“Don’t go,” Gormer choked, tears freezing on his face. He finally, fully and completely, felt the pain of that night. It didn’t kill him like he always thought it might.
Gormer survived. The evil things couldn’t see him because he didn’t want to be seen. But he couldn’t save his family. He didn’t know how. The magic saved him then, even though the child didn’t understand it. But up until now, neither did the man.
It wasn't my fault, Gormer thought. I was a child. How could I have known?
“No,” Gormer said in a calm voice as he rose to his feet. Blood streamed from his nose now. It froze in a crust on his chin. He knew death was near. He still didn’t know how to control the magic, but it didn’t matter. He needed to do this. “It wasn’t my fault. I won’t let you kill any more good people.”
With his skull full of flames, he stepped forward. The black tendrils lashed against some invisible bubble that surrounded him. They couldn’t touch him. Two men with swords charged him. Gormer looked them in the eyes and said, “Go away.”
The men collapsed on the ground and flopped like fish as red foam streamed from their mouths and noses. But Gormer felt the power fade as it tore him apart on the inside.
Woody jumped in front of him before Gormer could tell him not to. Woody grunted as a touchless strike caught him in the side of the head. Gormer stepped around the tree to find a solitary man.
“You’re powerful,” Cosmin said with a sickening smile. “But untrained.”
“And you’re out of strength,” Gormer said. The tendrils had disappeared.
Footsteps rushed up behind Gormer, and he sensed that they were his friends. They had won.
“True,” Cosmin said. “But so are you. Such a shame that you won’t live to see your victory.”
Merg charged past Woody towards Cosmin. She lashed out at nothing. Gormer couldn’t see the illusion, but he just knew Merg was fighting something that wasn’t there.
“Enough strength for a cheap illusion, I see,” Gormer said.
Cosmin reached out his hand and stepped forward. It felt as if a steel rod had pierced Gormer’s chest.
Just before his vision faded to black, something streaked before his vision.
“Ooof!” someone grunted.
Gormer fell to the cold ground. Without sight, the sounds of struggle became very clear.
“They’re running!” someone exclaimed.
“Pleth! Pleth!” Merg yelled. “Get away from him!”
Woody’s voice was there, too, but Gormer couldn’t make out what he said.
“Shut up,” Gormer managed to shout, though his words were slurred. “I’m trying to have a nightmare here.” He closed his eyes and fell into darkness.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lungu Fortress
Protector Lungu stared at dozens of parchments that covered his oak desk. Since Krann was killed, formal complaints had poured in from every keep in the Eastern District. Letters of support came in right behind them, sent by commissioners from every keep in the Protectorate.
“This is like a bad dream,” Lungu said to nobody. His page stood by the door, pretending not to listen. Lungu took a breath to keep himself from a cathartic murder. “Go see to my horses,” he shouted at the teenage boy. “Make sure all their fetlocks are combed just the way I like them.”
The boy jumped and scrambled out of the room. Lungu enjoyed it when the kid nearly ran into the door before it was completely open. “Right away, Protector Lungu!”
The sound of footsteps running at breakneck speed faded down the hallway. The Great Protector sat down behind his desk and shook his head.
Just then, Treasurer Brol entered. He dragged a heavy, wooden chair over to Lungu and sat down.
“The look on your face…” Lungu said.
“I am your treasurer. I serve you and you alone,” Brol said. “But I am also your friend. Probably the only real friend you have. We grew up together. I can’t sit by and let you do this. I must speak my mind as a friend, even though you might kill me.”
Lungu’s jaw clenched. Friendship was weakness. The powerful don’t have friends, they have allies—preferably ones they could control. Friends made a leader weak, but Brol was right. This was the only person he wasn’t willing to kill.
“Speak,” he said, avoiding eye contact.
“Compromise. Do it now, before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?” Lungu asked. It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
“Too late to salvage this Protectorate. I don’t doubt your strength. You can bring this Protectorate to heel, but if you do it with raw power alone, you won’t recognize it when you’re done. You’ll have to kill every commissioner and flat-out enslave the populace at this rate.”
