peruse the room. Every man in the room had experienced the horrors of that mission, and they were here tonight to remember the men who had died. One hundred of them left home. Only fifty-five had come back. Prince Richard called it a victory, whereas most of the men here would call it a complete and utter catastrophe. Thank the Author the owners of the pub had closed it to the public tonight for this. Only his men and the guests staying at the inn would be welcome tonight. And thus far, the guests hadn’t encroached upon their time of decompressing.
Ozly came over to the man asleep on the counter, nodded in respect to Cole, then hoisted the unconscious man up and dragged him back to the door leading to the inn rooms. If Captain Stevens were here, he’d be vexed over his soldiers not being able to hold their liquor, but he wasn’t here, and the soldiers were feeling the loss of their long-time captain.
Cole lifted the mug to his lips and sipped the amber liquid, raising his eyebrows when he tasted it. Zandra had pulled out the good stuff. He shot a glance at the pretty barmaid. Do I really look that bad?
It had been a tough week. A journey home that should only have taken four days at most had ended up taking nearly six. They had more injured than they’d expected, several dying on the way home. And low spirits made men move slowly. By the time they’d shambled back into Doldra, Cole had dismissed everyone to go home except his new lieutenant, Roney. The two of them had reported in at the palace. The moment that was over, Cole had left Roney and staggered home to the barracks, fallen into his bed, and slept for nearly a day, only waking up because of nightmares.
He’d had nightmares ever since.
Ok, maybe I do look that bad. Cole’s lips twitched up in a small, humorless smile.
“Now that’s a look I didn’t expect to see. But I’m sure glad to see it!” Roney’s voice interrupted Cole’s lucubration. His raven-haired friend pulled up a stool to sit next to him at the bar. Roney caught the eye of one of the other barmaids and requested an ale, then turned back to him.
Roney raised an eyebrow and tapped his forehead. “How are you doing? Honestly.”
Cole eyed him, then deliberately picked up his drink and took a large gulp, savoring the pleasant burn on the way down. He set the cup down with a clunk. “That answer enough for you?”
Roney smiled his thanks at Zandra as she set down his drink without pausing in her walk across the room. He took a sip and then announced without any preamble, “I’m retiring when my year is up.”
That
pulled Cole’s attention from his dark thoughts. “Seriously?”
“Mmhmm. I don’t want to get orders like that again. And, face it, if Richard really is going to become our king at some point in time, we’re likely to get orders like that again.”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.” Cole stared down into his mug. “Then again, Prince Brandon is technically our crown prince.” A flicker of hope warmed Cole’s chest—or maybe it was the drink—but he didn’t try to suppress it. “Maybe Brandon will give better orders.”
Roney rolled his cuffs up, revealing his toned forearms, then reached for his own froth-topped mug. “Doubtful. King Rupert has been pouring everything into Richard since birth. I can’t imagine him just standing back and letting Brandon take the reins. He’s going to try to get Richard married and heired all over again, mark my words.”
He was probably right, unfortunately. Cole dropped his head into his hand and massaged his temples. The king had made too big a deal over Richard being firstborn, first married, first to everything. He’d let Richard get away with murder, literally, while barely signing off on anything logical that Brandon wanted to do.
Cole’s heart twisted. While he wasn’t necessarily fond of the royal family, he could acknowledge that much about Brandon: he was more rational than his father or brother.
He scanned the room, taking note of his men, who were well into their cups, and those who soothed their hurts more with the food than the drink. At least with the bar of the inn closed to the public, he didn’t have to worry about any brawls breaking out tonight.
A tall man appeared in Cole’s peripheral vision, catching his interest as the stranger slid into the seat that Ozly helped vacate not too long ago. The man took off his brilliant white top hat and placed it on the bar in one smooth motion. Must be a visitor of the inn. He raised his hand for a barmaid, then looked around the room, his eyes pausing on each of the men in uniforms. The stranger glanced to his left, then leaned in towards Cole, his dark eyes glittering in the light.
“Forgive the intrusion, please.” His voice was low, smooth and strangely soothing. “But I just moved into this town and can’t help but feel that something of importance is happening here.” His gaze lingered on a group of soldiers, who were staggering across the room.
Cole felt Roney leaning in on his right to listen, pinning him between the two. The stranger looked at Cole, clearly taking in the dark circles and haggard expression that Cole saw in the mirror each morning. “This place is open to those staying here at the inn, correct? Or am I intruding?”
“If you’re here with the inn, you’re fine,” Cole replied, trying to hide some of his weariness from the stranger as the man eyed his captain’s armband. Cole leaned into the bar, focusing on his drink.
Roney pulled his mug closer to him and tipped it at the stranger in a polite but dismissive salute. “Just don’t be offended if no one here is too talkative.”
“Noted. Thank you, sir.” The man flicked his ponytail back and leaned his elbows on the counter, watching Zandra move about the busy tables. He turned his head, politely allowing Cole to resume his conversation with Roney without the appearance of eavesdropping.
Roney kept his body turned to Cole, watching the stranger over Cole’s bent shoulders. He hunched over his beverage, mirroring Cole’s pose. “Have you given any thought to what happened?”
“The …” Cole couldn’t say “battle.” It was more of a slaughter, really, and none of the descriptions in his head were ones he could bring himself to verbalize tonight. “Everything?”
Roney pressed his fist into his cheek as he watched Cole. He lowered his voice, though the noise in the Hawk was more than sufficient to cover their conversation. “How did they have enough time to set a trap? Call in the dragons? Have a bard?”
