“We'll find a way to do what needs to be done,” said Willow. “We have to.”
Argus flipped through the Hearing Branch as the day wore on. He checked the vista north of the city often. Still no sign of the Calladonians.
Brenn, who'd just knocked back another tankard of ale, grew impatient. “What are they doing in there?” he asked, and pointed to the city walls. “Soft people tucked away in their homes—fools. There should be scouts.”
He's right, Argus thought. Might be a good way to settle my mind. At the moment there was a swarm of wasps buzzing around in there. Pieces of spells and lore. The whispers of madness.
“I'll go,” he said. “We need to find out everything we can.”
Harun got up and clapped his shoulder. “I'll tag along.” The others erupted in protest, but nothing they said could sway them.
“You all stay behind and get ready,” Argus said. “We'll ride out as far as we can, then return as soon as we see them.”
Harun nodded. “It will be best to take a few others with us. We can find them among the other companies.”
With that they set off despite a wave of disapproval. Finally Argus reminded them why they were here—what they needed to do for Willow to uphold her end of the bargain—and they grew quiet.
Harun led them through the tent city. They approached the mercenary commanders directly, swearing them to secrecy about their plans. Argus preferred to go alone, but if there was to be any hope of fighting together, it started now.
First was Danielle, the Night Wolves commander. She agreed with the plan and said, “I know just the man for the job.” A few minutes later the soldier appeared in her tent. The Pellmerean sentry from two nights past. The one who owed Argus a life debt.
“He might be greedy,” she said, “but he's capable on the battlefield. He's yours to command. Use him how you will; he means little to me now.” The sentry lowered his head and shuffled forward.
“We meet again,” Argus said.
Harun arched an eyebrow, though Argus refused to elaborate further.
“I… my lord,” said the sentry. “I'm at your service.”
“What was your name again?”
“Julian.”
“Very well, Julian. The first thing is to drop the fancy titles. The next,” he said, pointing at the man's horse, “is to mount up and come with us. We ride north.”
Julian did. Next they went to the Silent Company and recruited a barrel-chested man called Cyrus. He hardly spoke. His head was shaved—Argus couldn't spot a single hair on the man's entire body—and it shined just like the spear slung over his back.
Then came the Reaper Battalion, whom Argus and Harun had decimated a few years earlier in Rivanna. Yet none of the veterans were familiar. They found a young man, who called himself Foster, to come with him. Fair-haired and with a birthmark on his cheek that resembled a plow, he hardly stopped talking to take a breath.
“It's an honor to ride with the Legion,” he said, dimples cratering when he smiled. “Wait. You are the Legion of the Wind, right? Not that you'd tell me if you were imposters. Bah! It's an honor to ride with you anyway…”
Soon Argus mastered the art of tuning him out.
Their final stop was the Deathmaidens, whose members gave them dirty looks when they traipsed through on horseback. But their commander thought the idea to scout was sound; her only condition was they let her accompany them herself.
“Aye,” Argus said. “You'll have to ride, though. We don't have time to go on foot.”
The woman, a scrawny Calladonian named Helen, shrugged. “I learned how to ride when I was a wee girl.” She hopped up into Argus's stirrups and, once mounted, slid to the back of the horse. “Just don't show the girls it's me on the way out. They can't see me ride—especially with a man.”
Argus smiled, then bit his lip. “As you wish.”
Once everyone was mounted, they rode out of the Maidens' camp. Helen pulled her hood over her face, which she kept pressed tightly against Argus's shoulder.
Soon they were out in the open country. They headed north around Sorbas's western wall. Cyrus pointed out the turrets and the men patrolling up above, and Argus spurred them on faster.
“They'll see us from the walls,” Julian said.
“The guilds be damned,” said Helen. “Even if they do it'll be weeks before they figure out what to do about it.”
She was right. The defense guild hadn't even visited the mercenary camp to plan for battle. Argus couldn't imagine the chaos within those walls. We have to kill Eamon before his army arrives, or we don't stand a chance.
They rode until the sun peaked and started to fall. Keeping a steady pace, Argus passed around some venison jerky. Cyrus threw in a loaf of bread. Between that and Helen's wineskin, they at least had enough to soothe their rumbling stomachs.
Even Foster fell silent. Up into the foothills they went, retracing the path that led to the Luskan Mountains. The road was empty, though they stayed far clear of it. Their journey led them through farmland and sparse woods, watching closely for strangers among them.
When the last light of day burned into them, Helen poked his ribs. “You sure you saw that army out there? I haven't seen a bloody thing all afternoon except a stray rabbit and those brown locks of yours.”
“They were there, all right,” Argus said. “Right, Harun?”
The Tokati kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, and pointed. “Look.”
They followed his finger. Something glinted at the edge of their vision. A fleck of soot—just a few shades lighter than the night itself. It blinked out as quickly, but came back again seconds later.
On and off it flickered, like a wineglass swirled in front of a candle.
“What is it?” Foster asked.
“Armor,” said Julian. They whirled and found him leaning forward on his gelding. He hadn't spoken in hours.
“What about the armor?” asked Cyrus.