“I’m not above that,” Lungu said.
“That’s my point!” Brol replied, slapping his hand on the desk.
Lungu jumped up from his chair and strode across the office, where he stood by the balcony doors to look down on Lake Bicaz far below.
“Take care now,” Lungu growled. “Even friendship has limits.”
Brol sighed. He sounded old and tired. “Do you remember when First Lieutenant Tralvo’s kid was stealing my cheese?”
Lungu smiled in spite of himself. “You were nine,” he said.
“Yeah, and he was twelve. You didn’t understand why I didn’t fight him.”
Lungu turned back to his friend. “I never understood why.”
“Because I’m not a fighter. You are. I told you about it.”
The corner of Lungu’s mouth turned. “And I fought him for you, as I recall.”
“Even though you were the son of the Protector, there were no favorites in grade school. Fucking pit that it was…”
“My father made sure that I was treated just like any other student. It was a valuable lesson,” Lungu interrupted.
“Yes. You fought a boy three years older than you. He bloodied you, broke your nose. Had you on the ground kicking you…”
Lungu looked at some far-off point and smiled at the memory as if remembering his first kiss. “My first real fight. I remember losing wind. I remember seeing stars. I remember watching his knee.”
“You waited, and you took damage until you were able to kick his knee backwards. The instructors had to pull you off before you killed that kid. I’ll never forget the way he screamed. ”
“Neither will I,” Lungu said, clearly delighted. “That beating destroyed his whole career. His leg was never right. He shouldn’t have fucked with you. You were with me. My friend. That was his mistake.”
“When it was done, I asked you how you won that fight. Do you remember what you said?”
“Of course,” Lungu replied, finally meeting Brol’s gaze. “Skill is important, and so is strength. But in a fight, it mostly comes down to how much pain you can take.”
“You are bigger and stronger,” Brol said. “Astrid, the bandits, and the villages have proved they can take more pain than you can give them without destroying this Protectorate.”
Lungu shook his head. “This isn’t the same thing. I was just a kid. So were you.”
“I submit that the analogy holds,” Brol said.
Lungu walked over to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder. “I know what to do here. Your story just reminds me that you have always been fretful. This has never happened before. It’s a new threat, and new threats always seem scary, just like that boy who ate your cheese.”
“But—”
“It’s OK, friend,” Lungu said. “We’ll prevail. Don’t worry. You just leave this to me. I’ll take care of it, just like I did when we were kids. Don’t start doubting me now.”
Brol stood and gripped Lungu’s hand. His eyes were sad. “I’ll serve you always. Just tell me what I need to do.”
Lungu smiled. “Stay here at the Fortress. Find money for a major campaign. I will pay the First Lieutenants handsomely for this.”
“Great Protector,”
Brol said. “The treasury is nearly empty. After paying Jank’s mercenaries and your son’s expenses, coupled with the losses we incurred to tribute in the fall…”
“You’re saying we’re broke?” Lungu asked.
“No,” Brol replied. “I made sure that we have enough to meet our obligations to the Protectorate Union.”
“Then hold off on payments to the Union, and we’ll use them to fund compliance operations at the Martial level.” Brol opened his mouth to object, but Lungu held up his hand. “Remember, it’s about how much pain you’re willing to take.”
“But—-” Brol began. The look in Lungu’s eyes lost every glimmer of friendship.
“Do as I say,” Lungu said.
“Yes, Protector Lungu,” Brol said, no longer the loyal friend, but simply the Treasurer.
Lungu swept all the parchments from his desk with his arm. He stood up and put fists to hips, beaming at his triumph.
He sat down and brought out his writing kit. It took him less than an hour to write the order that suspended the authority of the Commissioners and gave full control of all the keeps directly to Lungu and his First Lieutenants.
