Blades Of Illusion: Crown Service #2

by Terah Edun

  As long as whatever “had to be done” didn’t a) summon her to the edge of the abyss where her berserker nature waited, and b) involve her mother in any way. The latter was no longer a problem. The former? She was seeing more and more every day that perhaps the berserker inside of her was less a curse and more a blessing in disguise. Although, she had yet to test her berserker nature, and she had no desire to do so anyway. But she was convinced that dying on the field of battle was a far more preferable end to the one she had been facing every day of this hellish march. Various specters of death had claimed many of her comrades in the swamp. A slow death—by starvation, or poison, or putrefaction, or simple suffocation—was never one she would willingly choose over dying on the field of battle. None of those was a noble death. None of those befitted the daughter of a Fairchild, a noble line of soldiers and warriors. No. If she was going to die, she wanted to die with a blade in her hand and the roar of battle on her breath. At least then she would know she had died righteously.

  Unlike my father, Sara whispered to herself in a small corner of her mind. She didn’t voice it. But she knew. If she could die in the service of her empire, even as a lowly mercenary, it might right a small bit of her father’s shame. It might take the censorious whispers of the Fairchild name from the streets. It might help them to once more be on the right side of the law.

  But for now, Sara thought with clinical detachment, I will not die. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not before I find out why my father disgraced our family and our empire. Not before I find out what the mercenary company is hiding and why I can’t find any record of his fall. This day is not the day to die. This is the day to be subservient to a disgusting coward of a man I must call my captain.

  A man that she couldn’t forget was a battle mage himself. With more skill and more experience in field combat, if none of the necessary compunctions of morality and leadership that were supposed to come alongside that experience. Disgust at that roiled above her like a tremulous and unseen cloud, but Sara didn’t even flinch. She also didn’t bow to his demeanor, even though that would have been the prudent thing to do. Her idea of subservience was not socking in him in the jaw like he so assuredly deserved. Instead, she glared up at him with fierce eyes and a defiant tilt of the chin. Somehow, she held her tongue. That part wasn’t in her nature. The inner side of her mouth twitched as she fought to keep her lips closed and her teeth from either baring in a grimace or opening to allow traitorous whispers to issue from her lips. She could feel the muscles in her whole body clenching from the effort it took to restrain herself.

  Her mother’s voice appeared in her mind as if she stood at Sara’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “Be careful, Sara-girl. Pride comes before the downfall, and showing your anger to a man who is your superior will get you worse off than you are now.”

  Once upon a time, her mother would have never let such cowardly drivel cross her lips. That had been before she was beaten and broken by the system. A city that hissed her name like a curse. An empress that turned her back on a family that had served honorably for generations. A guild that had used every under-handed trick and outright thievery to wrest her husband’s land, titles, and money from a grieving widow’s hands. A world that had turned its back on her.

  All of that, however, hadn’t made her mother turn her back on the world. She still cared for the sick as she could, turned no one away from her doorstep on a bitter cold night’s eve, and nodded in recognition to everyone who did the same to her. But it had stolen the joy of life from her and the innocence that her mother’s presence exuded with every passing moment. You couldn’t be innocent when you were thrown out on the streets and forced to face the world as it was. Hard. Bleak. Unforgiving.

  Sara had never really considered herself innocent, not even as a child. Naïve? Yes. Unworldly? Absolutely. But innocent? No. Innocence was for children who hadn’t been taught how to hold a blade in their hand at the age of three. Innocence was for a child who hadn’t cut the throats of a cow, a chicken, a pig, a horse, and a human cadaver, all before the age of ten so that her father could show her how a knife felt going through skin and, what’s more, what death felt like. Her father had been a strong believer in giving her experience. Experience to know that when her blade swept out to bring death, it was through a living being that it would cut. A living being whose soul would leave their bodies as the light in their eyes dimmed. A living being whose blood would spurt in an arc no matter how shallow or deep she cut their necks. A living being whose empty shell of a body would fall to the ground with one swift cut from her blade.

