by Kel Kade
Rezkin shrugged. With a nod, he said, “Ask the boss.”
Orin glanced toward Kai who was watching the exchange with a sharp gaze while maintaining quiet conversation with Farson.
“You still expect me to believe he’s in charge?”
“Don’t matter who’s in charge. He’s the one ya gotta speak to. I’m busy.”
Orin turned to his men. Those who could stand were helping the less fortunate move to a clear area where they could tend to their injuries. The mercenary leader held his hands out to the carnage in disbelief. “He’s busy, he says.”
As Rezkin passed, Farson looked at him deadpan and muttered, “Seriously? I am the darkness?”
Rezkin grinned. “Outworlders enjoy theatrics.”
He was in the midst of cleaning, stitching, and bandaging Pride’s wounds when Malcius approached.
“What are you doing? Can you not see that people are injured? You care more for the welfare of the horse?”
Dipping his fingers into the ointment, Rezkin answered quietly. “We cannot afford for his wounds to fester. It would be much more difficult to tend to a feverish battle charger without the aid of a healer or life mage. Also, right now he is worn from the effort and energy of the battle. Later, he will be rested and churlish. Trust me when I say that we do not desire for him to turn his ill temper on us.”
Malcius glanced back to the evidence of Pride’s brutality. “No, I should say not. But you will see to the others?”
“None of you look to be dying.”
Malcius scowled. “This will surely scar,” he said, pointing to the gash on his neck.
Rezkin said, “I believe warriors enjoy showing off their war wounds.” He did not mention that if the laceration had been a thumb’s width to the left, Malcius would have bled out within minutes.
Malcius huffed. “Millins is the worst. Those horrid talons ripped into his back and hips. Kai has already seen to Jimson’s arm. We can all use some stitches and ointment.”
“You already know I intend to assist you, Malcius.”
“Do I? What about the mercenaries? You let that one die last night.”
“To aid him would have been to risk exposure for what was likely a lost cause.”
“You might have saved his life,” Malcius replied.
Rezkin met the young lord’s angry gaze. “And he would have lost it today.”
“You did not know we would be attacked. Or did you?”
Shaking his head, Rezkin said, “No, of course not. Do you think that if I had, I would not have planned for it?”
“What now, then? Will you help the mercenaries, too, or let them suffer and die?”
“I will assist. Let them think I picked up some few healing skills in the army. We shall not mention which army.”
Malcius nodded, seemingly satisfied, until Rezkin said, “Hold this,” as he pulled together split horse flesh. Cautiously, Malcius approached the deadly equine and placed his hands as instructed. A massive black head snaked around, and Malcius yelped as if the horse would bite him. The beast merely rolled his eyes in challenge.
After seeing to the worst of Pride’s injuries, Rezkin cleaned and stitched Millins. Someone had started a small fire, and the mercenaries were busy cauterizing the worst of their wounds. It was a primitive technique, one used by men with no knowledge or skill in the proper stitching and dressing of wounds. Unfortunately, most who did not die from the wound succumbed to infection. The survivors were left with unsightly and possibly disabling scars. In Gendishen, where even mundane healers were often accused of cavorting with evil spirits or demons, people were willing to risk infection over outright blood loss.
Rezkin was in the midst of stitching Millins’s wounds when Wesson squatted beside him in the shadow of the wagon.
“Do you think any of them saw?” the mage asked.
“I do not believe so. If they had, we would surely know of it by now.”
Wesson glanced at the mercenaries pensively. One of them, in particular, was staring at them. “Perhaps, but it could be that they are pretending not to know until they find a purifier. Maybe they are afraid that if I know that they know, we will kill them.”
“We will,” said Rezkin. At Wesson’s disapproving glance, he said, “It is not my preference either, but if allowed to live, they will betray us.”
“You cannot know that. I cannot believe that everyone in this kingdom is so cruel and hateful. They should be given a chance.”
Rezkin gave him a disparaging look. “A chance to betray us?”
