The war. Soldiers whispered about the anticipated conflict like it was a prayer. As if the battle was a holy rite, a chance for Ryden to correct all the generational wrongs done by Devendra and Mortise. Grayson hoped the war remained unrealized. He didn’t think his blackening soul would survive it.
“My grandfather was a general,” Reeve continued. “A hero in the Battle of Sine. He raised me to live up to his legend, and I intend to.”
Tension climbed up Grayson’s back, as much from Reeve’s tone as his topic. The Battle of Sine had been a horrific massacre of innocents. It wasn’t anything to be proud of. The city’s only crime was unknowingly harboring Mortisian spies. And Grayson’s grandfather had ordered the deaths of nearly every man, woman, and child in the city.
“Serving with the Black Hand will elevate my status,” Reeve said. “But only if we’re successful.” His eyes drifted to the daggers on Grayson’s belt. “Those are fine weapons. They’d do well in a close fight.”
The hairs on Grayson’s arms rose. Reeve couldn’t know about his involvement in the Hogans’ escape. If he hadidentified Grayson, he would have accused him days ago.
Grayson forced his voice to remain level. “They’ve proven effective many times.”
Reeve opened his mouth, but he didn’t have a chance to reply. A startling roar ripped through the air and men poured down the steep slopes by the road, an array of weapons in their hands. Hunting bows. Rusted swords. Hoes. Rocks.
Peasants were attacking the patrol.
Grayson fisted the reins, jerking his horse to a stop. He barked orders, heart slamming as he twisted his mount around. The soldiers were well-trained; swords were drawn, bows were raised. When the peasants reached them, soldiers swung weapons from atop their mounts. The horses were just as trained as the men—they didn’t flee, even as they tossed their heads and pawed the ground while the battle raged around them.
The violent frenzy chilled Grayson’s blood even as his body flashed with heat. He fought alongside the soldiers, though the patrol was horribly outnumbered. Grayson was soon surrounded, and though he spun his sword and hacked at the men trying to kill him, his cloak was snatched from behind and he was dragged off his horse.
He crashed onto his back on the muddy road, the breath knocked out of his lungs. He blinked, vision hazing, then sharpening. A savage face hung over him. It was a middle-aged man with long red hair tangled around his face. The peasant reared back, a bloody axe clutched in his hands. With a roar, the man plunged the axe down, toward Grayson’s chest.
Grayson rolled. He felt the swipe of the axe as it blurred past him and slammed into the earth. The attacker jerked the axe free, dead leaves fluttering in the air, but Grayson lunged before he could swing again. He buried a knife in the man’s side, all the way to the hilt. He watched as the man crumpled—a threat, then nothing. The axe thumped harmlessly to the ground.
Grayson’s chest rose and fell sharply and his nostrils flared. Crouched low on the road, he clutched the bloody knife. Howls and screams cut through the crisp mountain air. Swords slashed and struck, the familiar crash of weapons and bodies locked in furious struggle. Horses snorted, keened, and pounded their hooves.
A twig snapped.
Grayson whirled, thrusting his dagger into a peasant’s abdomen before the man could run him through with a rusted blade. When the man fell, Grayson saw a young soldier fumbling to draw his sword, two peasants cornering him against a pine.
Grayson darted forward. He swung his sword and his dagger flashed. Two more men fell, dead.
The soldier stared at him with rounded eyes and a sweaty forehead. He clutched his sword, still half in the sheath, and gulped. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old.
Grayson ground his teeth. Weakness would get them both killed. “Draw your sword,” he snarled. “Kill them or die.”
The soldier jerked a nod, using both hands to yank out his blade.
Grayson spun, cutting through the next attacker and the next. He used every skill his family had ever beat into him. This is what he’d been trained to do and any other thought had no place here. He focused on his actions—the balance in his stance, the flex and release of his muscles as he swung his sword, stabbed with his dagger, bent away from an enemy’s blow only to swing back around and end them.
Time blurred, but he knew it passed. The fight was waning. Even though the peasants outnumbered them, they were no match against trained soldiers. Against him.
As the battle eased, Grayson’s eyes swept the scene. He tracked the last skirmishes, noted the fallen horses, the bodies of soldiers and peasants strewn across the road.
He watched as Reeve was kicked to the ground. His sword flew from his hand, bouncing out of reach. The captain blinked, clearly dazed from the fall. The peasant stood over him, pitchfork raised, ready to shove it into Reeve’s unprotected gut.
There was a moment of hesitation. A split second of pausebefore Grayson lunged, driving his long sword through the peasant’s back.
The man seized, muscles locking before he fell, sliding off the blade.
Reeve inhaled raggedly. He gaped up at Grayson, lip bloody, fists pressed into the ground. His eyes were still flooded with terror but shock edged in, lined with relief.
Grayson tightened his hold on his bloody weapons, knuckles flaring with pain. He stared down at Reeve, his expression hard, but he didn’t respond to the silent question in Reeve’s gaze. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the captain staring after him.
Chapter 21
Clare
Clare’s fingers danced over her loose braid, feet dragging a little as she made her way to Serene’s large bed. The scent of lilacs pervaded the room, reminding her of the Night
