by Dan Wells
“I tell you you’re a killer, and the only thing you can say in defense is that you’re good at it?”
The words were a slap in the face. Orsus fell silent.
“I’ve thought about this a lot,” she said softly, “and I guess I thought if I kept putting it off then this day would never come. I don’t want to be the shrew who gnaws your soul to pieces, and I don’t want to make you into something you’re not.” She put a hand on his chin, the way she always did, so soft and delicate, and his skin seemed to burn at the touch. “If it’s going to be the two of us then I want it to really be the two of us—not one controlling the other, but two souls joined.” She sniffed back tears and took another breath. “But this is too much, Orsus. Life and death. Love and murder. That can’t be a part of who I am.”
Orsus looked at his hands, too uncomfortable to look at her directly. He’d never wanted violence to be a part of his life, either; then one hellish night in a bloody Tharn raid had changed that course forever . . . but no. Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. He’d always been a fighter, wrestling with the neighbor kids, hunting with his father, even cutting trees with Aleksei’s logging crew was another way of breaking things down, of forcing them to fit, of using his strength against the world. The nighttime jobs with Aleksei weren’t beautiful or honorable, and he knew that, but he was good at them, better than he’d ever been at anything—better than anyone, he thought, and that was saying something.
He looked at Lola helplessly. “It’s what I know.”
“You know many things.”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
“I told you, I don’t want to hear how good—”
“I know you don’t want to hear it,” he said, more loudly than he intended. He hoped she could hear that his voice held more pain than anger. “I know you don’t want to hear how good I am at fighting, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I’m not any good at anything else. Do you understand me? I’ve tried other jobs: cargo, ’smithing, everything this village has to offer, but I’m not . . .” He struggled to find the right words. “I’m not a steamjack. I’m more than just giant arms under giant shirts, but that’s the only option I have here.”
“We could leave.”
“And go where? Every village is the same. Every job is the same. Even logging is just moving heavy things—an axe, a tree, a branch, a stump. My work with Aleksei is . . . I don’t know how to describe this. It’s like a song, with all the words and notes in their right, perfect place.”
She frowned, confused, and he racked his brain for some way he could describe it to her.
“It’s like the puzzle box I bought you for Giving Day—all the little wooden pieces so perfectly interlocked. It’s not the punches or the stabs or the physical . . . anything, it’s mind against mind. Plan against plan. Pitting your wits against another human being. Making that happen, and seeing that through, it’s not about destruction at all. It’s the most wonderful act of creation you’ve ever seen.”
Her voice was bitter. “So you’re just too brilliant not to kill people?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“You’re saying that a big man in a tiny village gets stuck with all the grunt work the oxen can’t be bothered with, and I understand that and I’m sorry, but you’re not the kind of person who has to sacrifice other people’s lives just to get a thrill from his job. You don’t have to kill to be happy.”
“It’s not about the killing—”
“But killing happens anyway, right?” Her eyes seemed to burn with indignation. “No matter how careful your plans and how intricate your puzzle box, something goes wrong and you have to kill to stay alive. Maybe not every time but every third time, every fifth, every hundredth—and it’s still too many. Even when you don’t kill anybody, you hurt them or break their things or ruin their lives. You’re good at it because you’re good at everything, Orsus, but it’s not who you are, and it’s not who I love.”
The words rocked him back on his heels. All the times he’d dreamed of saying it, of hearing it, and this was how it happened—in a fight, locked in conflict, sobbed in hopeless desperation. It couldn’t happen that way; he wouldn’t let it. He would not rob the woman he cared about—the woman he loved—of the beauty this moment was supposed to have.
He rose to his feet. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
He reached her in a single stride, sweeping her up with his arms and lifting her into a kiss, perfect and passionate and glorious. He wanted to hold her forever, to melt into her body, to taste her soft, supple lips for the rest of his life. She held him tight and kissed him back, and he realized that he would do anything for this woman. That he would give up anything. Become anything.
“I love you,” he said again.
“I love you, too,” she murmured.
“I want to marry you, and have three children—four, if they’re small, but they won’t be because their father’s a talking bear.”
She laughed, her tears now tears of joy.
“And I’ll stop working for Aleksei,” he said more softly, though his voice crackled with intensity. “I’ll give it all up—I’ll tell him today if you want me to. I’ll tell him right now. No more killing, no more fighting, no more violence, because you’re right about me and that’s not who I am.”
“You could be a carver,” she said.
“What?”
“A wood-carver. With a shop in village, making puzzle boxes for Giving Day and the other festivals.”
He smiled. “All those perfect pieces, in just the right spots. It would take a long time to earn the money to get started.”
“What’s time to us?” she said. “It’ll take us that long just to finish washing your gigantic shirts.”
He kissed her again.
“Will Aleksei let you stay on the logging crew?”
“I think so,” he said. “I hope so. He’s all about loyalty.”
A slight frown passed over Lola’s face, the smallest hint of worry, the tiniest shadow of despair.
And then it was gone.
