Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  Brenn received them in turn. One after another they'd shuffle before him, press their lips to the snow, and swear their oaths. Then he would help them up and embrace them. Those who'd already sworn their oaths drank and danced around the fires. Plenty of them found an excuse to pass by the outsiders. Curiosity drove them; these weren't the typical slaves from Valcrest. Some tried out words in the common tongue, and Argus caught more than a few young men making eyes at Nasira.

  Fiona came by with an armful of fresh logs for the fire. With those deposited, and her cheeks flushed just the right amount of drunk, she apologized for earlier. “I'm sorry. We didn't know who Brenndall—son of Setep—really was. If you told us we wouldn't have believed you either.”

  Argus offered a wan smile. “We know. That's why I had to show you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You were inside my mind. How were you inside my mind?”

  He thought about making up an outlandish lie but decided against it. Besides, plenty of rumors were already swirling about “the sorcerer.” So he just said, “The truth has a way of coming out.”

  Fiona led the Legion into the back of camp, where she opened the flap of one of the tents. A bevy of blankets and animal hides awaited them. In the center of the tent stood an iron brazier. Fiona left and returned a few minutes later. This time she carried burning coals between her gloves. She dropped them into the brazier, and soon a healthy fire flickered.

  “There are small holes in the top,” she said. “For the smoke to escape. And more wood outside. Do you need anything else?”

  They shook their heads and collapsed into the blankets.

  Fiona stepped outside, securing the tent flap behind her. The singing continued, interspersed with raucous laughter. From somewhere across camp came the boom boom boom of a drum made with animal hide.

  Argus crawled under the blankets and closed his eyes. With Brenn out where he belonged, with the fire burning and his friends at his side, he finally felt warm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Morning came, and the Nalavacian camp was silent.

  Argus stepped out into the snow and pulled his fox fur coat tight. A sunny day. It had stopped snowing, at least for the moment. The only movements in camp were the lazy smoke curls drifting out of tents.

  He warmed himself at the closest fire. Every joint creaked as he brushed the snow off a fallen log to sit. He moved like an older man—and maybe he was. Visions of Brenn's ancestors had invaded his dreams, flickering in and out, so when he woke he felt just as weary as before.

  Argus wondered if he would ever recover. He'd need his strength in Leith to free Kyra. Plenty of luck, too, but he didn't want to think about that. So he rubbed his hands, listening to the fire crackle, trying to savor every quiet moment before it was time to leave.

  Footsteps.

  He turned and spotted eight tribesmen clad in sealskin. They had spears and nets and sharp daggers. Fishermen. Except this morning their time on the frozen coast had produced a different kind of catch: quivering families from Valcrest.

  The outsiders, who shivered in their flimsy attire, begged and moaned when they saw the Nalavacian camp. The fishermen shoved them forward without a shred of sympathy. When a woman cried out one of the fishermen slapped her.

  Prodded along at spearpoint, the outsiders had no choice but to keep moving. Their captors urged them right over to Argus's fire. The Valcrestians studied him with hope in their eyes. Here was another outsider—and he wasn't wearing shackles! Argus just shook his head. Then came a few sobs, barely audible, and a few of the prisoners forced their faces to remain expressionless.

  A fisherwoman nodded at Argus, then disappeared behind the fire while the others waited. Gruff voices filled the edge of camp. It wasn't long before they saw whom they belonged to.

  Brenndall lumbered around the fire, blinking at them. His beard was matted against his face, and his hair sprouted wild as an untended garden. Standing there in his skivvies, he reeked of meat and mulled wine. A few others trailed him, but they weren't important. The outsiders fixed their eyes on the hulking man before them. Even the most stoic of faces trembled.

  “What's the meaning of this?” Brenn said, and looked at Argus pointedly.

  “Ask your kinfolk. I was just warming myself by the fire.”

  Brenn sighed, turned to the fishermen and launched a few inquiries in Nalavacian. They spoke rapidly, gesturing and making guttural sounds, and when it was finished Argus hadn't the faintest idea of what had happened. The chieftain turned to the outsiders. “Tell me what happened.”