“Didn't you say it was dark gray? Almost black?”
Argus nodded. “Aye. With helmets and gauntlets of silver.” Gods. He watched the horizon. The glints came more often now. A row of them, stretching wide.
Helen squeezed her arms around him. “What now?”
He looked around. Aside from a few stands of scrub trees, the landscape was barren. They'd have to backtrack down the foothills for any hope of finding a decent hiding spot.
“They're moving fast,” Harun said. He squinted into the horizon. “Mounted men. They'll be upon us before we—”
“Come on!” Argus said, yanking the reins.
They turned back the way they came. He checked the sun, and cursed it for not falling faster. He looked back and spotted the glinting silver helmets the same distance away as before.
They galloped for a modest patch of woods down the hillside. It wasn't much. But it was all they had. Argus kicked his horse to keep up with the others. Panting, frothing at the mouth it carried him. They galloped in a tight wedge. Cutting through fallow fields and leaping over rocks. No longer bothering to look back.
With all his will Argus watched those trees and tried to draw them closer.
When they crashed into the trees, he only hoped they'd been fast enough.
They circled under the oak boughs and gathered their breaths. Harun leaped off his horse and crept to the edge, watching.
“What do you see?” Cyrus asked.
“Soldiers on horseback. Maybe two dozen of them.”
Argus swore.
“They don't have a standard,” Harun added. “Looks like scouts. Or a vanguard.”
The only thing to do was hide the best they could, wait for them to pass, and hope the rest of the Calladonian army wasn't too close behind. They led the horses into the middle of the woods, where they tied them up and offered calming words. Julian stayed behind to watch them while the others crept back toward the edge.
The tiny silver glints had become dark figures. It was hazy out, but the Calladonians soldiers wer
e close enough to count. Twenty of them. Riding fast.
“Think they saw us?” Foster asked.
Argus shrugged. “We'll know soon enough.”
His face paled. Gone were the easy smile and cheerful demeanor. The only thing left was fear.
Argus drew his sword as the others readied their weapons. He hated the odds. But the oaks grew thick enough here to keep the soldiers from running them down on horseback.
Not a bad place to die…
They watched the riders grow, casting an army of shadows behind them. Finally they ducked into the trees for good. They couldn't risk watching with them this close. The mercenaries took up positions in the undergrowth. Swords and maces, knives and bows. All of them aimed at the edge of the woods, where the riders might come.
Argus held his breath.
First they heard horses, and after them, voices.
Reaver sang to him for the first time in a long while. She demanded he dance and draw blood. A part of him felt the riders could hear her too—that she would draw them into battle.
Harun crouched beside him with his scimitar. He looked over and shook his head. It was a look Argus had seen countless times, in practically every kingdom under the sun. A look that asked a single, simple question:
What have we gotten ourselves into this time?
Soon they had their answer.
The riders pulled up even with the woods. Glimpses of armor and swords and horse hooves churning as they passed alongside the trees. The mercenaries turned their eyes and weapons with them, watching with bated breath.
Argus was lightheaded by the time the riders cleared the woods. He let out a breath. The mercenaries looked at one another, a few smiling, others holding hands over their chests.
Everyone except Foster, whose face remained frozen. His sword looked flimsy wavering in his hands. He pointed it south, where the riders had gone…
Except the riders weren't heading south anymore. Argus whirled and found horse eyes bulging, a row of armor and swords. And riders. They turned back and trampled into the woods.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
They crouched in the undergrowth and waited.
Argus huddled in some bushes with Harun and Foster, whose chest heaved with rapid shallow breaths. A few yards in front, Cyrus did his best to squeeze behind an oak trunk.
Hopefully Helen had done the same. She was somewhere behind them, last time Argus checked. He held Reaver very still and felt his heart pump blood through his hands and into the hilt.
“Steady,” he whispered to the fresh-faced Reaper beside him. His words did little to ease the young man's quivering.
So it will be a fight, then, Argus thought.
For the first time in a while, his mind was clear. The only thing to do was watch the riders approach. If they hid well enough, they'd have the upper hand when battle came.
The Calladonian riders picked their way into the woods. Low voices recited commands, though they were too far away to hear clearly. The men fanned out to navigate the rough terrain. Their swords were drawn, leading the way into the brush.
Argus looked at Harun and nodded.
The rustling sounds grew louder. He tried to keep track of them, but it was impossible. Everywhere he turned he found a rider. They spread out, keeping within eyesight of one another, forming a loose horseshoe as they approached.
Eight, nine, ten…
Argus lost count. The men came and went in the shadows, flashes of flesh and metal. He squinted into the darkness. His eyes were traitors. Every shadow became a rider, and soon he was surrounded.
He watched a trio of riders squeeze through a cluster of alders. As they navigated the narrow path in single file, he thought of Julian.
He has the horses. If they find him first we don't stand a chance…
Argus held Reaver. She called louder now. She urged him to just run up there and start slicing. He resisted the temptation… but for how much longer?
The trio of Calladonians rode through the alders and into a small clearing—the last before the zigzag path that led to the clearing where the mercenaries hid.
