Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  Contents

  FORTUNE'S TOLL

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Most Important Thing You Can Do to Spread the Word

  About the Author

  Fortune's Toll

  The Legion of the Wind: Book Two

  by Corey Pemberton

  Website: http://www.coreypemberton.net

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/cI2YO5

  Email: corey@coreypemberton.net

  Copyright © 2017 by Corey Pemberton. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about The Legion of the Wind series, to help me spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting my work.

  CHAPTER ONE

  For only a moment, the heat chased away the pain.

  Argus watched the bronze ripple, quiver, and dribble down the statue. Not just any statue. It had been his father once—one of the three founders of Davos. Now, Fotis's face was unrecognizable.

  He gritted his teeth and burned it a little longer. A few drops of molten bronze clung to the chin, stubborn, before trickling onto the tile floor.

  Gods, Argus thought, taking a deep breath. He leaned against the statue of Maria, the mad beggar girl from Azmar, to steady himself. When he caught his breath he surveyed his handiwork. He blinked a few times. Swore. His father's face was unchanged from the night before. Yet some time during those six months he'd climbed up there to practice, the face had changed. Night by night he chipped away at it, like a prisoner clawing out an escape tunnel from solid rock.

  “No escape for me, though,” he muttered.

  As his command of magic improved, the more its pull strengthened. And Fotis would always be his father—the one who'd abandoned him—no matter how much he disfigured his statue.

  Then came the hum of low voices. Argus stiffened, pushed away from Maria's statue and wobbled a bit before finding his balance. He turned to the edge of the Founder's Garden. Across the statues and unkempt plants, three heads lurked among some hedges. The voices trailed off. Normally he could have heard them with a simple incantation from the Hearing Branch. But not now. Not after all this training in his weakened state.

  The voices whispered some more.

  Argus turned away, pretending he hadn't seen them. It didn't take an aptitude for magic to know those heads would emerge from the hedges again soon. The onlookers would watch a little longer. Just like they always did. If they were drunk enough, they'd hoot and holler before scampering down the hill.

  Argus glanced at his father's statue one last time, then pulled up his hood and crossed to the edge of the square. He'd liked Davos a whole lot better when it was just him and the statues and the sea. Yet every day brought fresh arrivals. Pirates and outlaws and traitors washed up in search of new lives, just as they'd done before the Calladonians leveled the island six months past.

  I'm just a curiosity to them. Everyone wants to come see the hermit on the hill.

  He felt tonight's onlookers following him down the hill. Bank Road stretched before him, empty clear to the ramshackle village on the water's edge. Argus didn't look back. Their footsteps were loud, and growing in confidence.

  They told him everything he needed to know.

  Down the hill Argus strolled, windblown and exhausted. Down, down, down until he turned off Bank Road and onto the street he'd claimed as his own.

  Those footsteps drew closer.

  He looked back once, at the corner, and saw three men walking shoulder to shoulder. Darkness obscured their faces, but their bodies were lean and burdened with weapons. They made no effort to slow down or duck into the shadows. They looked like powder fiends desperate for their next fix.

  Argus glanced ahead and walked faster. His hand fell to his hip. Nothing there but a jutting bone where his sword should have been.

  Shit.

  His other hip was bare too. He realized then that it had been weeks since he'd even seen Reaver. His sword used to go everywhere with him. Until there was no room in his mind except for magic.

  “What's the hurry, old man?”

  Argus turned back. The men were closer, only about ten paces behind. The one in the middle smiled, revealing a set of teeth fit for a saw blade. The others—the followers—shuffled forward on either side, their faces hidden under loose hoods.

  “Best keep walking,” Argus said. “You don't want to do this.”

  The men snickered, and the man in the middle said, “Do what? Can't we introduce ourselves to our new neighbor?”

  Argus scowled. That just made them laugh even harder. There wasn't any venom left in him. It had only taken a few months buried in books to grind down the edge he'd sharpened on back alleys and battlefields. “Neighbors don't greet each other with swords,” he said, surprised to hear his voice quaver.

  “Is that so?” said the man on the left, a tall Pellmerean with wispy blond hair and a limp. “We're new to Davos. They say a demon lives on top of the hill. A sorcerer who practices dark magic. Say, what were you doing with that statue anyway? You were gawking at it like Kelso here looked at his first pair of tits.”

  “They weren't my first!” said the third man, a fresh-faced Harlockian. “I've seen others. Lots of 'em.”

  Argus said nothing. He turned back to the street and listened to their boots pound the packed earth. He fixed his eyes on the stone house with the arched door and tiny candle flickering inside, near the street's end.

  Then he ran.

  “Hey!” cried the Pellmerean. “We don't mean to hurt you, old man.” Their boot-scrabbling, heavy-breathing pursuit suggested otherwise.

  “That's right,” said Kelso. “But we will. If you don't give us a choice.”

