by J. V. Jones
Camron, as if aware someone was looking at him, turned to meet Ravis’ gaze. The two looked at each other for a long moment, and then Ravis nodded once, handed his flask to the man next to him, stood up, and made his way around the fire. He and Camron had things they needed to talk about, and although Ravis would have liked nothing more than to get drunk with the troop just then, he knew that he would better serve his men by staying sober and keeping watch. There were not many things in life that mattered to him, but the responsibility of having a troop under his command was one thing he never took lightly.
“Is Broc sleeping?” Ravis asked as he approached.
Camron nodded. “I hope so.”
Ravis thought Camron was in need of sleep himself; his skin was gray and blotchy, his neck was shining with sweat, and wounds on his hand and leg had reopened and fresh blood was soaking the bandages. Frowning, Ravis said, “Let’s go and sit by those trees over there. I need to rest my legs.”
Camron glanced down at Broc’s motionless form. “I don’t want to go far.”
They settled on a patch of grass a short distance from where the wounded lay. Camp had been made on the high slope of an east-facing meadow—no man trusted valleys after yesterday—and even though it meant the troop was more exposed, it suited Ravis just fine. The first sign of movement from the east and they could up camp and withdraw to the west within minutes. They would not wait around for a fight. Luck had been with them yesterday morning. It would not be so again.
“Do you think the fire is a good idea?” Camron asked, wincing as he lowered his body onto the ground.
Ravis shrugged. “It’s a fine fire. The men need it.”
“No. I mean do you think it will draw the harras to us?”
“If Izgard’s looking for us, then yes, the fire will give our position away, but I don’t think he’ll come after us tonight.”
“Why are you spending so much time looking over your shoulder, then?” Camron pressed his fist into the wound on his thigh. He closed his eyes for a moment. His arm and chest shook, and his breath came in a series of halting rasps. Ravis waited until he took his fist away before he spoke.
“Because I can’t predict Izgard’s moves as well as I thought I could. He’s involved with things I have no knowledge or experience of. I don’t know the game anymore. And that makes me nervous.”
“You appeared to know the game well enough yesterday at dawn.”
Ravis bit on his scar. While his teeth raked over the rough tissue of knitted flesh, he reminded himself that Camron of Thorn was a wounded man and that he must have gone through hell yesterday fighting the harras in the Valley of Broken Stones. Of the twelve men who entered the rocks, only two got out alive. All bodies had been left behind. Ravis didn’t want to think of what had become of them.
Taking a deep breath, he said, “I didn’t know what the game was yesterday. I guessed it was a trap. From the moment we first heard Thorn had been taken, I had a suspicion that the whole thing—the burnings, the mindless destruction, the mass deaths—was meant to draw us there. Izgard could have taken a hundred villages between the Vorce and the Borals, but he chose to take Thorn. And not only did he take it, but he took it in such a way that the news spread like wildfire. He wanted us there.” Ravis looked into Camron’s dark gray eyes. “You and me.”
Camron ran his hand through his hair. His knuckles still bore the blood from his wound. “You knew all this, yet you didn’t try to warn me?”
“Would you have listened?”
That was enough to silence Camron of Thorn for a while. His chin dipped to his chest, and his hands found each other, matching fingers clasping tight. Both men were silent, looking out past the camp and the fire down the slope to the east. The wind picked up, blowing sparks into the air with the smoke, and somewhere on the far side of the camp a man began to sing. It was a low, mellow song that mothers sang while their newborn babies slept, to keep evil spirits at bay.
After a few minutes, Camron spoke. “It was wrong of me to lead the men down into the valley, I know that now. I wanted to die fighting. I thought that somehow, if I fought hard enough and took as many harras down with me as I could, that it would make up for—” He took a breath, closed his eyes. “Not being there the one time I was needed.”
As Ravis listened to Camron speaking, he traced a furrow in the soil with his thumb. The cut on his right side pained him, but he’d had worse in his time, and his body had reached the point where it could deal well enough with flesh wounds. In a few weeks’ time it would be just another scar. Like the one on his lip.