The riders whispered to one another. The first two dismounted and climbed down into the clearing. After glancing into the shadows, the third swung a leg over his horse…
And fell face-first onto the ground.
The others rushed over to help him up, but cried out when they got close. The fallen man's horse rose up onto its hind legs, whinnying. It skittered away and trampled into the woods.
The Calladonian men swore. One raised his sword and squinted into the night while the other tended to the fallen rider. He pulled the man up into a sitting position, and then Argus saw it:
A long, slender throwing knife stuck out of the man's chest.
Helen!
Argus wondered where she was. He didn't have to wait long before another knife whistled through the woods. He spotted it mid-flight, tumbling end over end until it landed in one of the survivor's thighs.
He screamed. That blade went right through his mail, just like it had done to the man before him. The Deathmaidens made those knives from the finest Harlockian steel. Perfectly weighted and balanced. They sharpened then—and practiced with them—like it was their religious duty.
Another one sailed into the clearing and skidded uselessly into the undergrowth.
Then came another. This one whistled right by the last empire soldier standing before it lodged in a gnarled oak.
He screamed, and disappeared behind a tree trunk as the volley continued.
“They're over here! In the clearing!”
The other riders converged on their position. Helen's knife show had made Argus forget all about them. They were everywhere he looked now, dismounting and closing fast.
Foster nodded rapidly, preparing himself for battle.
Argus grabbed his arm. Not yet.
Harun hissed and thumped them on the heads. They turned back and found the woods behind them crawling with empire soldiers. These men moved in formation, leapfrogging from tree to tree.
Shit, Argus thought. They flanked us.
There was nowhere to run. Not with that noose around them, tightening fast. Getting back to Julian and the horses was unthinkable. The mercenaries stood back to back and waited.
“Over here!” the survivor from the knife attack screamed. “Hurry!”
Just kill him already!
Helen didn't. Her knives stopped flying. Maybe she was saving some for closer targets. Argus watched the edge of the clearing where Cyrus hid. The burly man crouched in the same position as before, ready to crush some skulls with his mace.
“Found them!” someone yelled.
Argus's vision narrowed. It was a different voice than before—and much closer.
He turned and fell in beside Harun and Foster. A wedge of Calladonian soldiers approached them. They were close enough to see the whites in their eyes. Their faces were devoid of fear.
Every one of them—Argus counted at least six—had swords.
“Give it up,” one of them said. “Surrender if you want to live. We have the numbers.”
Harun chuckled softly.
Foster dropped his sword and fell to his knees.
“Come get us,” Argus said. He reached down and yanked Foster to his feet. “I know you're afraid,” he whispered. “So am I. Fight like a man, die like a man.”
Foster shook his head. “I… I've never…”
“Don't think. Trust your instincts.” Argus picked up his sword and put it in his hands.
The Reaper nodded. A fire sparked in his blue eyes. It was good that it burned, because the Calladonians were on them.
“For the Sculptor!”
Half a dozen of them charged down the slope, screaming with their swords drawn.
The mercenaries lunged out of the brush and let out a battle cry of their own. Horses neighed. Bodies trampled through the undergrowth. The entire world slipped away in the clamor of ringing steel.
Argus thrust Reaver upward. He stayed low, aiming for legs. Harun hacked with his scimitar beside him. Soon those battle cries turned into screams. Reaver sliced through tendons and muscle, painting the night with her beautiful long arcs.
A few Calladonians fell, but there were plenty more to replace them. Argus rolled to the side. He dodged one overhead strike but nearly landed right in another. Blades whistled past his ear. Shredding his tunic into tatters.
He spun around a tree and thrust again. His blade went right through his opponent's mail. It kept going until it pierced the man all the way through, and Reaver claimed another victim.
Argus struggled to pull the sword out and felt other bodies pressing into him from behind.
He turned and looked.
More Calladonian men collapsed on them from the east. The battlefield became nothing more than a blur of images.
Harun swirling with the scimitar, baring his brilliant white teeth.
Helen dashing into the woods with her bow and a pair of empire soldiers in hot pursuit.
Foster, fighting like a man—and dying like a man too when he and a Calladonian soldier exchanged swords and collapsed on the forest floor.
Argus's heart swelled and burst. The bravery, the tragedy, the dying. The best and worst of humanity. On and on it went.
With a scream, he ripped his sword out of the dead man's chest.
Reaver demanded more blood. She would have it too.
He sprinted over to Harun, who was pinned between two Calladonian men. The Tokati slashed with his scimitar, though their broadswords had a greater reach. The men stayed just beyond where he could slash them, poking at his limbs.
One of them got a chunk of the Tokati's thigh before Argus decapitated him. The other, after seeing his friend's head roll through the undergrowth, tried to turn and flee.
“Quarter! Mercy, please!”
He lowered his sword just as Harun buried the scimitar in his stomach. The Tokati pulled it out and checked his thigh, which was bleeding freely.
“You all right?” Argus asked. “He nicked you pretty well.”
“I'll survive. Maybe I would have given him quarter if his friend hadn't stabbed me.”
Reaver's Wail Page 21