“Ride!” Orsus shouted, spurring his warhorse forward. “Ride ’til your horse dies under you, and pray that we’re not too late!” Behind them a vast army of Khadoran horsemen thundered through the valley, their horses hot and lathered, their weathered uniforms never touching their saddles as they stood in their stirrups and urged their mounts. Kommander Orsus Zoktavir had heard word of a Cygnaran-hired mercenary force attacking in southern Umbresk, and nothing would stand in his way. The other battalions of the Fifth Border Legion had been led astray by a decoy force, and now he would have to ride all night to reach the threatened towns in time. The infantry and warjacks couldn’t keep pace and were following separately, hauled by wagons, but Orsus couldn’t afford to wait. More than one horse, and even a handful of riders, would fall by the wayside before the desperate ride had finished.
Valleys opened and closed as they passed; farms drifted by in the darkness. Orsus drove his army, always faster, harder, and more fiercely, propelled by a single-minded madness. He would not arrive too late. He would not let innocents be slaughtered. Lola clanged against his back as he rode, a reassuring presence and a damning, overburdening weight. He would not let his charges be killed.
Not again.
They smelled the smoke before they saw the fires, a dark pall keeping the brighter flames hidden until the army raced around the last corner, storming through the final valley like the host of Menoth’s judgment. The Cygnaran incursion force, mostly composed of mercenaries, stood in the vast plain beyond the ruined village, camped for the night near the sizable Umbrean town of Vlasgrad but alerted to Orsus’ approach by their scouts and already prepared for battle.
Towering warjacks stood arrayed among the troops, faintly illuminated by torchlight; hundreds of soldiers moved restlessly at their feet, a formless, shifting mass in the dark. Orsus scanned them quickly, almost subconsciously
, cataloging their numbers and formations as he rode to the burning town. Homes and shops burned madly in the predawn, the great church of Morrow in the center of the village square now nothing but a crumbling, shattered mass. Adults screamed hoarsely for water, for bandages; children ran in terror from the destruction of everything they had ever known and loved.
Orsus reined his horse sharply to a stop and leaped down to the dirt, charging madly into a flaming cottage where a faint cry sounded from the wreckage. He shoved the burning timbers aside, heedless of the heat even as it singed and curled the edges of his cloak. The voice called out again, and he surged forward through the blaze. Three women lay screaming in a flameless corner, choking on smoke and too weak to escape. As Orsus approached them, a rafter crashed down in his path with a burst of cinders.
“Lola!”
He pulled the heavy axe from his back and attacked the rafter recklessly, sweeping it aside with a roar. The women reappeared before him, but with each heavy step the world flickered, the air wavering in the heat, the image twisting and revolving. Step. Three women. Step. Two women. Step.
One woman.
Always one woman.
“Lola!”
“Why weren’t you here?” Her voice was weak and faltering in the furnace heat, the summer flowers wilting in her hair. “Why weren’t you here to save me?”
“I came as fast as I could. Let me take you—”
“I am already dead, Orsus.”
“Then leave me in peace!”
“You should never have left me, Orsus. You betrayed me.”
“I will save you!”
He gathered her up, her body light and fragile as it always was, every time, again and again. He brought her through the flames, through the heat and smoke and Urcaen itself, but when he laid her down upon the cold dark road it was not Lola but another face, three faces, soot-smudged and retching but alive.
Never Lola.
Again and again and again, but he never saved Lola.
Kovnik Bogdan dismounted next to him. “Well done, sir. You’ve saved them.”
“She is dead.”
“The village burns, but those who lived here are alive, Kommander. Our scouts have already circled the perimeter, and I’ve spoken with the mayor myself. The mercenary forces pulled back when they heard of our coming. They’re ready for us, but we’ve saved hundreds of our people.”
“She is dead, and we will have our revenge. Tell the men to form ranks.”
“One villager is not the end—”
Orsus grabbed the man’s collar with his iron-studded glove, lifting him. “One villager is everything, Kovnik! One villager is the kingdom.” He threw Bogdan to the ground. “Tell the men to form ranks. We do not wait for dawn.”
Bogdan choked and gasped for air. “The horses are too ragged, Kommander. They will die before we reach the enemy!”
“Then we will fight on foot,” said Orsus, his face a flashing horror in the firelight, “and when our feet give way we will fight upon our knees, and when our knees are bloody stumps we will crawl to the enemy and we will kill them with our teeth.”
“But why, sir?”
“Because she is dead. Someone must be punished.”
The kovnik staggered to his feet and shouted the command. The flagging forces took up the cry and stumbled into formation. Spears were uncovered, swords were unsheathed, guns were primed and loaded. Orsus strode to the edge of the village, Lola in hand, and when the fires rose up behind him his shadow fell dark and boundless upon the enemy.
“I have come for your lives!” he roared. And they will never be enough.
He did not wait for his army. Gripping Lola tightly, he bellowed a challenge and charged the foe alone, a Kodiak and a Marauder following close behind their master. Bullets ripped past him, against him, through him, but still he hit their lines like an artillery shell, scattering broken soldiers with each swing of his giant axe. The Marauder pounded a mercenary Nomad into scrap; the Kodiak met a charge of Steelhead cavalry, picking up the leader and throwing him back into their midst, horse and all. The Khadoran soldiers were shouting now, following their kommander, but Orsus ignored them; they would live or die on their own strength. It was time now for the only thing he’d ever been good at.