  More quivering. Finally they shoved a young man forward to address their captors. “W-we didn't mean it, my lord.”

  Brenn smiled. “There are no lords here. Only chieftains.”

  “Oh—my apologies. We didn't mean it, chieftain.”

  “Easy.” Brenn smiled wider, but that just made his captives quiver more. Their dark-haired ambassador pursed his lips. Every word was a struggle against nerves and cold.

  “We were sailing for Harlock, my—chieftain. But we aren't much for sailing. A storm knocked us off course. Once we realized how far off we were, we couldn't overcome the current and ran aground. That was yesterday. We stayed close to shore, hoping to fix the boat, but the damage was too great.” He lowered his head. “We spent the night by a fire… until your people found us.”

  Brenn pressed closer. Gasps bubbled through the crowd. They grew into murmurs and prayers when he reached for the dark-haired man's hand and took it in his palm. Everyone stood motionless while Brenn flipped over the hand and examined it.

  “Did you keep your fingers and toes warm? Were any frostbitten?”

  “N-n-no. I don't think so.”

  Brenn stepped away, folding his arms across his massive chest. A symphony of tent flaps opening, whispers and footsteps all around. His kinfolk gathering. Wide awake now.

  The Valcrestians huddled together as that circle drew tighter. They glanced around. Most were nearly as white as the snow. What fate would befall them? Slavery and torture? Death? Being chopped into pieces and served for tonight's supper?

  Argus didn't need magic to see those thoughts racing through their heads. He knew the feeling well. All the spine-tingling tales you'd heard about Nalavac—tales dating back to childhood—blended together and conjured something horrible.

  The Nalavacians buzzed with excitement. All of them turned to their new chieftain, waiting for his decision.

  “You are very foolish,” he said. “To brave the Wailing Bay in spring, without warm clothes or a true sailor among you. You're lucky to be alive.”

  The man nodded. “We had no choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There's… trouble in Valcrest, chieftain. The boy king in Leith has reversed the pacifism decree governing his kingdom.”

  Argus sprang forward. “What?”

  The Valcrestians nodded. “It's true,” one of the women said. “And now war lurks on our doorstep. Silas has been buying weapons from Azmar. Training his farmers and cobblers to use swords and bows.”

  “Aye,” said the dark-haired man. “He's already sent a few thousand into the Riven Mountains. Once they cross to the other side…” He shook his head. “Valcrest isn't ready for war. She doesn't stand a chance.”

  Fiona, who stood at Brenn's side, snorted. “Not ready for war? How can they not be ready for war? War is life.”

  Brenn silenced her with a sharp look. “What else do you know?”

  “A few traders said they saw war ships being built in Kos on their way to Calladon. I don't know if it's true. But the army in the Riven Mountains is real enough. Food and dragons helped some of the mountain folk loosen their tongues.”

  Brenn nodded. “You aren't the only ones, then.”

  “No, chieftain. Just some of the first. I imagine there will be thousands more boats. When the choice is to fight or to flee we Valcrestians will go with the latter.”

  Gods, Argus thought. They're defensele
ss. The Valcrestians had lived with a pacifism decree for at least as long as they had in Leith. If there was a single fighting instinct among them, it'd long since been civilized into extinction or simply forgotten.

  Brenn turned to his tribe. “Give them food and shelter. We'll see that their ship is fixed so they can be on their way to Harlock or Pellmere.” He repeated his commands in Nalavacian. Argus watched those eyes closely. The flickers of disappointment were impossible to ignore; there would be no new slaves that day. But his tribe hopped into action without a complaint.

  Once the Valcrestians were shuttled away, sobbing and shouting their thanks, Brenn sat with the Legion near the fire.

  “I'm not sure I want to be chieftain anymore,” he said, rubbing his temples with a groan. “Too many decisions for a fighting man like myself.” He smiled. “The parties are nice though.”

