by Ronie Kendig
Concern weighed heavily. “Yer scouts picked up something?”
Negaer hesitated.
“It can get no worse than facing down the Sirdarians.”
“Not just Sirdarians, but Poired himself. Desecrators.”
“Poired.” Tili shook his head, feeling the punch of that revelation. He pointed to the chairs set up near the front. “What business has he this far east? I thought he’d be breaking for my father’s kingdom or—”
“You,” Negaer said firmly. “You are his business.”
“Me?” Tili scoffed. “I am a steward.”
“Aye, the steward leading the remnant, maintaining the Nine’s foothold. If they can wipe you out and destroy what remains of the Council, the Nine will cease to exist.”
“Not as long as Haegan lives and breathes.”
“We have no proof that he does.”
Tili snapped a look at the general, who raised his hands.
“I mean no disrespect or treason. My objective is to keep you safe. The men and I will do everything to ensure you reach Molian when the Council summons you, but before that happens, we track down the prince as Gwogh instructed. We must be strategic and swift. There can be no hesitation in our movements, or the enemy will seize upon them. Make hesitation weakness. Weakness failure.”
“Ye’ve given this thought,” Tili said, realizing there was much more behind what the general had spoken. “What plan do ye suggest?”
“Start for Ironhall.”
Folding his arms over his chest, Tili frowned. “Ironhall. Why there—we need to find a way to reach Haegan in Unelithia. Besides, isn’t Ironhall abandoned and its walls broken or missing?”
“Only just,” Negaer said. “Ironhall is a solid base option. We can set up camp there and dispatch scouts to find a way into Iteveria to see what we will face there. Eventually, we will need to go north to Molian.”
Vid’s capital. It made sense.
“Ironhall is a midpoint too convenient to ignore.”
That the general tried to convince Tili to make for Ironhall warned him. Something had pushed the general to call for such an action. “General, ye are not just the commander of the Pathfinders, ye are the Pathfinders. Yer skill is tracking, ranging, and yet, ye counsel me to hole up in a defunct fortress.”
Negaer held his gaze.
“What have ye learned that ye come to me and advise we break camp as night approaches?”
“My scouts have tracked the movement of packs.”
“Packs?” Tili frowned. “Men or animals?”
“Little difference with these—Maereni. I’ve scouts several leagues out in all directions. One hasn’t reported back since the last moonslight. Another had a harrowing encounter. The savages are hunting.”
“Hunting what?”
“You. I told you—they want the Steward dead.” Negaer nodded. “The land is pocked by the beasts. But if we make for Ironhall”—he dipped his head, acknowledging his own point—“we will have a place to fortify and operate from, better to figure out a plan to retrieve the prince.”
Was there a choice? “Sit here and wait to be killed in our sleep . . .”
“Or ride hard and fast to Ironhall.”
“Gather your captains, as well as Draorin, Tokar, and Praegur.” Tili pushed to his feet. “The command tent in fifteen.”
“Sir.” Negaer strode out, and Tili took a minute to capture his thoughts.
Ye didn’t expect to draw out the beast, riding up and down the Nine like a beacon?
“Fool.” Tili grabbed his official overcloak and sash, then left. He stalked toward the largest tent, noting the quiet sentries and crackling fires.
A shadow came from his right. Tili’s heart jammed into his throat, and he hopped sideways. When he saw the face, he breathed out. “Blazes, Vaqar. Give care who ye frighten.”
“I must speak with you, Steward.” Touching the back of his head, Vaqar stalked toward him.
“I beg yer mercy,” Tili said, continuing toward the command tent. “We’re busy—”
“Am I to be only a weapon in your hand? Or will I also have a voice?”
Slowing, Tili rubbed his forehead. Too many people demanding his time and energy. Is this what Father dealt with? Why had he not paid more attention to the way his father had managed these things? But of course, his father was not in the middle of the Nine, running from bloodthirsty Desecrators. He turned to the Tahscan. “Fair enough.”
The great warrior, who stood at least a few inches taller and several handspans wider than Tili, inclined his head. For a savage, he was considerably more refined than even Negaer. “When we first scouted the water, I encountered a girl asking about you.”
Frustration choked Tili. “Vaqar, I have no interest in females—”
“She was skilled in combat, Steward. I am concerned for your safety.”
Tili hesitated, considering the large man. “Ye think her a threat?”
“She is injured and half my size, but that did not stop her from attempting to strangle me. I would have reported sooner, but she knocked me unconscious with a blow.”
Tili blinked. A female. Knocked the Tahscan out.
“It would serve you well to be alert.” Vaqar nodded to Rhaemos and a guard, who lingered nearby. “Keep them close. I will not be far either.”
Exhaustion and urgency severed Tili’s irritation. None else had seen this woman. Nor had they detected any threat. He needed Vaqar more than ever. “My men are meeting. Would ye join us or—”
“Tili!” A shout, a surprising one using his given name, pulled him around, where he found Tokar and Praegur rushing at him.
“Blazes and mercies, can no one function for one spark without me?” he hissed, waiting as the two skidded up. Tokar nodded to Praegur, who seemed to blanch beneath the glow of the firelight. But the man didn’t speak, so Tili glowered. “I have a meeting.”