Looking up at Camron’s face, Ravis said, “I didn’t hang back to teach you a lesson. I’ve lived for over thirty years now and still have none to teach. The dangers were obvious—you were being led into an enclosed space ringed with rocks and trees. Someone had to stand by while you went there. I made mistakes myself. Men died because I didn’t get there soon enough. And for all my cleverness and forward planning, I never imagined Izgard would send a force such as he did.”
While he spoke, Ravis was aware that Camron was watching him closely. Even with all the bruises and lesions on his face, the Rhaize nobleman looked very young, and Ravis found himself envying that.
Slowly Camron began to shake his head. “I shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have led those men into the rocks. Everything I’ve done since my father’s death has been a mistake.”
Ravis slapped his tunic for his flask before realizing he had given it to the man sitting next to him around the campfire. With no drink to offer as comfort, he was forced to speak instead. “Strong emotions breed mistakes. They create them. There’s not one man here tonight who hasn’t done something in anger or rage that he didn’t later regret.”
Camron tilted back his head and looked at the night sky. “And what about you? Have you made mistakes?”
Ravis made a hard sound in his throat. “Me more than any man.”
“And how do you live with yourself?”
“You move on. Always on.”
Still looking at the sky, Camron nodded. The clouds had long since covered the stars, but strangely enough the night seemed better for it. Smaller. More comprehensible.
After a minute or so, Camron said, “So, what do we do now?”
“We make plans. Move forward. Try to understand what happened and why.”
“Well, if you’re right about the whole thing being a lure from the start, then that means Izgard now wants me dead.”
Ravis smiled. “You’re in good company.”
Camron managed half a smile himself. “Would you say Izgard knows you and I are collaborating?”
“Say it! I can guarantee it. And not only that, I can tell you the name of the man who told him.”
“Marcel of Vailing?”
Ravis nodded. Camron was catching on just fine. “Marcel would sell his own mother’s soul for a handful of promissory notes and a bankable bill of sale.”
“How much do you think he knows?”
“Enough to be dangerous.” Ravis shrugged. “Marcel isn’t the real threat here, though. Izgard is. If he’s not stopped soon, he will make it to Bay’Zell. You’ve fought against the harras, you know what they’re like. Do you really think Rhaize knights are capable of putting up a feasible resistance?”
“But the longbows. You shot the harras down. You—”
Ravis cut Camron short. “First of all, the Rhaize army has no longbowsmen. The longbow isn’t like a sword or a pike—you can’t just pick it up, have a few lessons, perform a few drills, and then expect to know how to use it. A good longbowsmen is grown into his bow. In Maribane they start training early; they take young boys who are at an age where they still hate girls and thrust a bow with a thirty-pound pull in their hands. When the boys have learned to shoot with them, and their muscles and reaches have developed, they give them a forty-pound bow, then a fifty-pound one, then a sixty-pound one after that. And they keep doing it until some ten years later they have a ful
l-grown man on their hands, whose body has been shaped for and by the bow, and who’s capable of drawing a longbow with a hundred-and-fifty-pound pull and shooting arrows as heavy as your fist to targets at over four hundred paces.”
Camron went to speak, but Ravis didn’t give him the chance.
“Second of all, we were lucky in the valley. Nothing more. Izgard failed to back up his harras with archers—why, I don’t know. But more important than that, he hadn’t counted on us having any. The harras were taken by surprise. They weren’t expecting any real resistance. They saw a few of their own go down, and they got scared. They won’t be next time. Next time they’ll be prepared. Whatever or whoever is behind them will see to that.”
Ravis saw Camron’s expression change as he spoke. Too bad. He still wasn’t finished yet.
“The harras weren’t mounted. They were using long-knives. They were equipped purely for close combat against foot soldiers—that was why Izgard lured you into the rocks, that’s what he planned for. But don’t think for one minute he won’t plan something entirely different when he meets a fully mounted army on the field. Izgard knows war, and he won’t join a battle lightly.”
As the last of Ravis’ words rang off his tongue, they seemed to hang in the air like the chime of a bell, resonating long past their saying.
