by Dan Wells
“I’ve sent men from my own legion to patrol this stretch of border,” Zoktavir said. “Are they not soldiers?”
“Soldiers who steal our food and harass our daughters,” said the peasant. Zoktavir’s eyes flared, and the man stammered, pale as a ghost. “What I mean to say, sir, is that we haven’t seen soldiers who defend us. The Border Legion are worse than invaders, sir, and we can’t live like that anymore.”
Zoktavir’s eyes were cold, and his voice was a thing of barely controlled rage. “What are you saying?”
“Like I said, sir,” the peasant swallowed nervously, “we don’t want to cause trouble. The men of Ord have protected us, and we’ve come to rely on them, and when we saw you coming . . . we’ve sent for help.” His voice became more desperate, more pleading. “They have an army in Boarsgate, sir, more than you can deal with. We want no trouble for us or for you—please spare yourselves the battle and leave!”
“You dare threaten me?” whispered Zoktavir, and his eyes seemed to blaze as he reached out his hand, curling his fingers as if to grip the man’s throat from yards away. Bright-blue runes appeared in the air around him, orbiting the powerful warcaster like intricate ribbons of ethereal steel. Luka half expected the villager to choke. He started in surprise when the earth itself seemed to erupt beneath the barricade, obliterating it in a shower of rocks and splinters, tossing the men around it like broken dolls. Zoktavir snarled in grim satisfaction, leaping from his horse and storming forward as he loosed his massive axe from his back. “Who else wishes to leave the Motherland? I’ll send you straight to Urcaen!”
The few men who’d survived the explosion cried out as they scrambled to their feet and ran in terror. Zoktavir caught one with a swing of his axe as he ran for a nearby cottage. “Forward!” the kommander cried. “Kill every traitor in this cursed village and burn it down around them. No mercy and no prisoners.”
“Please, sir,” said Luka, rushing toward him, “they’re just scared peasants.”
Zoktavir whirled to face him, his eyes wild not just with fury, but with madness. He seemed to look at and through Luka at once, as if seeing something else that wasn’t there. He hissed through clenched teeth: “Traitors must die!”
“Let’s talk to them,” said Luka. “Perhaps we can—”
“We’ve tried talking, and they insist on their treason. You have your orders, soldier. Now kill them!”
Luka slowly circled the kommander, placing himself between him and the nearest cottage. Behind the wild-eyed Zoktavir, the other soldiers sat on their horses, holding their weapons uncertainly.
“They’re peasants,” Luka said again. “We can arrest them and hold them for a government represent—”
“I am all the representative that Khador needs,” Zoktavir said. “Or are you questioning my authority as well?” He advanced a step, and Luka stepped back, his palms sweating.
What am I doing? he thought. This man will kill me where I stand. He heard a frightened whimper in the cottage behind him, the sobbing of innocent men reduced to nothing, and forced himself to hold his ground. “These people deserve a trial, not a slaughter.”
“Insubordination!” said Zoktavir. “You’re in on it too, aren’t you?” He turned and saw the soldiers behind him, still unmoving. “Are you all traitors as well? They’ve left the kingdom! If they wish to be treated as our enemies, we will oblige them with our blades!”
“They’re farmers with hay rakes,” said Kovnik Bogdan. “We can’t just slaughter them.”
“You have your orders.” Zoktavir turned back to Luka and gestured with his axe. “Open that door and kill everyone inside, or by Menoth I’ll kill them and you together.”
Luka raised his sword, trembling even harder than the peasant had. Forgive me, my daughter. I have no choice. May Morrow watch over you. “I will not let you kill them.”
“So be it,” Zoktavir said and swung his axe.
“It’s a simple job,” said Aleksei. “There’s a man in Molonochnaya trying to start his own lumber company. Our lumber company currently supplies the entire valley and a lot of the surrounding villages, and that’s not the kind of business I’m prepared to lose. The good news is, I have it on excellent authority that their equipment is about to suffer a number of catastrophic malfunctions, starting tonight when we slip over there and hack it to pieces.”