“No, a chance to prove themselves.”
Rezkin shook his head. “I recognize your conviction, but if they fail and behave exactly as we expect them to, we will be the losers.”
“He’s right,” said Millins. The sergeant was damp with sweat, and his eyes were glossy, but he was aware enough to follow the conversation. “These people … the sentence for harboring or aiding the afflicted is torture and death. They will not risk that for you.”
Rezkin did not wish to continue the discussion where they could so easily be overheard, so he ordered the mage to check on the others. Although Wesson had no innate healing ability, and he could not have used it if he had, he did have some education in anatomy and mundane treatments. Wesson stood and bumped into Minder Finwy as he left to do Rezkin’s bidding. Rezkin felt the minder’s gaze as he finished the final suture. He applied additional ointment to the wounds and then sparingly applied the bandages. The others still required treatment, and he had no idea if they would be attacked again before he was able to replenish his supply.
As Rezkin collected his supplies, he said to the minder, “If you were hoping to aid the sergeant in his passing, your services will not be required.”
Millins gave the minder a wary look and shook his head.
Finwy smiled and said, “No, it seems you have done well enough to prevent that.” He glanced up to see that the mercenaries were still gathered afar and said, “This is not the behavior I would have expected of the dark warrior who defied Ionius in his own throne room.”
“You were there?” Rezkin said.
“I was.”
“Then you should know already that my concern was for my people. Sergeant Millins is one of them.”
Finwy dropped his gaze to the listless soldier. “Ionius also believes his concern to be for his people, but I doubt anyone would ever find him administering to their needs personally.”
“I have the Skills, we are few, and many are injured. Ionius has plenty of people to see to the needs of others in his stead.”
“You defend him?”
“No, I concur with your conclusion. It is unlikely, however, that he would ever be put to the test.”
“Yet you would not hesitate to kill others who have done no wrong.”
“Would you kill someone to prevent a terrible injustice that has not yet occurred but that you know will happen if you do nothing? Or will you allow it to happen and then punish others for the offense? If you know it is going to occur, are you not also culpable for doing nothing to prevent it?”
“I see your point. It is a most difficult conundrum. I would look to the Maker to guide me.”
“And if the Maker is silent?”
“When the Maker is silent, it is because the experience of making the choice is more important than the outcome.”
“If the Maker denies his counsel when it is requested, then how can one be held accountable for making the wrong choice?”
Finwy tilted his head. “Perhaps neither decision is wrong. Perhaps it is about how we deal with the effects of making that choice.”
“One of those effects being the judgment of others?”
“You will be judged no matter the choice you make.”
“Which is why I do not concern myself with the judgment of others.”
Finwy looked at him doubtfully. “Is that so?”
“I follow the Rules, and so I prevail. Eventually, I will not. The opinions of other
s concern me only in so far as they either aid or obstruct my plans.”
“Whose rules are those?”
“I do not know who made the Rules.” He turned to check the status of his friends as he said, “Perhaps it was the Maker.”
Followed closely by the minder, Rezkin meandered between the corpses to where the mercenaries were tending their wounded. They rejected his offer of aid, insisting that they were as capable as any field medic. They were not, but Rezkin had no desire to argue the point. His friends were assuaged that he had tried.
“We’ll need the horse to pull the wagon,” Orin said for the seventh time.
“No,” Rezkin replied, for the seventh time.
“Yer a selfish bastard, thinkin’ that beast you pass off as a war horse is too good to be pullin’ a wagon. We’ve got half the wealth of the White Crescents in that wagon.”
“I’ve told you. That horse won’t pull a wagon,” Rezkin said. “You try to hitch him up, and you won’t have a wagon left to pull.”
“You whip him good, and he’ll learn,” Orin groused.
Rezkin scoffed. “He’s a finely trained war horse. Ain’t no one gonna break him to pull a damned wagon.”
Kai said, “You try to whip that horse, it’ll be the last thing you do.”
