enemy of his country was back in Liovard, sitting at his father’s side.
Stiv put aside his dinner with a curt nod. Arion stood up to stretch. Unfamiliar soldiers sat around the camp. The only men he knew by name were the members of his bodyguard, which was now down to three. Sybelle had made sure his regular company remained behind and had attached him to another unit. And she’d sent a handler to keep watch over him as well.
“Lord Eviskine.”
Arion turned toward the voice. The priest wore a long robe the color of dried blood under a deep black cowl, an overdramatic touch that only served to make Arion hate him more, as if he needed another reason. A burly Uthenorian mercenary halted a few steps behind the priest and crossed his arms. His gaze settled on Stiv. It amused Arion to watch the big men measure each other. Stiv hawked and spat a mouthful of phlegm into the snow.
“What do you want, Volmer?”
The priest held out his bony hands to the campfire. His fingernails were like chips of white chalk.
“Our mistress sends word. The Queen of the Night wishes you to devise a plan of invasion into central Nimea before we reach the border.”
Stiv grunted.
Volmer glared down at the soldier, apparently unfazed by the sergeant’s disfiguration. “You find our mistress’s commands amusing, dog?”
Stiv shrugged and went back to looking into the fire.
“We’re eager to be on our way,” Arion said. “I’ll have the plans ready by morning.”
The priest nodded. “That will do.”
A shout broke above the camp noises. Arion looked across the tops of the tents to a space where several men squared off. Sunlight reflected off bared blades. He couldn’t make out the words being exchanged, but their tone was driven by hot tempers. Nearby soldiers started to gather around the noise.
“Miserable curs.” Volmer took a step toward the disturbance. “They will learn discipline at the end of a lash!”
The priest jerked to a halt as Arion’s sword slid between his ribs. As Volmer fell, his Uthenorian protector swore and reached for his blade, and was jerked upright as a massive forearm whipped around his throat. Stiv yanked twice, until there was a soft pop, and then dropped the mercenary’s limp body to the ground.
Arion pulled his blade free and glanced around, but everyone’s attention was focused on Brustus and Davom as they pretended to pick a fight with each other.
“Put them in my tent.” Arion ducked into his shelter and pulled out their packs.
He whistled loud as he trotted across the snow. Brustus and Davom gave up their game and dipped into the disappointed crowd. They all met at the road. Okin rode up on a courier horse with four steeds in tow.
“Back to Liovard?” Davom asked.
Arion jumped into the saddle. “That’s right. And we don’t stop until we reach the palace gates. Not for any reason.”
Receiving a nod from each man, he took off down the snowy road like the Lords of the Dark were on his tail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
C aim winced as someone’s misplaced foot stepped on a branch hidden under the snow. The resulting snap echoed through the trees. The troop leader, Malig, turned around and scowled at the score of men strung out behind him. Caim thought Malig was going to bark at them, but the outlaw held his tongue. With a wave, he motioned for them to keep after him. He was learning. Finally.
From atop a small tor between two sturdy asper trees, Caim watched the column of outlaws march through the woods below. He had been drilling them for six days straight in close combat, ambush tactics, infiltration, and reconnaissance-all the things they needed if they were going to have any chance against the duke’s forces. So far, the results were slow. Each night, exhausted, he fell into a dreamless sleep that was never long enough before dawn arrived, and all the while one unavoidable truth refused to be ignored. He was the leader of a rebellion. If Hubert could see me now, he’d laugh good and hard. Caim the Knife, leader of rebels and insurrectionists.
He’d had his chance to skip out, and not taken it. That alone was enough, in his mind at least, to condemn him. But what did he hope to achieve? What would victory look like, and would any of them know if they managed to achieve it? He didn’t have the answers.
The daylight was fading. The nights were getting darker as they approached the new moon. In the old days, this would have been his preferred time to strike. The old days… Caim took a deep breath of the bracing air. His need to see Kit was bordering on desperation, not for her talents, but just to see her and talk to her again. He’d wrestled with the question of how to find her, and come up empty. Why didn’t she come back? Didn’t she see how much he needed her? Kit, if you can hear me, I need you. I’m sorry for whatever I did. Dammit, just come back.
Caim exhaled a long sigh that turned to mist in the cold air. He didn’t know what he felt about her. She was his friend. Wasn’t that enough? Things had been simpler once, though he could hardly remember when. But she wasn’t the only source of advice. He’d gone to see Caedman one night after a frustrating session with the men. The outlaw leader sat up in his bed, looking paler and thinner than the day they rescued him. When Caim laid out his problems, Caedman shook his head.
“They aren’t soldiers, Caim. They’re loggers and trappers.” Candlelight flickered across Caedman’s face, hiding some of the scars. “You can’t beat them over the heads with drills and instruction about tactics.”
Caim threw back the last of the crude mead in his cup. “They don’t listen. I spend half my time breaking up fights.”
“You have to show them what you want, Caim.”
“How do I do that?”
“Start at the beginning.”
Then, as he had made his way back to Keegan’s hut, he found Hagan sitting on the same stone as before, looking up at the moon. “You figure out what you’re doing yet, son?”
Caim stopped not far from him. “I’m not sure. Feels like I’ve been running for days, but not getting anywhere.”
“It’s not you they’re fighting.” The old man took a puff from his pipe. “It’s the witch. Our people hold to the old ways. They believe stories that the southlands pass off as myth and legend.”
When Caim didn’t understand, Hagan explained. “A long time ago, before there was a land called Eregoth, or even Nimea for that matter, another empire ruled over the land. An empire of darkness.”
Caim had heard tales of old empires before. They were all evil in the stories. But Hagan told of a dominion that spread its wickedness to every corner of the world, until there were few places of light left.
“And what happened to this dark empire?’ Caim asked.
Hagan pulled the stem of the pipe from his mouth. “Some few found the courage to fight back. And after a long struggle, the few prevailed against the many, and the Dark was pushed back. But now some think it’s come back, that the witch and her spawn are the harbingers of a new dominion.”
Caim had walked away shaking his head, but the old man’s story had lingered in the back of his mind ever since.
A ragged yell erupted below as a flight of arrows flew from the trees. Some of the padded missiles found targets among Malig’s company, but the men hit didn’t lie down like they were supposed to do in these war games. Instead, they charged at Keegan’s unit descending on them from above.
If Caim hadn’t insisted on using sticks instead of real weapons, most of the men would be dead or maimed already. Although he’d showed them again and again how to defend against attacks by employing different angles of approach and a simple system of blocks, but the woodsmen still swung their ersatz swords like wild men, bashing each other over the head, arms, legs, or any part that stuck out.
At least the fights were entertaining. Children perched in the trees to watch; women found reasons to pass