  Now her mother’s voice was whispering in her head to watch herself. Not just in her words but in her mannerisms. Sara knew what that meant—it was in the defiant tilt of her head, in the brazen hatred in her eyes, in the strong and unbowed arrow of her back. But for Sara Fairchild, that would be like trying to change her very being. Besides, she was too tired and too over-wrought to be careful. Who was he to warn her away with tone and inflection? She’d faced down worse men, the kind who’d wanted her dead. Compared to that, what could the captain do? Demote her? It wasn’t like she wouldn’t welcome it; demotion meant a lower rank with fewer responsibilities. That would free her to pursue her cause, the cause of finding out the true reason behind her father’s death. She didn’t allow herself to hope, not even in the deepest reaches of her heart, that she could clear his name. All she wanted was the truth.

  So Sara was a little tired of lies and deception, especially from red-headed captains with egos too big for their britches. When Sara spoke this time with stiff shoulders, it was with a glint of ire in her eyes. Let him think she was challenging him. Let her see what he was made of.

  “You led us on a march of death knowing that salvation and yes, hope, could have kept the mercenaries alive for just a day or an hour longer. Too many of them gave up their lives because they never dreamed of escaping this perilous swamp. They saw no way out and no reason to go on. You knew that,” she said.

  Anger sparked in his eyes. “It was my leadership that got us to the rendezvous point.”

  “It was your cowardice that got us here,” she hissed back, “You knew all along that there was hope for salvation. But you didn’t see fit to share it with your troops. You let us believe we were slogging through an endless swamp with no visible aim, just so you could seem the proud messiah upon arrival.”

  A tic in his jawline told her she was right. Sara snorted. She was no fool. She’d stopped believing in the perfection of mercenary or imperial soldier leadership when her father was executed and she was cast aside like so much vermin beneath their boots.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the airship soldiers were getting closer. They were having a tough time with the mud, but their trajectory said they were heading straight for Sara Fairchild, the captain she was arguing with, and the forgotten as well as dying curator in her arms.

  The captain saw the incoming soldiers as well, judging by the flicker of his eyes as he glanced away and back towards her. However, that didn’t stop him from stepping towards her with a terse growl. His fist clenched by his side, he said, “You may have your opinion, young mercenary, but I had my orders. As your captain, I’d advise—nay, I order you to watch your tongue.”

  “You watch yours,” Sara snapped back quickly. She’d borne a grudge against the man since she had learned he’d hidden while his men and women died by the hundreds on the field of battle, and now this...it was just all too much for her. But fortunately for Sara Fairchild, she’d always had impeccably bad timing, and as of that moment their ability to have a tense but semi-private conversation was up. The landing party was just steps away. Sara might have disagreed with the captain personally and professionally, but she wasn’t stupid enough to do so in front of Algardis soldiers. She had once dreamed of becoming one of their fabled rank, sworn in service to the empress and the empress alone. But she was a mercenary now and a mercenary alone. So she would honor her duties and res
pect the captain in public...for now.

  Besides, she might have hailed these airship crewmen as heroes, but she was no fool. Mercenary or soldier, they were all individuals who could betray and thwart at the turn of a blade. She should know. For now, better the lazy and incompetent enemy she knew than a cunning and corrupt one she didn’t.

  It didn’t occur to her until her attention refocused on the coming group to think that Ezekiel had overheard their conversation. Sara felt a bit of unease move down through her gullet, because she couldn’t pin down whether or not she had ignored Ezekiel’s presence because he was friend or because dead-men-told-no-tales.

  She wanted to think it was the former. Then again if these Algardis soldiers couldn’t cure Ezekiel, then it would be stupid of her to think of as Ezekiel as anything but the latter—a dying man gasping his last breath.

  Ezekiel barely stirred in her arms. She sighed in relief and sternly whispered to herself, Stop it. The man’s not dead. He’ll live. Have some faith.