Orin spied the stallion out of the corner of his eye. He shouted to his men to gather what they could carry and then push the wagon into the grass, covering the tracks as best they could. As he turned away, he muttered, “Bloody horse killed more drauglics than I did. I don’t know how you got such a beast, but he’s as ornery as you. The both of you—killin’ things and doin’ whatever the hells you want. You deserve each other!”
A strange sound erupted beside Kai. Rezkin had never heard Farson laugh, but he was laughing now. Rezkin had no idea what was so funny. He and Pride were both trained to be efficient and effective in battle. They were a matched pair, as they should be.
Those well enough for the task dug shallow graves for the fallen mercenaries and then put as much distance between themselves and the carnage as they could. With a single camp, the healthiest kept watch in shifts while the injured fell into fitful, feverish slumber. When Orin became too delirious to reject the healing draught, Rezkin poured it down the mercenary leader’s throat. Although Orin’s death would have been an opportune time for Rezkin to claim his men, he was disinclined to suffer the trouble. He was satisfied to let Orin keep the other mercenaries in line, and Rezkin was reasonably sure the man knew where he stood.
The following day was worse. The wind whipped across the prairie, and every inch of skin not covered suffered its ill effects. Seeds and pollen danced on the breeze like tiny pixies, and every time the travelers were forced to leave the road, the grasses lashed at their arms and legs. The aches from the previous day’s abuse had set in, and no one had slept well during the night. They were all too aware that an unknown number of drauglics had escaped and could attack again at any time. Eager for the safety of walls and other men, they trudged forward, injured and without horses, forced to carry their own supplies.
Just after midday, a plantation came into sight. It was far from the road, but the dirt wagon trail had been well maintained. The main house was a large, one-story affair, the kind that wrapped around an inner courtyard. The trim and sills were painted yellow, and white lace blew in the breeze from the open windows. Several outbuildings dotted the property, including quarters for field hands, a barn, smokehouse, and drying shed, along with three squat silos. A trail of large stepping stones led through the shorn lawn to a rustic gazebo that stood in the shade of a few cultivated trees beside a small pond. With autumn near, the cool breeze swept over the short stone wall, still warm from the late summer sun, and insects buzzed and snapped a soothing cadence. It was a tranquil scene, designed and sustained by the loving care of a tender heart, except for all the blood.
Bits of bloody hooves and tufts of fur were scattered in the pens. Smeared across the front porch and along the yard was a dry, rusty trail, and scraps of shredded clothing were strewn over the dirt and grass, some still containing body parts. Carrion birds squawked as they fought over the remnants. Pride snorted and stomped over the debris toward a low trough to one side of the barn. The horse vigorously expressed his displeasure as he was forced to wait while Rezkin inspected the water.
Meanwhile, Kai motioned to Brandt. “Check the well,” he said. “Mal, watch the field by the house.” He switched to Leréshi when speaking to Yserria, instructing her to keep an eye on the road. He then followed Farson toward the other outbuildings while Orin and his men prepared to enter the house.
Rezkin drew Bladesunder and stepped into the barn. It was dark inside, and his eyes required a moment to adjust, but his nose had already told him what he wanted to know. Once he could see properly, he checked each stall for confirmation. Rats scattered upon his approach, screeching their displeasure with his arrival. Everything that had been kept in the barn at the time of the attack had been killed. The carcasses of the larger beasts remained, mutilated and divested of their flesh. One did not have to study the plethora of vaguely manlike tracks and deep gouges to know what had happened.
A pained shout sounded from the yard, and Rezkin rushed to meet the foe. When he arrived, though, he saw only his party rushing toward Brandt who was tugging something heavy from the well. Tears streamed down Brandt’s face as he gripped the pale, sodden lump in his arms. It was a small-man, a child, Rezkin reminded himself. The boy appeared to be around nine years old. He could not have been dead for more than a few hours, and he bore no visible injuries.
“He was tied to the rope,” Brandt said through choked sobs.
