Graeme Davis

Blood and Honor

To the two most important people in my life:

My father, David Davis, who has always supported me despite not being entirely sure what it is I do; and my wife, Gina Laurin, who knows, but supports me anyway.

Chapter 1

The Company of the Skull

Late Barrakas, 998 YK

“Lieutenant Mordan?”

The officer paused in saddling his horse and shot a glance over one shoulder. Lank blond hair framed a tanned face, its fine features concealed by a growth of stubble. His eyes seemed to make the newcomer uncomfortable. Narrowed almost to slits by years of scanning the Talenta Plains for enemies, they were a pale blue-gray like chips of ice.

Their gaze took in a short, slightly overweight young man standing in the stable doorway. His face was red and sheened with sweat. Mordan suppressed a groan as he looked the newcomer up and down—wide eyes, fresh uniform, no scars. Dol Arrah, he prayed, please don’t let this be Tarmun’s replacement.

“What?” said Mordan.

“Uh, the adjutant said I should report to you, Lieutenant,” said the newcomer. “I’ve been assigned to your squad. Brager, Trooper Edvan Brager.” He tried to force a smile.

“Well, hooray for you, Brager,” said Mordan. “Ever ride an undead horse before?”

The new recruit brightened. “Not in combat, but I used to work at the Ministry for the Dead. In supply. I tested undead horses before they were shipped here and to Fort Zombie.”

Mordan grunted. At least he was used to the beasts. That had to count for something.

“So who did you cross at the Ministry?”

“Lieutenant?”

“I assume you’re here because you got kicked out and had nowhere else to go?”

“Oh, no, Lieutenant. I got tired of counting their legs and riding ’em across the warehouse, and—”

“And you decided to see if life in the Company of the Skull’s as glamorous as it is in the stories?”

Brager’s smile faded a little. “Uh, yes.”

Mordan finished cinching his saddle and turned to face him for the first time. “Well, it’s not. But you’ll have plenty of time to find that out for yourself. Take your gear over to barracks block C and report to Sergeant Grasht. He’ll show you your bunk—and if he talks about eating you, he’s just being friendly. Be ready to ride out in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”

Brager saluted, turned crisply, and left. Mordan started to speculate on how long he would last. A bet on the life expectancy of a new recruit was a cherished tradition in the Company of the Skull.

Fifteen minutes later, a half-dozen riders stood in a rough line in the courtyard of Fort Bones. The summer sun beat down on them, turning the famous bone walls blinding white and glinting off the masterwork breastplates of the skeleton troopers who stood on the parapet.

Mordan glanced along the line. Brager was at the far left-hand end, with a crossbow on his back and a longsword at his side. He was still red-faced and sweating, but at least he didn’t look so nervous. Next to him was Carn, a female dwarf, astride her skeletal pony. He’d had to call in a few favors to get it, but she was just too short for a full-sized horse.

At the middle of the line was Grasht, the massive half-orc, with his greatsword on his back. His stirrups almost reached the ground. Beside him, Cardel the half-elf wore his usual smirk. Sharp-faced Kalla sat ignoring him, and Mordan decided he didn’t want to know what Cardel had just said to her. At the end of the line, and a little way off from the skeletal horses, a wiry halfling in the dyed and painted skins of a plains hunter stood beside a reddish-brown glidewing. A leather-bound saddle adorned with silver studs was strapped to its back, and its long face was painted with markings that echoed the wooden hunting-mask that hung round the halfling’s neck. Though he was not an official member of the Company of the Skull, Dern’s knowledge of the plains and his skill with Redwind, his glidewing, made him invaluable.

“Attention!” snapped Mordan. “It seems one of the advance posts on the Plains has lost a patrol. Our orders are to get it back or find out what happened to it.”

A cynical murmur ran down the line. The improved Karrnathi skeletons were useful enough in battle, but their sense of direction was notoriously bad. If something had happened to their living officer, they could have wandered all over the place. Mordan tossed a leather scroll-case to Carn and another to Dern.

“Here’s their route,” he said. “We’ll start at the outpost. Let’s go.”

“Hey, lieutenant?” Grasht was already looking unhappy.