Most of the crew laughed, but Orsus merely shifted his weight, a simple action that, thanks to his size, focused everyone’s attention on him.
“That’s all we’re doing, though, right?” he asked. “Just smash a few wagons and steal a few tools, no actual confrontation?”
“I forgot to welcome our good friend Orsus back,” Aleksei said thinly.
“Gone six months and already a coward,” said Khirig.
“I’m not a coward,” Orsus said. “I’m getting married in six days.”
“Seems his bride-to-be doesn’t want him getting into any fights,” said Aleksei, “so we’re going to keep this as peaceful as possible.”
“Why is Orsus’ woman dictating our plans now?” Isidor said.
“Have you seen Orsus’ woman?” asked Tselikovsky. He leered grotesquely, his one eye wide and lascivious. “I’d let her dictate anything for a taste of—”
Orsus grabbed the man by the neck and slammed his head into the table, holding it there firmly as he spoke with a low, controlled voice. “Lola would be very disappointed if she learned I just did that. If any of you cause me to disappoint her further, I will become angry. Is that understood?”
Isidor raised his eyebrows. “This is you not angry?”
“Is that understood?” Orsus repeated. The men in the room nodded and murmured their agreement. Orsus gently rattled Tselikovsky’s neck. “You too.”
“Understood,” he said, though the sound was muffled by the table. Orsus nodded and let go.
“If we’re done proving how big we are, let’s get on the road,” said Aleksei. “Molonochnaya’s a good two hours away, so if we leave now we’ll get there right around one in the morning. Perfect time for a night raid.”
They left the tavern and readied their horses. They wouldn’t be pushing the creatures for speed, but having them made the travel easier. Orsus’ mount was a massive draft horse named Krasny, seventeen hands high at the shoulder with wide legs and shaggy fetlocks. The lumber crew used him to pull trees through the thick forests where Laika couldn’t reach. Orsus had modified a saddle for himself and rode in silence until halfway through the trip, when Isidor ambled up to him, keeping pace as he spoke.
“You hear about the Tharn attack?”
Orsus shook his head.
“One of the outlying villages. Krupec, I think. Razed it to the ground.”
“This is too early in the year for Tharn raiders,” Orsus said.
“They’re getting bolder. Or they’re planning something big—which means, I suppose, that they’re getting bolder.”
“Last time they came I killed one,” said Orsus. “I was ten.” He growled. “If they try to come again I’ll kill every damned one of them.”
“Then you’d better hope they don’t come tonight.”
Orsus thought about this, then shook his head. “It’s too early in the year for Tharn raids. They’ll wait for winter.”
“I hope you’re right.” Isidor rode in silence a moment before speaking again. “How much are you getting for this?”
“Hm?”
“Obviously you’re getting something, a nice bonus, a little extra on the side. We all get a little something for these jobs, but I figure you’re getting more, or you wouldn’t have come back. What’s he paying you?”
He could tell that Isidor wanted an exact figure, probably as leverage to negotiate an extra bonus of his own, but Orsus merely shrugged.
“It’s a good bonus.”
Isidor smiled, but there was no good will behind the expression. “A wedding present from good old Aleksei.”
“I suppose.”
Orsus glanced at him, worried by his sudden interest. What is he after?
“I’m getting married in six days,” Orsus repeated. “I’m going to have a family to support, and I’m not going to do it on a logger’s wages.”
“So you’re supplementing with violence.”
Orsus frowned at the word. “I’m going to open a wood shop.”
“So you’re paying for that with violence.”
“What do you want?” Orsus demanded, turning in his saddle to face him. Isidor was slim and sharp, and in his dark clothes he seemed to almost disappear. “Why are you harping on violence? You heard Aleksei—there’s not going to be any fighting tonight, we’re just breaking some tools.”
“And yet we’re armed.” He gestured to Laika’s giant axe, strapped tightly across Orsus’ back. Orsus frowned and shook his head.
“Sometimes things go wrong. I don’t want to fight at all, but if I have to I want to make sure we win.”