Rezkin scanned the grasses in the distance as he spoke. “This attack appears to have occurred a few days ago. His parents probably lowered him into the well for protection. The water is cold, though, and he likely lost consciousness before drowning.”
Malcius frowned down at Brandt, obviously disturbed by the sight of the boy but also concerned for his friend. “He is not Alon. Did you hear me, Brandt? He is not your brother.”
Brandt squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths. He lowered the child to the ground and turned away as he regained his feet. “I know. I, ah, need a moment.”
“Do not go far,” Rezkin said. “We know not what dangers lie in wait.” He motioned to Wesson. “Cap the well and mark it. We should not drink the water. We can get what we need from the troughs for now.”
Malcius’s face screwed up in disgust. “You want us to drink from animal troughs?”
“The one by the barn looks clean enough, or would you prefer to drink from the well of the dead?”
“No, the trough will do,” Malcius said begrudgingly.
Orin came tromping from the house with a dagger in hand. “What’s all the fuss about out here?” Then he noticed the lifeless boy. “Ah, I see. We’ll get him buried. Yer priest can say a few words.” He cleared his throat and motioned back at the house. “It’s a bit of a wreck, but looks like most of the blood’s on the outside. It’d be better to take up in the house tonight than risk the fields. If we start early, we’ll be in Behrglyn before sundown.”
The mercenary was looking at him, but Rezkin glanced toward Kai. The striker jumped at the silent instruction. “A’right, sound like a plan. Let’s see what food stores they’ve got. Don’t think we’ll be huntin’ ’round here.”
Orin grumbled, “Like as not, we’ll be the ones is hunted.”
Hours later, the sun had not yet met the horizon and the group had already reinforced the doors and windows. They had just finished eating their meal when one of the mercenaries came rushing in to alert them of the new arrivals. A mounted Gendishen military patrol was moving up the road toward the house. Rezkin and Kai shifted to the nearest window, and Malcius and Brandt ducked in beneath them for a view. Dozens of soldiers rode Gendishen reds—at the front, a dergmyer, an army rank roughly equivalent to an Ashaiian major. Beside him was a myer
, which was similar to a captain. Behind them were two older men and a young woman in brown robes. Each was adorned with a snakeskin baldric upon which glinted numerous small metals and talismans. The woman carried a wooden pole with two iron rings holding multiple sets of chained shackles dangling from the top.
“Who are they?” Brandt said.
“Those in the brown robes are purifiers,” Rezkin replied.
As they filed into the yard, the mercenaries partially blocked their view of the approaching convoy.
Kai hummed under his breath. “It is unusual to see a dergmyer on patrol.”
Rezkin stepped away from the window and turned to see Wesson staring toward the blocked window. The young mage’s expressive face bore a mixture of fear and anger.
“You should stay as far from them as possible. We do not know how effective your amulet will be against whatever method they use to identify the talented.”
“Then we should test it,” Wesson said.
Rezkin glimpsed the large patrol. “This is not the best time.”
Wesson said, “What? We should wait until we are confined to a city, surrounded by people?”
It was completely unlike Wesson to so openly express his disapproval of Rezkin’s decisions, but Rezkin knew the mage was sensitive about the issue. Rezkin glanced toward Minder Finwy who stood silently watching from the doorway that led to the next room and then looked back to Wesson. “If we test it, and it does not work, we will have to kill everyone out there—the purifiers, the soldiers, and the mercenaries. Can you live with that?”
Wesson turned away and huffed in frustration. “No, I do not want that.”
Kai said, “We have trouble.”
“What is it?” Rezkin said as he moved back toward the window.
“They are moving in to seize Orin and his men.”
“Do you see any of ours?” Rezkin said, since Farson, Jimson, and Yserria had been keeping watch outside when the patrol arrived.
“No.”
“I pulled them back,” Farson said as he suddenly appeared from behind.
Rezkin rested a hand on Brandt’s shoulder. “Keep an eye out the window.” He turned to Farson. “Why are they detaining the mercs?