“Let’s see how much pain they can take,” Lungu said as he applied the wax seal to a parchment of his own.
The Hideaway Camp
Pleth was miserable. He wasn’t a big drinker, but he’d spent his share of nights being drunk. He’d never experienced a hangover like the one he had now. All he wanted to do was lay down and close eyes that felt like they were about to pop out. But he couldn’t.
He hadn’t been to sleep since the battle the night before. They’d won the fight against more than thirty soldiers. Pleth knew the sigil stamped into their steel chest plates. They were from the Raluca estate.
Nothing made sense. That’s why his spy mission to Keep 52 was so important. The scouts that killed David came from the Balan estate. That meant they had the contract to deal with Astrid. But now, Raluca’s fighters show up with a Reacher from the Vassile Protectorate. There was no way that was a sanctioned move.
Why the hell is a Reacher working with Raluca?
He thought about this as he hauled hot water back to the yurt they had set up as an infirmary. While the bandit camp had a slight numerical advantage over Raluca’s raiding party, the woods people suffered heavy casualties. They’d lost nine people—almost a third of their number. Almost everyone earned some kind of injury, many of them serious.
Pleth set the copper pot down on the ground and picked up some bloody rags. He dropped them off at the fire to be boiled and sterilized. It was just past dawn and the camp was past the worst of it. The wounded were stable, and the dead were laid out behind the yurt covered with blankets.
They were just beginning to scavenge weapons and armor from the dead enemy.
Pleth slipped back into the tent where Woody, Gormer, Merg, and their would-be card buddies were passed out. A few minutes after the battle ended, Pleth found himself the only reasonably sane person in their little party.
Gormer passed out immediately after Pleth snuck up on the Reacher and tackled him. He didn’t even remember doing it. He just found himself sneaking, then he was on top of a very scary-looking magic user. He tried to make up fighting moves as he went along, but that didn’t go so well.
The Reacher shucked Pleth off quickly with some kind of wrestling move. A very long, sharp dagger was in his hand. Pleth thought he was dead, but Merg fought the magic user off. The Reacher made a hasty retreat with the handful of his surviving allies.
Pleth had dragged Gormer back to the teepee. He went back to check on the rest of them and found Woody with blue lips wandering around shirtless. He was muttering some nonsense about puppies.
Merg wasn’t doing too much better. He didn’t know how they could still be walking. He herded them back to the teepee and covered them with as many furs as he could find. The others were easy to round up, but he needed help to corral them. The mental magic and all the absinthe had done a number on everyone. Except him.
He shook his head, then said to himself, “Don’t try to figure out how you kept your head. You might lose it if you do.”
Pleth was only grateful he was the only one still in his right mind. Things were still weird, even now. He vowed never, ever to drink absinthe again.
Did he have time to sit? He wasn’t sure. He’d been running laps between the teepee, the infirmary yurt, and the fire where they sterilized makeshift medical instruments.
He also hoped never to see sword wounds being sewn closed ever again. They were sewing people back together with the same tools they used to mend socks.
Somebody bumped into him as they tried to pass through the teepee’s door flap. Pleth stumbled aside.
A very large, older bandit pushed into the teepee.
“Stitcher?” Pleth asked.
It was the man who served as the camp medic. They hadn’t exchanged words. Stitcher just barked out what he needed, and Pleth just did it.
Stitcher grunted, then thrust a warm bundle into Pleth’s hands. “Eat,” he commanded, then bent down to check on Woody, then Merg, then Gormer. They were the worst off. It didn’t take more than a quick glance at the others to tell they were OK.
Pleth unwrapped the cloth to find, to his immense delight, a sausage wrapped in a warm, fluffy roll.
“They were out there half naked,” Stitcher said, nodding at Woody and Merg. “They’d have died from the cold for sure if you hadn't fetched them.”
Pleth tried to say “Oh,” through a mouthful of bread.
Stitcher rose and walked over to Pleth. He looked him up and down. Their noses nearly touched.