  Steel rang above the pounding waves. The wind carried it straight into Argus's ears, clanging, echoing, rattling about. He tried to make himself run faster, and nearly doubled over when a stitch tore into his side.

  The men were laughing again. “That's it, old man. Lead us right to your treasure hoard.” Their footsteps seemed to come from every direction at once. Argus reached for the door; as he did, he glimpsed sword blades whistling in the window's reflection.

  He ducked.

  Thump.

  One blade lodged into the door. He saw i
t vibrating there, separated from its owner, while he shoved the door inward and dove inside.

  Heavy breathing and yells followed him. More blades too, whisking by his ears and kissing his shoulder. One kiss turned fiery and only when Argus hit the floor, rolling away from the attackers, did he realize he was carrying a dagger inside him. It buried deeper into his shoulder as he tumbled over the stone floor.

  He cried out, but his voice was swallowed up in all the others.

  The three men were stupid but strong. They smelled like they'd been dunked in a keg of ale. Argus crawled away from them. Wild hands landed on his legs, pulling him back. He kicked them off, and lunged until he felt a wooden doorframe. Reaching, clawing, he pulled himself up. Splinters shot into his fingertips and he cried out again.

  This time he heard it. A hoarse, mewling sound fit for a man three decades his senior. But it was all that remained after weeks spent pushing his mind and body beyond their limits.

  “You'll need to pull that dagger out,” said Kelso, delivering the news with a sad smile. “Sorry I had to do it. With the way you ran in here I didn't know what you were—”

  “Shut up, Kelso,” said their leader, a fat-cheeked Rivannan with dark eyes shaped like almonds. “Don't apologize to a sorcerer, you dolt. Quit talking and check the house. Who's to say this place isn't full of traps?”

  “Sorry.”

  The Rivannan ignored him. “What do you see, Fane?”

  Fane the Pellmerean shrugged and slowly made his way to the other side of the kitchen. He stopped for a moment to stomp out the burning candle, which had somehow made it from the kitchen table onto the floor during the commotion. He started opening and closing cabinets, pausing occasionally to check his boot for melted wax. “Not much,” he said. “Nothing except the sorry effects of a lonely old man.”

  “Keep looking,” said Kelso of Harlock, the teen who stood inches away from Argus. “He has to be hiding something.”

  The Rivannan knocked a stack of papers off the kitchen table and strode toward the doorway, where Argus huddled. “Where are the valuables?” he asked, jabbing a finger into Argus's chest. “The gold? The jewels? The finest spices from the Comet Tail Isles?”

  “In the house down the street. The red one covered in moss. That stuff is useless to me. Go on, take whatever you want…” He swooned against the doorframe, smacking his dry lips.

  “Liar,” the Rivannan said.

  Kelso's eyes narrowed. “I don't know, Sander. Seems honest enough to me.”

  “Then why the blazes did he rush in here like he had something to hide?”

  Their words registered at the speed of honey, and the men had stopped talking long before Argus made sense of them. All he could think about was the swath of blood that stretched all the way to the street—the one that came from his shoulder.

  If I don't stop the bleeding soon I'll…

  “Hey,” said Kelso, snapping his fingers in front of him. “Our man doesn't look so good. Better get that dagger out of him.”

  “Fine,” Sander said. “You do it. It's your blade.”

  Kelso leaned closer. Most of his face was gone, along with the rest of the house. All that remained were two brown orbs. Eyes, Argus thought. They must be eyes. It was hard to say for sure with his vision narrowing, fading, searing away at the edges.

  Those orbs edged closer. Twitched. There was fear in them.

  “I'm sorry,” Kelso said. A hand drifted in front of him. It blinked in and out of existence. When it was solid, it was the size of his head. “I've only stabbed a few men before. Two brothers who lived on a farm by where I grew up. They tried to carry away my sister. Can you fancy that?” He hiccuped and coated the air with the stench of cheap ale and lamb.

  I can fancy that, Argus thought. Prince Belen had carried away his sister eighteen years past. He'd had his way with her too. Made her his queen. Before I stabbed him.

  “S'pose I don't have the best marks,” said Kelso, “as far as the stabbing goes. A pair of farm boys and an old man.” He smiled a crooked smile. “Never pulled a dagger out like this either, so bear with…”

  His words died off.

  A gurgling noise replaced them.

  Dry, gasping breaths. Kelso reached for his throat and found the slit there. Those brown eyes widened. There wasn't horror in them, but disappointment—like they'd made an agreement that Argus has broken.

  He stabbed the boy again. A jab to the heart to end it quickly. Their blood splattered onto the floor and ran together. The Harlockian collapsed into it, and died with his eyes wide open.

  “Sorry,” Argus muttered. “It was either you or me.”

  He glanced at the boy's dagger, and wondered how long had passed since he'd drawn blood. Not long enough. It never was. Yet the blood always seemed to find him, even across the threshold of the home he'd made to get away from it.