“I don’t know.” Truth was, those were the questions that had kept Cole up at night when the memories weren’t already haunting his dreams. Did they have a traitor in their midst? Who would leak such information? Not his men. They’d suffered the most, and no one in his battalion had a death wish that he knew of. And Prince Richard had given them their orders, utterly intent on wiping out Selvage, so clearly not him.
Prince Brandon? He’d been there when Richard had spoken to Captain Stevens, and while he hadn’t said anything, there’d been a distinct aura of disapproval. Would he go to such lengths as––no. Selvage had nearly killed him, so he wouldn’t be warning them now.
Cole grunted and looked down at the remnants of drink in his mug, then tapped on the rim to signal a refill. One of the barmaids—Katrina—whisked it away and left a full mug in its place. He shook his head. “I have no idea how they knew,” he repeated.
Roney frowned. “We have an information leak, don’t we?”
Cole took a solid swig of his ale before nodding. “Yes, we have a traitor. And we need to root him out before any more of us get killed.”
Chapter Ten
Zak
The pockets were driving Zak crazy. A white doctor’s coat hung down to Doctor Jaxton’s knees over a double-breasted, formal black vest, and four narrow, deep pockets on either side of the long coat had a lump at the bottom. They weren’t all that noticeable when the doctor stood still, but with every movement he made, the lumps were visible. What was in them? Vials? Stones? Bones from his previous patients?
Jaxton reached for a pad of paper on the counter of the exam room, and Zak was certain that the mystery would be the end of him. He had to know, even if his mother would scold him later for being blatantly nosy and not practicing his skills of watching. “What’s in your pockets?”
The doctor didn’t reply, but lifted a pale, flat crystal, comparing it to the notes on his paper. He snorted and looked down at Zak. “What is in my pockets is for me to know.” Jaxton rolled his eyes before slipping a hand into one of the pockets, then pulled out a deep burgundy stone. “But before you die of curiosity, I keep my most useful stones on my person. Each have their own pocket, so I don’t risk an explosion. Now, if you don’t mind?” The doctor turned away from Zak and looked back to the crystal.
Zak bit back his next question—which stones would make an explosion—and instead swung his legs on the wooden bench, looking around the room again in the hope of finding something to entertain him.
His mother gave him a scolding look with a slight shake of her head, and he stopped kicking his legs quite so much. One wall had a scattering of quasi-interesting diagrams of the human body plastered over it, but he was already learning some of that at home, and their home charts were much more interesting. Not just how to heal, but also how to incapacitate—one of the new words he’d learned from Zane at the dinner table last night. The wall to the right of the boring diagrams had cupboards and several shelves displaying various instruments, large medical stones as large as Zane’s arm, and even a human skull. The shadowed sockets of the eyes made Zak’s skin crawl. Like it was watching him. He tried to ignore it and focused on what was directly in front of him: the door, taunting him with the hope of escape and freedom.
He rubbed at his arm now that it was free of the cast. It no longer bent at an odd angle, and it felt normal. Could he go yet?
Doctor Jaxton held up the thin crystal, showing it to his mother, gesturing at the dark image on display. The crisp lines of Zak’s healed bone glimmered in the clear rock. “It’s vastly improved.” He swiped his hand over the T-L scan, clearing the picture, then handed it to the citadel doctor behind him, not bothering to watch Doctor Walter put it away in Jaxton’s leather bag. Jaxton leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, looking at Zak until he squirmed. “I believe he can resume his normal activities, but he’ll need to be checked again in a few weeks, just to make sure the growth plate isn’t closing up prematurely. That’d be unfortunate.” The black-haired doctor smiled, a weird spark in his eye that made Zak shrink back a bit. “We would have to perform surgery, if that were the case.”
Zak tuned out his mother’s reply as he stared
at the white-coated man. Surgery? Who ever looked happy at the idea of surgery? All the time that he could be playing, it would be gone! The doctor chuckled, and Zak’s head flew up at the odd sound of his laughter. Now what?
“It’s no problem, ma’am, truly. I can return here in three weeks’ time, if you wish. Unless you want to come find me at the palace?” He opened a side pocket and pulled out a different note pad. “What is your preference?”
Mom smiled, the concerns in her face easing. “Thank you, we really appreciate you traveling out to the citadel. If it’s not too much of an inconvenience for you and Doctor Walter, this would be perfect.”
Doctor Jaxton shook his head and scrawled something on his paper before slipping it away in its pocket. “No problem at all. It’s good for me to get out and see other people. And as a favor to Prince Brandon? My pleasure.”
Zak’s mother stood and offered a small curtsy to both doctors. “Thank you, Doctor Jaxton, for coming to see him, and thank you, Doctor Walter, for opening your office for this visit.” She looked pointedly at Zak until he echoed her thanks.
Creepy doctor. Useful, but creepy.
Zak skipped out of the exam room and waited for his mother in the citadel hallway, hopping from foot to foot. She closed the door behind her and chuckled as he bounced up to her.
“I’m assuming you want to go play?” she asked, lines of humor wrinkling around her eyes. She made a show of pulling out her pocket watch and considering it, then snapped it shut and slipped it back into her dress pocket. “You may go. But!” She held up a finger, forestalling him. “No more crazy antics or stunts! I don’t want Zane or anyone else to have to carry you back for another broken bone. And do you have your watch?”
Zak nodded fervently and started to edge backward.
“I want you in the dining hall no later than six, got it?”