  Faith in what she didn’t know. She doubted very much that the gods were listening—and if they were, then heaven help them all, because they would be thrust in a situation far, far worse than their current one. You didn’t call upon the gods of Algardis unless you wanted to open up the fissures of the earth and wreak so much havoc that a civil war looked like child’s play. The founding of the empire had taught them that, and the tales of those times had been passed down generation after generation as a reminder. As if the newly-formed mountain ranges and swallowed cities hadn’t been enough.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Captain Simon click his muddy boot heels together as he raised his hand in salute. He hissed at her, “Salute, you fool, and have your invalid friend do the same.”

  Hot fire of anger raised through Sara, quickly doused by the cool calm of worry. Ezekiel had chosen that moment to grumble in protest, either at the captain’s words or, more likely, at his own discomfort. But that grumble had her sitting back on her heels and clutching Ezekiel tighter. Sara realized that she had ignored Ezekiel Crane’s presence in her arms as she lambasted their captain because he was more than just another a mercenary.

  Sara Fairchild muttered in astonishment, “He’s a friend. My only friend.”

  It was the first time since her father’s death and the abandonment by her true friends that she had uttered those words. To Sara’s surprise the sentiment rang as true as it had moments earlier.

  He really was. The other mercenaries, of course, didn’t count. Ezekiel was about all she had. Sara pushed thoughts of the others, the ones she had considered more than friends once, from her mind. Without thinking, she put two fingers against the pulse that lay like a comforting murmur under the flesh of Ezekiel’s throat, feeling for the beat. It was barely steady. With a tense look at her superior that matched the anger that was also on the captain’s face, Sara tilted her head back and looked up at the greeting party standing above her. She refused to rise and greet them properly. Sara might have believed in rank and formality, but she didn’t believe in it at the expense of her friend, who she would have to let sink into the swamp mud in order to stand.

  Apparently, that resentment came across loud and clear.

  Chapter 12

  The female soldier approaching, with three male soldiers behind her, almost reeled back at the unchecked anger on the kneeling mercenary’s face. But she quickly stiffened her shoulders and snapped a salute, “Captain Martha Simmons of the Air Guard, here for Captain Barthis Simon of the Corcoran Guard.”

  Captain Simon snapped a salute back. “You’ve found him, and not a moment too soon. Between the dreary weather, the predatory animals, and the cursed land, my troops were losing hope.”

  Captain Simmons of the Air Guard nodded. “We said we’d be here, and so we are.”

  “And so you are,” echoed Captain Simon, as if he didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t very well snap at his saviors. Sara had the uncharitable thought in that moment that she should deck his bum for being a pretentious maniac and then take the Captain of the Air Guard to task for not rescuing the group of Algardis mercenaries before they’d been forced to enter the swamp, walk for days in a hellhole, and lose over half of their company to its poisonous inhabitants.

  The female captain turned towards one of her men. “Summon the medics.” As the man ran off and the airship captain saw more wounded hobbling forth, she amended her order. “All four of them, Jones!”

  The man turned mid-run. An unspoken question on his face.

  “The imperial healer stays on board,” snapped Captain Simmons.

  Jones nodded and raced off to the ship. He didn’t have to climb the sides to get his message across; a man with a bird on his wrist conveyed the orders for him.

  Sara watched dispassionately as the messenger hawk took off from his owner’s wrist with something in its claws, and she clutched Ezekiel closer to her chest.

  The airship captain broke her reverie with a commanding voice. “Planning to execute the man?”

  Sara turned startled eyes over to the airship captain. She had no idea what she was talking about. “Who?”

  The woman nodded down at Ezekiel, clutched close in Sara’s arms. “Sure looks like you either want to put him out of his misery or put yourself out of yours.”

  Sara pulled herself together and looked down from the airship captain’s face to the man who she clutched at her front. Ezekiel’s head rested on her leather jerkin, and he was unconscious. Sara realized that her weapons were what had caught the female captain’s gaze. Her sword was still sheathed, but her knife was out and resting near the flesh of Ezekiel’s throat, much too close for comfort. Sara had been careless.