Camron sat in silence, head hung low, right hand skimming the bloody bandage on his left. The wind blew across his face, lifting his collar and tugging his hair away from his forehead. Ravis knew what he said sounded harsh, but he couldn’t see anything to be gained from speaking otherwise. Things had gone too far for smooth words softly spoken. Izgard of Garizon had seen to that.
When minutes passed without Camron saying anything, however, Ravis began to wonder if he had said too much. Sometimes he took pleasure in presenting the worst side of things—he couldn’t stop himself.
“There are things we can do, though,” he said, tearing the sleeve from his tunic and offering it to Camron. Blood from his leg wound had soaked right through the bandage. “Actions we can take.”
Camron looked up at Ravis. His gray eyes, which had seemed so dark earlier, suddenly seemed light. Silver almost. After a moment, he reached out and took the length of sleeve. “What can we do?”
Ravis felt unaccountably pleased that Camron had taken the cloth, and when he spoke it showed in his voice. “First thing tomorrow morning we send the Istanian scouts back home. They have the fastest horses of any man amongst us and they can be in Bay’Lis and on their way to Mizerico before we reach Bay’Zell.”
“And what’s in Mizerico?”
“The best longbowsmen to be had outside of Maribane. I did a commission for the Lectur there a few years back—he’ll send me a company if he’s asked nicely enough and his palms are well greased enough. Draft him a letter promising him payment in full for his inconvenience plus a suitably sparkling bauble for the real power in Mizerico—his wife—and within a month or so we should be in command of a hundred-plus archers.”
Camron nodded. Ravis thought he might smile, but he didn’t. Instead he thought for a moment and said, “And what do you and I do?”
Ravis took a breath, looked north. He was getting tired and the knife wound in his ribs was beginning to bother him. Some of the harras had unclean blades—they lined their scabbards with unwashed pigs’ intestines and worse—and he was beginning to think the cut might be infected. He would have to deal with that later. For now he had a difficult question to answer.
Planting his fists on the ground and levering his weight forward, he said, “We go our separate ways from here. You need to go to Mir’Lor, force the Sire to meet with you, tell him what you’ve seen the harras do. Warn him. Let him know what sort of enemy he’ll be fighting. Get him to recruit foot soldiers and archers—crossbowsmen, longbowsmen, shortbowsmen—anyone he can get his hands on quickly. Make him see that unless he meets Izgard on equal footing his army will be destroyed.”
Camron nodded so slowly, it hardly looked like a nod at all. “Why me?” he said, his voice low and difficult to read. “Why not you? I haven’t been to court in five years—not since my father and the Sire disagreed over Izgard of Alberach. My father advised the Sire to watch him closely; to send emissaries, make overtures of friendship, minimize the chance of war. The Sire wasn’t interested. He couldn’t see why he, the Sire of Rhaize, should consider a rogue Garizon nobleman a threat.”
Ravis caught and held Camron’s gaze. “You are the only one who can do this. The Sire would never accept the word of a Drokho mercenary. He’ll listen to you, though. Past disagreements count for little. You’re the son of Berick of Thorn, sole survivor of one of the oldest and noblest families in the country, joined by blood to the Garizon throne: he’ll have to see you. And if you’re direct enough, he’ll take heed.
“You go to Mir’Lor, take the troop with you and put the fear of God into the Sire of Rhaize.”
Camron had gone back to pressing the wound in his leg with his fist. He didn’t look young anymore. The pain in his eyes aged him. “And you? What will you do?”
“I’ve got to find out what’s behind the harras.” For some reason Ravis found himself whispering. “They aren’t turning themselves into monsters—someone is doing that for them, and unless I find out what or who is behind them, then Rhaize isn’t just going to lose the coming war, it’s going to be annihilated. Thorn was just the start. Izgard wants land. Only land. He’s not interested in people, families, farmhouses. He’s promised his warlords territory, and he’ll do anything to get it. The harras are perfect for him; they go in, kill everything in sight, clear the land before it’s occupied.