“That’s not true,” said Lola.
He screamed again to drown her out, and wrought the work of death upon his enemy.
By dawn the foe was scattered, broken, and dying on the field. There were stragglers to put down, and the men needed food and rest, but then . . .
“Are the horses ready, Kovnik?”
Bogdan shook his head, too exhausted to speak.
“Have them saddled, then. We ride again at midday.”
Maybe this time we’ll save her.
“Molonochnaya,” said Orsus.
Aleksei nodded.
“You’re breaking equipment only? No broken legs, no injuries, no death?”
“None.”
Orsus glowered at the tavern floor. “A shop is expensive,” he said at last. “You spoke of a bonus.”
“One month’s pay.”
“You will give me two.” He stared Aleksei down, brooking no argument.
Aleksei paused, then nodded. “Two.” A cold grin broke across his face. “Good to have you back.”
PART THREE
“The fortress is called Boarsgate,” said the newly minted Kommandant Frolova. “Ordic forces have held it for decades, but I am proud to say they have gone no further—this village, called Deshevek, is practically in Boarsgate’s shadow, but it has always remained devoutly Khadoran.” His voice, already cold, grew icy. “Until now.”
Kommander Orsus Zoktavir scowled at the map. “They’ve taken it?”
“I have received a report from spies in the village,” Frolova said. “It’s a vague report, with little to confirm it, but in this particular case I consider it worthy of our attention. Deshevek is not a village I am prepared to lose.”
Orsus turned toward the door. “I will root them out.”
Frolova frowned. “You don’t stand much on ceremony, do you, Zoktavir?”
Orsus looked back. “You wouldn’t tell me of spies if you didn’t want them dead. Our village is in danger, so I’m going to defend it. Or were you going to order me to do something other than serve the kingdom and kill her enemies?”
“The kingdom is served by more than death,” Frolova said. “If that were all she wanted, perhaps you would be the kommandant and I the kommander.” He paused, letting the restatement of their ranks speak for itself. If Orsus were a common soldier he’d be court-martialed for a comment like that, perhaps whipped, but he was a warcaster, one of the greatest weapons in the kingdom’s arsenal. He served Khador, just as he claimed, and he killed their enemies more effectively—more gleefully—than any other soldier under Frolova’s command. But his attitude was dangerous—not because he was insubordinate but because he didn’t think. He saw problems and killed them, even when other solutions might be better. Someday he would go too far, ignore too many regulations, and the results would be disastrous. Frolova would need to consider a more proper form of reining him in, but there was no time now. This matter must be resolved.
“The village is worthy of our attention because there is talk of secession,” Frolova said.
Orsus looked up sharply. “Khadoran turncoats,” he said, chewing on the words as if he wanted to grind them into dust. Again, he moved toward the door. “They will be brought to justice.”
“Only as a secondary objective,” Frolova said. “My spies in the area are working to find their counterparts with more subtlety than you could bring to bear. I do not send you there for subtlety, Kommander Zoktavir, but to put the fear of Menoth deep in their hearts. They must see the might of Khador’s armies. Remind them of their loyalty to the true source of their protection. These spies—these dissidents—must gain no ground among our people.”
“They will find Khador more resilient than they expect,
” Orsus said.
“Be sure that they do. The kingdom is strong, but there are whispers of weakness—not among the faithful, certainly, but the outlying regions hear only rumors, often exaggerated through multiple tellings. The queen is young, and so the story emerges that she is too young; her advisors counsel her faithfully, and so the story emerges that they move her like a pawn. Show her power in the land, and these rumors will be quelled.”
Orsus’ eyes blazed with indignation. “Have you considered that these turncoats are planning more than secession?“
Frolova frowned. “I talk of turncoats, and you see a revolution.”
“You talk of traitors,” Orsus said, “and where there are a few traitors, there are always more. Disloyalty spreads like a plague.” He put his hand on the door. “I will find those responsible.”
“See that you do. Dismissed.”
Kommander Zoktavir turned and left, taking up his axe as he pushed his massive frame into the hallway beyond.
“You’re giving an axe to a steamjack,” said Lola. Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
Orsus shot her a bemused glance, shaking his head wearily as he drove the wagon along the forest road. “Don’t say it.”
“A lumber axe for a ’jack,” she said airily, casting her eyes at the lofty branches above them. “A ’jack that will chop lumber. What could we call such a thing?”
“Don’t say it,” Orsus said, “or I will be forced to get physical with you.”
Lola batted her eyelashes. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“The entire logging crew was there when I proposed the idea to Aleksei,” Orsus said. “We’re not talking about men with especially large imaginations. I have heard the same joke approximately four thousand times in the past month alone. I don’t need to hear it from you.”
“So you’re saying I have the poor imagination of a man on a logging crew?” Lola wrinkled her lips in mock indignation. “I should make the joke just to punish you for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he said solemnly, “you’re a better kisser than almost all of them.”