  “You'll be a great leader,” Nasira said. “You already are. What you did with the refugees from Valcrest—that was remarkable.”

  He shrugged. “I saw the bloodlust in their eyes. My kin. When the goddess Nessa gives you a gift you aren't supposed to say no thank you and send it on its way. There will be plenty more. With slaves as valuable as they are, how many more will land on our shores before I give in to the temptation?”

  “That's something only you can decide,” Siggi said. “You're chieftain. They already respect your strength. Give them time to respect your judgment.”

  Brenn sighed. “It doesn't matter for now. And if they didn't like my last decision they'll loathe the next.”

  Argus leaned forward. “Which is?”

  “I'm coming with you, you old bastard.”

  “What?”

  “Don't fight me on this. Everyone knows you're off to Valcrest. Then Leith. The news we got this morning will just spur you to leave sooner.”

  “You can't be serious. Leave my family drama for me to settle on my own. You finally got what you've wanted ever since we met. Enjoy it, Brenn. Besides, I nearly killed myself using all that magic.”

  Brenn just smiled and slowly shook his head.

  Argus turned to the others and found them doing the same thing. “Gods. Not you two as well. You aren't—”

  “Yes,” said Nasira, “we are.”

  “You aren't doing this on your own,” Siggi said. “You'll need us to cross the Riven Mountains now that they're crawling with soldiers. And what about getting into your nephew's palace?”

  “No,” he said. “What I need is for you all to stay here. Do what you set out to do. Rule. Learn from the sap reader woman about the gods of Eld.”

  “Those things will still be here when we return,” said Brenn. “Rosheen hasn't aged a day since I can remember. Some say she's older than the trees themselves.”

  “Don't do this. This is the mess I made. I should be the one who cleans it up.”

  Siggi said, “You just wanted to protect your sister. It's not your fault that your nephew turned out to be such a little bastard. Let us help.”

  Argus groaned. “All I need is a ship.”

  “Use mine,” said Nasira. “But it comes with a cost: we come with it.”

  “Brenn?”

  The Nalavacian shook his head. “Afraid I don't have any ships to spare. We can use Nasira's… if there's a we.”

  “What do you say?” Siggi said.

  Argus stared into the fire. The camp was spinning and the snow made him dizzy but nothing he tried would stop it. There must have been some late-night scheming he wasn't aware of. A decision to reunite the Legion of the Wind—no matter what it took.

  “You're throwing your lives away,” he said.

  “No,” said Siggi, clapping him on the back. “We're saving yours.”

  Nasira said, “That's right. Yours and Kyra's and all the innocent people who will die if your nephew gets his way.”

  Argus studied their faces. They smiled, but he couldn't help feeling that they saw right through him. Saw to the darkest nights of his powder scavenging in the alleys of Azmar.

  They see all that, and they choose to fight with me anyhow.

  “Sure you won't change your minds?” he said.

  They shook their heads. “Not a chance,” said Brenn.

  Argus surrendered at last. He smiled, then crossed his arms in front of him into an X, the Legion salute. “To the Legion.”

  “To the Legion of the Wind!”

  * * *

  That evening, the Nalavacians sent them off with waves and song.

  Brenn sang back to them, saluting from the deck. Hundreds of eyes dotted the rocky coast. The entire tribe had come out to watch them sail for Valcrest.

  “Hard to believe I woke up yesterday an exile,” he said. “And went to sleep a chieftain.”

  Argus nodded. The looks of adoration warmed him even out here among the waves and sea foam. They'd loaded Nasira's ship with food and water and plenty of firewood. The Nalavacians lingered on the coast until they shrank to the size of little dots, then began to walk back toward the Wanderwood.

  “They love you,” Nasira said. “They know who you really are.”

  Brenn sighed. “That's all I wanted. Let's just hope they still remember when I get back.”

  Argus held his tongue. The typical Nalavacian was loyal to a fault. But he'd seen the way Cian and Fiona looked at their new chieftain a little cooler than all the others. He'd watched their whispered conversations by the fire.