“I heard you were an Assessor once,” Stitcher said. “They call you ‘The Bloodsucker.’ They say you’re a coward.”
Pleth swallowed a mouthful, then said, “All true, I’m afraid.”
Stitcher’s face turned sour. He gave Pleth a shove. “Don’t you ever say that about the man I saw last night and this morning.” It took Pleth a few seconds to realize Stitcher was talking about him. “From now on, I’ll break the fucking jaw of any man who insults you. I saw you tackle that Reacher myself. You’ve been fetching water and medical supplies for four hours. Be a fucking man and own your shit, good and bad.”
Stitcher stormed out of the teepee, leaving Pleth with a slack jaw. “Get some sleep!” Stitcher shouted as he walked away.
“What the fuck just happened?” Pleth asked. He felt light headed.
“You did good,” Gormer croaked.
Pleth had done the best he could to clean the blood from his face, but Gormer still looked a ruin. He hurried over to Gormer and kneeled down.
“I thought you were dead,” Pleth said.
“So did I,” Gormer replied. “And for once, I didn’t welcome it.”
“What do we do now?” Pleth asked.
“We continue our mission,” Gormer said. “I guess you’re ready.”
“I don’t feel ready,” Pleth replied.
“I’ll teach you what you need to know as we go along,” Gormer said.
“That sounds like a plan made from pure goat diarrhea,” Pleth said, feeling more like his old self.
Gormer laughed and his lungs rattled. “Ow,” he said. “My head. I think I need more liquor.”
“No,” Pleth said. He brought over some fresh snowmelt water. “Stitcher said water only.”
“Liar,” Gormer said, sitting up painfully to drink the water. “I was awake. He didn’t say that at all.”
“I’m no good at lying anymore,” Pleth said.
“We can fix that,” Gormer said. “Just remember to lie to the ones who need to be lied to. I think the challenge for us is figuring out who that is.”
“Well,” Pleth said, rising, then pulling up a chair. “I’ve lied to all the wrong people: my wife, my kids—”
“I’ve never lied to Astrid,” Gormer said. “Or Charlie. Those are the only two.”
“Wait,” Pleth said. “When
did you lie to me?”
Gormer laughed again. “Stop. You’re killing me,” he moaned.
“Water,” Woody moaned. “Cold.”
Pleth threw another log on the fire and tossed another blanket over him. Then, he went to check on Merg. He pulled her mat closer to the fire. She stirred, so he handed her some water.
“Leave your wife,” she said. “For me.”
“I’m tempted,” Pleth lied sweetly. He went back over to sit by Gormer again.
“You’re learning,” Gormer whispered.
Pleth gave a start when a young fighter pushed his way into the tent. “Stitcher said I’m to take care of you all now. He says you need to get some sleep. That’s what he told me, so I gotta make sure.”
“Who am I to argue?” Pleth said. He pulled over some furs and made a place for himself near the fire. He fell asleep in seconds.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Argan Village
After spending three days at the Caves with Gertrude and her people, Astrid was eager to get back to Argan. She’d left the Village in George’s capable hands. Spending time with Gertrude was instructive, but she hadn’t planned on staying that long.
It took most of the day to get back. Mid-winter was upon them. So far, they had lucked out as far as snow was concerned. There was pretty much a permanent cover, but the paths were still passable. She hoped Vinnie’s plan would work. He planned to clear an ancient road between the Caves and a spot very close to a disused backroad to Argan.
Moxy would be very unhappy at the plan to take down trees. She was very protective of the forest in general. Moxy had been very vocal about the amount of hunting being done in the surrounding area. She insisted that they find their food a bit further out, so they wouldn’t put too much stress on the deer and elk population.
Astrid wasn’t that eager to tear up the habitat either. “But needs must,” she said as she finally rode into Argan alone.
The day was very cold, so nobody was around. She saw only a couple of people rush from one of their huts to the longhouse. Astrid headed there herself.
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