“Unless we do something about them, every time we meet Izgard on the field, the odds will be in his favor. The harras terrify men. They stop them from thinking or acting rationally. They force them to make mistakes.”
“And how do you intend to find out more about them?” Camron’s voice was subdued.
Ravis could tell he didn’t want to go to Mir’Lor. He would go, though. Two days ago he would not have even considered it. But he was a different man now. The battle in the Valley of Broken Stones had changed him. And Ravis didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing, he just knew he could use it to his advantage.
“Remember the woman who was with me in Marcel’s cellar?”
“The girl whose hair is one shade short of red?”
“Yes, Tessa. I think she has something to do with this. She draws patterns, and I once saw Izgard’s scribe drawing similar things. I didn’t think much about it then, but it’s been a lot on my mind these past weeks. I’ve got to go back to Bay’Zell, talk to Tessa, find out just what she knows and how she got here.”
Camron raised an eyebrow. “And make sure she’s safe?”
“Yes.” Ravis saw no point in denying it. “I don’t want her to come to any harm.” He shrugged. “I may take her to Maribane, to the Anointed Isle. That’s where Deveric and Izgard’s scribe were trained.”
Sucking in his cheeks, Camron said, “So, you’re asking me to take the men and head to Mir’Lor, while you sail to Maribane and search for answers?” He did not wait for a reply. “How do I know I can trust you? And that you won’t just ride away and I’ll never see you again?”
“Because I give you my word.”
Camron didn’t blink. For a long moment he just stared into Ravis’ eyes. The singing had long stopped and the wind had died down, leaving the east-facing slope perfectly quiet. After what seemed to Ravis to be an eternity, the muscles in Camron’s throat started working. Still looking at Ravis, he swallowed hard and said, “That is guarantee enough for me.”
Until that moment Ravis had been unaware he was holding his breath. He exhaled deeply, and as he did so a small trace of bitterness escaped with the breath. No one had trusted him in so long, he had forgotten what it felt like. Good. It felt good.
Not wanting to give away his emotions just then, Ravis pulled himself to his feet. Offering a h
and to Camron, he said, “We’ll arrange to meet in three weeks’ time in Castle Bess.”
Even with Ravis’ help it took Camron a few moments to rise. Knife wounds crossed his back, arms, and legs. “In three weeks’ time, then,” he echoed.
Ravis nodded and made his way back to the camp. He needed to find a quill and ink. There was a certain dark-haired beauty in Mizerico who was owed an apology, and right now for some reason he felt like offering one. The Istanian scouts could deliver it along the way.
In the darkness the girl’s flesh felt so frail that Izgard could imagine he was touching the bone beneath. That was what excited him: the feeling that he was touching something deep, personal, inside. Something never touched by any man before.
The girl was emaciated. Starved. Izgard had spotted her along the roadside, begging for food. Bones shone white through her skin, and her eyes had receded so far back in their sockets, they hardly seemed like eyes at all. More like two coals burning at the bottom of a deep pit. Dressed in a tattered red cloak, mud caking her face like dried blood, Izgard had ordered his men to pick her up.
The girl slapped her hands on either side of him as he entered her. Even that touch thrilled him. Dry palms. Eager. There was so little meat left in her thumb and finger pads, Izgard could imagine he was being clutched by a corpse. His breaths were ragged, short. The girl hardly seemed to breathe at all, as if over time her skeletal body had grown accustomed to surviving without air as well as food.
Izgard’s eyes were open. The darkness in his private tent was complete, and he could see nothing before or under him. It was the way he wanted it. If the lamp was lit, he would have to look at the girl’s face, and that wasn’t what he was interested in at all.
Saliva rolling from his tongue, Izgard reached back to touch the girl’s hand. His finger found the smooth, parchment-like skin of her wrists and then moved down over the back of her hand, fingertips trailing over the protruding veins—counting, caressing, feeling the blood pump through. More excited than ever, he moved his fingers down along her thumb. The skin stretched over the knuckle was the thinnest yet, and Izgard lingered long over the joint. When finally he’d had his fill of that, he edged his hand down to the hard skin above the girl’s fingernail and then to the nail itself.