  A tribe can only last so long without a chieftain. Argus remembered Brenn's words well. Surviving in Nalavac required strong leadership. And Brenn was responsible for killing the last chieftain, before he sent himself into exile. Argus prayed they remembered the demigod's face as well as he did.

  “Let's end this quickly,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Siggi. “I'll drink to that.” He rummaged through his belongings for a wineskin and raised it to his lips. “Better finish this before it freezes.”

  They sailed into rougher waters. Brenn lingered in the bow, watching the coastline get swallowed up by the fog. Argus couldn't think of a single comforting word to say. Brenn's tribe had been reluctant to have their chieftain taken away from them after such a short time. He'd told them this was something he had to do, that if they didn't stop the Leith king now it was only a matter of time before Valcrestians overwhelmed their shores in greater numbers.

  “I'll be back soon,” he'd said. “And we will feast in the Wanderwood.”

  Pretty words. The trouble was most of the tribe looked like they hadn't believed them.

  “Thank you,” Argus said. “Truly.”

  Brenn nodded. “What kind of chieftain would I be if I abandoned one of my family in need? Besides, you've saved my arse too many times to count. Time to return the favor.”

  “I don't know, my friend. If you tally up how many times you've saved my hide I might be the one who's in debt.” They headed back for the stern laughing, where Siggi and Nasira were lighting the brazier.

  Nightfall. The moon and stars brought the frigid air with them. They supped on cheese and bread, their breaths billowing around the flames. With their meager meal finished they sprawled across the deck and watched the sky.

  “You all need to rest,” said Brenn. “With Remor's help we'll land in Erith tomorrow. And keep those fingers and toes bundled.”

  Argus almost asked him why his fingers and toes were still bare. He decided then that the people born in Nalavac were simply made differently. Their blood ran hotter. While the rest of them wore as many coats as they could find, Brenn the Bold made do with one. If he had just a fraction of the rage of his celestial ancestor, he'd probably never felt cold in his life.

  “Go on,” the Nalavacian said. “I'll keep us on course. Pray to Remor for good winds.”

  The others trudged below decks and each claimed a hammock. It was cold down there, but the waves rocked them into wonderful oblivion. Argus did pray, but not to the god Brenn suggested. He found himself pleading to his nephew for better judgment, to
end this madness before he couldn't. A moment later he caught himself, once he realized how foolish he was behaving. Hot-blooded teenage boys weren't exactly known for such qualities.

  And look at myself. I still haven't grown out of them. Probably never will.

  Argus ended his prayer early.

  Then he slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Morning came and went. A blessed day, with enough sun poking through the clouds they could take off a few coats and still be warm.

  Their ship cut through the gray-blue sea all afternoon, riding a nice breeze. The Nalavacians had packed more than enough food and drink to sustain them. After they ate, drank, and ate some more, Argus paced the bow, searching for Valcrest.

  “Ship up ahead!”

  They gathered in the bow to look at it. From this distance it looked like a dingy fishing boat, except its deck didn't seem quite solid. Specks of brown and gray wavered there, moving in every direction at once.

  As that ship came closer, giving them a wide berth to pass, the specks grew into terrified Valcrestians. They stood packed together in every free inch of deck space. A few unlucky souls were hanging off the mast and nets. They were taller than they should have been; Argus assumed they'd filled the bottom of the deck with all of their worldly possessions.

  Brenn whistled at the oncoming craft and Siggi asked what news in Valcrest, but the passengers kept their eyes straight ahead. They didn't slow down. They didn't answer. When that ship disappeared over the horizon, others popped up to replace it.

  By the time Argus spotted the emerald hills of Erith, an armada of fleeing vessels surrounded them. None followed the same course. They changed directions seemingly at random—as long as they were sailing away from the Valcrest capital. People of all ages packed those boats. They watched fights break out, people jostling for room, and a man thrown overboard as the other passengers screamed for the captain to keep sailing.

  The Legion shouted at them, asked what was going on.