“True,” said Isidor, and Orsus saw the slim silhouette nod. “And yet I can’t help but wonder why Aleksei is paying you extra to help us break a few tools, with or without a giant axe. Seems like we could do that just fine on our own—we always have before.”
Orsus frowned again. He’d wondered about that too but chalked it up to a recruiting ploy. “I think he wants me back for good, so he’s playing nice to convince me.”
“Maybe,” said Isidor, and again the silhouette nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a wedding present, like you said.”
Orsus furrowed his brow, Isidor’s concerns reigniting his own.
“Or maybe,” said Isidor softly, “this is another power play, like Nazarov. This man in Molonochnaya might be trying to start his own lumber company, or he might be trying to start his own bratya. To become a kayaz himself. There’s a lot of business here, and Aleksei manages it fairly well, but he’s not perfect. No one can be everywhere at once. Another Nazarov was bound to happen sooner or later, so what if this is it?”
Orsus blew out a long, slow breath, puzzling out the situation in his head. Isidor’s theory was possible, but it was just a theory. “Do you know anything for sure?” he whispered. “Do you have any evidence?”
“Aside from you?”
“I don’t mean anything—”
“You’re practically an ogrun,” said Isidor. “Aleksei didn’t bring you for a quiet night of sabotage, and he didn’t pay you extra for an average battle. He’s expecting trouble, and he’s expecting a lot of it.”
Orsus shook his head, not wanting to believe it. “Then why didn’t we bring Laika?”
“That’s what’s been bothering me this entire ride. If we’re heading into a battle, why bring one of our best fighters but not the other one? That’s why I think this is a power play.” He leaned in more closely. “If this was just a battle and nothing more, we’d bring everything we had, but if someone out there is actually targeting the business, they might have the same plan we do. After all, we didn’t just leave Laika, we left most of the crew.”
“Because we only need five men to sabotage their equipment,” Orsus insisted. “You’re jumping at shadows.”
“I think Aleksei is expecting two battles, and he split his forces accordingly. One in Molonochnaya, to put down this usurper, and one at home, to stop the usurper from doing exactly what we’re trying to do to him.”
Orsus grimaced, trying to dismiss the theory—it was desperate and paranoid, after all, with very little evidence to back it up. And yet there were aspects that rang all too true. Aleksei wouldn’t pay him two months’ wages for just a quiet night of breaking things; that had been bothering him all day. And yet their five-man team was too small for a real battle, too large for an assassination. Aleksei would never bring so few unless something else were forcing his hand, and an attack against the lumber mill could force it in this exact way. Orsus didn’t want to believe it, but the more he thought of it the harder it was to ignore.
Orsus growled in frustration. “Suppose it’s true,” he whispered. “Why bring this to me? What’s your plan?”
“I brought it to you because I needed confirmation,” said Isidor, “and because you’re smarter than these other no-neck thugs. I don’t have a plan, I’m still figuring this out. If this is another Nazarov, I don’t want to end up like Gendyarev.”
Both men fell silent a moment, thinking of their old companion. The rifleman Emin had been killed outright in the battle at the warehouse, but Gendyarev had been crippled—a worse fate by far. He couldn’t work, could barely eat, and had ended up begging for scraps in the street. Orsus hadn’t even seen him for months.
Yet the odds of another overwhelming battle were low. “Worst case scenario, we know we’re in the safer group,” Orsus said. “Aleksei wouldn’t come with us unless he was sure we could handle whatever we’re up against.”
“That’s true.” Isidor thought for a moment. “Maybe we just keep quiet and see how it plays out.”
“Or maybe I leave and go home,” said Orsus. “I promised Lola I wasn’t going to fight.”
“You’ve already gone behind her back,” said Isidor. “At least stay long enough to get paid.”
Orsus grimaced again, torn by the decision. He didn’t want to stay, but Aleksei’s presence was telling—this had to be the safer place to be, or the boss wouldn’t be here. The man was too self-preserving to plan it any other way. He could stay, fight whoever this upstart had guarding him, and get paid a full two months’ wages. Two months closer to quitting his job, opening his wood shop, and saying good-bye to Aleksei and the criminals and all of it forever. It was simple. It was the easiest thing in the world.