  “Get in here Fane!” Sander yelled, rushing into the front of the house. “The old bastard killed Kelso!”

  The Pellmerean stormed out of the bedroom. He put down an armful of fine silks and drew his sword with a sneer. “Figures. Kelso was mostly dead weight anyway.”

  Argus covered his wounded shoulder with his free hand and inched forward with the dagger. He was burning. He felt it again for the first time in a long time. The heat of battle. Somewhere among those papers and books Reaver called, urging him to kill until blood marred every surface.

  “Looks like he still has some fight in him,” Fane said.

  Argus smiled, the scar on his cheek glaring. “Why don't you come find out?”

  They pressed through the living room toward the kitchen, where he waited. Their swords came first. Fane's sword quivered like a cornered rabbit. Sander's grip was steadier, but he couldn't hide the fear carved in his brow.

  Argus let them come. He waited at the threshold, twirling the dagger, using his new-found energy to mend his shoulder. He was shocked at how easy the spell was. Just a simple incantation from the Touch Branch. He felt to the bottom of the wound, grimaced, and started to stitch the skin together.

  Fane came for him first, brandishing a falchion. In the strip of moonlight that crept through the window, emeralds glared on the blade's handle. They seared Argus like the sandshade had—just before it carried off his friend Harun to death.

  Fane thrust his blade into the kitchen. Argus sidestepped and held his dagger high while he chased after him.

  “Come fight me, old man. Unless you're a coward.”

  Better a coward than a fool. At least cowards live.

  “Fool” was an apt description for the man from Pellmere. He dashed forward, thrusting with no regard for his footwork. Fane looked like he'd learned swordplay in a brothel or on a pirate ship—somewhere where men were too drunk or stupid to fight back.

  This time when that blade came Argus was ready for it.

  Sparks flew, and showered the kitchen table between them. He slapped the falchion aside. Pain shot through his arm. The good kind: the kind that made him feel alive. He bore it with a smile. He was still smiling while Fane struggled to stay upright, caught in the momentum of his wild thrust.

  Doubled over the kitchen table, Fane collected his blade and started to lift his head. “Sander! Come help me!”

  Argus dropped the dagger. It clattered onto the kitchen table, spinning, chipped from the blow. It didn't matter anymore. Not when he had the Pellmerean's hair.

  He threaded his fingers through the blond curls, took a deep breath and slammed the man into the table. His face smashed into the wooden planks with a satisfying crunch. When Argus let go Fane fell aside, limp, nose fractured and gushing blood, and slid to the floor.

  Panting, Argus worked around the table and watched him closely. Suddenly he felt beyond exhausted, like the gentle breeze might toss him off Davos and into the sea.

  He looked at the unconscious man one more time and picked up the dagger anyhow. Argus didn't want to do it, but he knew what kind of man Fane the Pellmerean was. A m
an who refused to let common sense stand in the way of pride. If he survived, he'd be back for blood.

  He bit his lip, knelt, and loosed the dagger one more time.

  In a few spasms it was over, and the Pellmerean lay still except for his blood. Blood everywhere. It pooled and mingled. He'd never be able to scrub it out.

  Something shuffled across the room, and when Argus raised his eyes he found Sander frozen at the threshold. He still had his weapon, a rusty broadsword that had seen better days, but it was doing its best to jump out of his grip.

  Sander's mouth fell open. “I… I…”

  He lunged forward, then recoiled. His skin was sallow. His entire body quivered.

  Argus wondered how long this wraith would remain, haunting him. “Go,” he said, pointing at the door. “Before I change my mind.”

  “Th-thank you, sir. Thank you!” Sander bolted right for it. He got halfway through the kitchen, paused, and glanced back. He watched Argus like a wounded prey animal, edging along the cupboards, keeping as much distance between them as possible.

  “Go,” said Argus, brandishing the dagger.

  The Rivannan dropped his sword and ran. The door flew open, and the breeze set all the curtains and papers fluttering. Argus inhaled the tang of the sea, listening to the Rivannan's reckless footsteps.

  Once the street was quiet he sighed, and collapsed onto the kitchen table. It had been so long since he'd fought he'd almost forgotten how. Everything creaked, everything ached. The door was still open. He needed to bury the bodies, but he was too exhausted to do it.

  It was all Argus could do to shuffle to the door, close it, and bolt it twice. He staggered through the kitchen, and supposed he was heading for the bedroom, but he drifted with little regard to his destination.

  Argus's ears buzzed with the echoes of battle. Above the screams of dying men and their steel, a pleasant voice whispered. He knew it well. He followed it into the bedroom and found her hidden beneath a stack of papers.

  Reaver.

  He pulled her out of the scabbard—just a few inches—and slid her back in. She sang louder then, angry she'd missed the battle. Argus strapped the sword belt lovingly around his waist.