Kellanved's Reach

Thistle’s scowl deepened. ‘They will consider themselves above us.’

His smile turned wry. ‘Well, they can think that all they want – can’t they?’

An answering smile grew on the girl’s lips, and she laughed. ‘Very good. May I return to the ranks?’

‘Yes. Just come to me if you have any questions.’

She inclined her head, then jogged off.

Nedurian watched the slim, vibrant young girl go and wished, for however brief an instant, that he was a hundred years younger.

Chapter 4

It was cold, raining, and dark when Gregar and Haraj came across an army encampment at the edge of the woods. Fires burned fitfully in the thin misty rain and troops moved between a jumbled patchwork of tents. Horses nickered from somewhere across the crowded field.

Gregar looked to the skinny mage; the lad’s black hair lay flat and dripping, and as he wiped his nose, sniffling, he let the bundle of equipment he carried fall at his feet.

‘Where’s the shield?’ Gregar asked.

‘Dumped it. Too godsdamned heavy.’

Gregar swore under his breath.

‘I’m cold,’ Haraj complained, stammering. ‘Can’t sleep out in the rain again – it’s fucking winter!’

Gregar nodded. Neither of them knew how to survive outdoors. The wretched few scraps of food and water they’d looted from fallen Bloorian troops wouldn’t sustain them; they needed shelter. He couldn’t even feel his fingers or toes any more. Another night in the open might finish them – his sickly friend especially.

He kept nodding, disgusted. ‘So, we turn ourselves in just to survive.’

Haraj’s answering nod was a puppet-like jerking shiver. ‘Welcome to how things are for most nobodies.’

Gregar gestured to the belt-wrapped bundle. ‘Fine. Pick it up and let’s go.’

‘Take it? Whatever for? Don’t need it no more, do we?’

Gregar was already pushing his way through the low brush. ‘It’s a bribe now.’

‘Who are they, do you think?’ Haraj asked, following.

‘Doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’ But Gregar made a quick last check to make certain neither of them was wearing or carrying any colours or sigils – of any troop or side.

They had to stand in the open for some time before one of the spear-carrying pickets noticed them through the rain. The skinny girl jumped and raised her spear. ‘Halt!’ she squeaked out, the spear quivering. ‘Raise your arms! Who – who’re you?’

Gregar nudged Haraj, murmuring, ‘Raise your arms.’ He called out, ‘We’ve come to join!’

The girl, in ragged old leathers, her long dark hair twisted high on her head, gaped at them. ‘Sarge!’ she called over her shoulder.

Moments later a squat, fat-bellied fellow in leather armour came stomping through the rain. A sigil – a strip of cloth tied about his arm – was dark and soaked; Gregar couldn’t tell its actual colour. ‘What in the name of Hood’s bony balls is this?’ the sergeant bellowed as he came.

The picket motioned her spear to them. ‘These two want to join up.’

The soldier raised an astonished tangled brow at this. He looked them up and down, and what he saw, or believed he saw, made him sneer even more. ‘Useless deserters. Big bad world too mean for you, hey? Come crawling back hungry and wet.’

Gregar and Haraj – both dropping their arms – exchanged a look, then hung their heads.

‘Sorry,’ Gregar mumbled, and pushed forward.

The sergeant held out an arm. ‘Not so fast.’ He waved them closer. ‘Now look here – I’m supposed to report such things to the captain, but I don’t want to get you lads in hot water. What do you say, hey?’

Gregar and Haraj sent one another bemused looks. Gregar shrugged. ‘I suppose so …’

The sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excellent. That’s the spirit. So hand over that gear and such.’ He gestured to Gregar’s mail shirt.

‘But it’s mine … been in the family …’

The sergeant looked skyward. ‘And maybe I should report this to the captain …’

Gregar let his shoulders fall. ‘Fine.’ He started undoing the leather straps.

‘Don’t fit you no how,’ the sergeant observed. He also gestured for Haraj to drop his bundled gear. ‘That too.’

‘But that’s all we got!’ Haraj complained.

‘What you get is your freedom and your lives. So drop it all. Even that,’ he added, pointing to Gregar’s belted shortsword.

Gregar ground out a breath, but let it fall.

The sergeant waved them away. ‘Now gawan with ya.’ He pointed to the girl. ‘Take them to your squad, Leah.’

‘What!’ the girl answered, outraged. ‘They’re useless.’

‘Go!’

The girl, Leah, snarled under her breath, then waved them onward. ‘This way.’

Leah’s squad, it turned out, occupied a floorless tent, a brazier banked at its centre. Haraj and Gregar crowded round the brazier, warming their hands. The rest of the squad lay asleep on the ground. Leah set her fists on her hips and eyed them, her disapproval obvious. ‘Dumbasses,’ she finally concluded, and, shaking her head, threw herself down on her own bedding.

Gregar ventured, ‘Ah … what’s the pay, anyway?’

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Sarge would know. He’s gonna draw it.’

‘What?’ Gregar choked out, nearly spluttering.