  “My apologies, my friend,” she whispered to Ezekiel while returning her gaze to the woman above. She eased the knife back and wearily said, “Protecting him. I was protecting him.”

  The woman’s eyes held her own, then she gave a slow nod. The airship captain’s voice was sympathetic but stern as she said, “You’ve done your job, lass. Now let my people do theirs. We’ll take care of this right quick.”

  Sara didn’t let hope bloom in her chest. It was too early for that. They were still neck-deep in this accursed swamp, after all. But she did tentatively ask, “You have the cure for what ails him?”

  “Ails them all?” Sara’s captain quickly corrected with a questioning tone in his voice.

  Even he didn’t know, which just made him more incompetent in her mind. How can someone so stupid be in charge of the lives of more than two hundred men and women? she wondered irritably. As the captain, his job was to lead by example and be knowledgeable about what kind of situation he was leading his command into. So far, their captain hadn’t done much of either.

  And perhaps that’s it, Sara realized with a start. He might be able to command the battlefield with a ferocious nature, but the man is as incompetent as a newborn babe at guiding his mercenaries to the battlefield.

  It made her visibly wince to think about it. Fortunately, the wince on her face could be put down to morbid thoughts about the dead and dying. She had winced because she knew her father must be rolling over in his grave at the thought of a Fairchild following a leader with only the skills to shed blood, rather than retain it. Sara knew that part of being a leader, a commander, meant finding ways to keep your troops alive and whole, not just triumphant.

  It had been one of her father’s favorite sayings to harp on. “Sara, a man or woman is only as good a leader in battle as they are off the field of war. But it’s knowing and acknowledging the need for both those qualities which is half the battle.”

  A smile had cracked younger Sara’s face as she walked along the path beside him, determined to emulate him in every way. It must have been a comical sight to passersby in the garden. A six-foot-tall giant of a man with the muscles of an ox and the battle scars of a seasoned warrior walking slowly down a flower-strewn path with a slip of a girl by his side, all arms and legs at that point, an
d her hair up in a puff on the top her head, secured by a bright red bow—surely her mother’s touch.

  If a delighted smile didn’t plaster her face in-between failed attempts at a grim demeanor matching the stalwart man beside her, then she would be overcome with energetic bouts and spin by her father’s side only to hurry to catch up with him as he kept striding forward. She could have stopped at any time, but she didn’t, partially because even though he didn’t say it, he approved. Her father approved of her happiness. He showed it in small ways with light squeezes of her hand when she’d skip back to him and grab hold of his calloused palm. She hadn’t been able to contain her excitement at the momentous occasion of that day. He still kept walking forward, though. Never stopping for her. Just minding her, and cautioning against any wild antics. Antics which would disturb the other walkers around them.

  If any passersby thought it funny that a scarred warrior with pale skin and young girl of five with dusky coloring were walking alongside one another without a care in the world, they said nothing. And Sara knew they had been wise to keep their mouths shut. As dangerous as she was now, her father had been a swordsman and mage twice her caliber. And even on an idyllic walk with his little girl in a flowering bower in the center of the capital, he was armed to the teeth with a saber on his back and a mace at his waist. Even she hadn’t been quite sure why he carried the mace on that day, but she was smart enough not to ask and ruin her father’s congenial mood.

  So she had listened and learned as he had continued speaking. “You will need three things as you take up your own command someday – strategy, fortitude, and battle instincts. One without the other means you can easily win the battle and lose the war. Do you understand?”

  She remembered that she had nodded her curly little head enthusiastically. She had been maybe eight years old at the time and eager to impress her commanding father. As she had gazed up into his face, a slight smile had cracked his stern and weathered face as he reached down a hand and put it squarely atop her head in the messy hold of curls that threatened to envelop his grip.