“Let’s see who’s waiting for us in Molonochnaya,” Orsus said and adjusted the axe on his back.
But when they reached the rival lumber yard they found it empty, the gates hanging open, the crew and the equipment gone.
“They’ve run away!” shouted Aleksei, sounding equal parts furious and triumphant. “They knew we were coming and went into hiding.”
“Is our equipment similarly protected?” asked Orsus. Aleksei looked at him oddly, and Orsus accused him more directly. “The other half of our forces are protecting our equipment from a counterattack.” It was not a question. “Were you smart enough to hide them as well?”
Aleksei sneered, and Orsus knew they’d guessed correctly. “Our equipment is safe. The others are armed and ready, and Laika’s a better fighter without that axe than you are with it.”
“I’m proof enough of that,” said a voice, and they heard a sliding, scraping sound in the darkness. Khirig raised a lantern. They watched a broken man drag himself slowly across the empty lumber yard, reaching and pulling, reaching and pulling. His left arm was twisted. His legs trailed uselessly behind him.
The broken man laughed softly.
“Gendyarev,” said Aleksei, spitting the word like poison. “You’ve betrayed us.”
“Betrayed what?” asked Gendyarev. “The bratya I fought for, the bratya I gave my legs for? The brothers who abandoned me, took my job, and left me to die when a fight went sour? I didn’t betray the bratya, Aleksei. The bratya betrayed me.” He stopped crawling and looked up, his mangled face leering in contempt.
“What have you done?” Orsus demanded.
“I told them where to find you, how you’d react to the right kinds of pressure, and apparently I was correct.” He curled his face into a twisted smile. “They’ve been planning to bring down the infamous Aleksei Badian for quite a while, practically raising an army right under your nose. I just helped them aim it.”
“We have Laika,” said Aleksei, “we can defend ourselves just fine.”
“Oh yes,” said Gendyarev, “the steamjack you tried to teach me how to use—my one last chance to be useful, before others proved more adept.” He smiled again. “I gave them Laika’s code words, too. That battle’s going to be a lot more one-sided than you expect.”
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br /> “And why?” asked Aleksei. “What did they promise you? Money? Power? Whores they paid not to scream at the sight of your face?” He leaped off his horse and drew his daggers, advancing on the cripple with a look of pure malice. “You can’t expect to live long enough to collect payment.”
“I asked only one thing,” said Gendyarev, his face practically beaming. “To be here to see the looks on your faces when I tell you this: These men are more heartless than you, more ruthless than you, more vicious than you. You came to kill a leader; they’ve gone to kill everyone you ever loved.”
Orsus surged forward. “No!”
“You too, Orsus,” said Gendyarev. “You did this to me and you left me to die. Don’t expect a white wedding.”
Orsus gripped his axe and the world turned red.
“What are you in for?” The scrawny man in his cell was filthy, covered in so much dirt it was hard to see his skin. He was like a mole or a rat, a creature who spent its time buried deep in something foul. A creature for which the sun was a stranger. This was his company in the dungeon; this was the kind of man he was now reduced to living with. The mighty Orsus Zoktavir, warcaster to the kingdom of Khador, a kommander of the Fifth Border Legion, honored recipient of the Shield of Khardovic . . .
He was not a kommander anymore, not a soldier or even a servant. He would not think about what he was.
“I’m a thief,” said the filthy man, evidently tired of waiting for a response and eager to fill the silence. His voice was thin and unwholesome. “The sewers go everywhere, and I go in the sewers, and none of their little shinies are safe from me. There’s only killers in this part of the dungeons, though. I told ’em it was an accident. I told ’em I didn’t mean to. Girl like that had no business being out at night, and even less business screaming and wailing and bringing the whole Winter Guard down on my head. It’s not like I had any choice, you understand.”
Orsus took a slow, deep breath, calming his rage. As a kommander he would have broken this mongrel for his sins against a helpless girl, but as a traitor he had no such privilege.