“You must save her.” Praegur’s words were rigid, coiled with ferocity. Tenored with authority. Filled with rumble.
“He speaks Her words,” Vaqar said in a whisper of awe.
“Whose words?”
“Aaesh.”
Tili’s gut tightened as he refocused on the two friends. “Who am I to save?”
A scream raked the camp.
Praegur grunted and took off running.
“Blazes and bolts,” Tili muttered, hopping into a sprint behind the dark-skinned youth.
As they ran, Tokar said, “They found a girl at the edge of the camp.”
The same girl Vaqar mentioned? Tili sped up, his mind at war with the idea. What was a girl doing out this far, alone? And why—how—did she knock out Vaqar? A refugee come to steal from the soldiers? Then why not join his contingent along with the others? There were always a few dozen displaced villagers tagging along with the soldiers, until they came across locales that could take them in. Tili had given instructions that no one was to be turned away.
When they rounded a tent near the edge of camp, Tili slowed as he spotted the cluster of Pathfinders huddled near the trees. Some laughing. Others cheering. Two held a girl stretched out on the ground. Another leered down at her as he reached for his belt.
Fury erupted through Tili. A bolt shot from his hand before he could think. It split and knocked backward the two holding the girl. Even as she scrambled onto her feet, Tili launched himself at the Pathfinder standing over her. Slammed his fist into the soldier’s face and, for good measure, sent a shockwave of heat through it as well.
The Pathfinder fell.
Breathing hard, disgusted, Tili turned a slow circle, glowering through a thick brow at the others. Rage colored his vision, choked his words. He felt like Chima when she prowled a kill. “Return to yer tents. Or I will sear each of ye with a mark to brand ye for the cowards ye are!” He held out a hand to the girl and waited, eyes locked on the impudent Pathfinders. “And pray I do not seek yer white cloaks as recompense.” He wagged her closer, impatient to deliver her from the men.
Tentative fingers touched his.
Tili gripped them tight and pulled her forward. She wobbled and grimaced—injured. Glaring at the men who backed away, he nudged the girl to Tokar. “See her to pharmakeia so he may tend her wounds.”
The girl hesitated, glancing back to Tili.
“You are safe here,” Vaqar said as he stepped near. “No need to run. Again.”
Tokar and Praegur nodded, their expressions tight as they led her away.
One Pathfinder stood his ground. “She’s mark—”
“Silence!” Tili barked, noting Rhaemos and Negaer running up behind the man. “General, I want each of those men arrested and held.” Embers roiled through him and around his hands. “This is not how we treat anyone. Ever! And if this happens again, I will strip each one of ye of yer white cloaks.”
Negaer looked ready to explode, but he turned his ferocious glare to Rhaemos. “Captain, you heard Steward Tili. Put them in stocks while this is sorted.”
The addendum was not lost on Tili. When he turned, his gaze collided with Vaqar’s, and the Tahscan warrior gave him a solemn nod, then stalked away. Ragged and trembling from the adrenaline rush, Tili stormed toward the command tent.
“What was that?” Negaer hissed as he came alongside. “Nobody orders my men—”
“Would ye speak such to Prince Haegan? Or the Fire King?”
“You are neither.”
“Yet I am both!” Till drew up and pushed into the general’s space. “I am their representative. There is no higher authority than me in the land at the moment. Regardless how ye or I feel, I am the crown.” His chest hurt from the frenetic pounding, borne of rage and futility. “And I will never stand by while men beat and rape a woman.”
“Rape? She is an assassin!”
“They had her stretched on the ground. The captain was dropping his trousers! And think ye I am so ignorant I cannot read her marks?”
Negaer drew up straight.
“And even if I had not found him so near the act, I would have beaten him senseless for abusing anyone.” He pushed into the general’s space. “We face an enemy cruel and wicked, one who takes pleasure in hurting, maiming, and killing. We will not become that, we will not abuse the power given us by Abiassa. We will be better.”
14
NORTH OF LITTLE HALL
Bent forward on the chair, Tili gripped his head. Grief plied at him. Would that this war were over. That the weariness seeping into his bones would heal. That the land and people would heal.
Coming up on that scene vaulted him back to Kiethiel when she was young and snatched from the hold in the dead of night. He would never forget the way she’d looked when she’d finally been returned. Brutalized. Broken. He’d needed a moment alone.
It was too much to think of it happening again. To another innocent.
Innocent. He snorted. What innocent girl wandered the woods alone at a time like this with the mark of an assassin? Innocent was certainly not a word they could place on her.
Oh that he had his father’s ear to bend. That he had a friend to share the journey and battle. Sailing through life with a shrug and a sarcastic comment, he’d never been one to need a friend. But life . . . war . . . “I am not fit to be their leader,” he muttered.
“She does not agree.”
The rumbling voice startled him, and Tili jerked up, looking across the table to Praegur. He frowned. Where had he come from? “I thought ye didn’t talk to anyone. That’s twice ye’ve loosed yer tongue in my presence.”
Praegur shrugged. “I speak when She gives me something to say. Most often with Haegan. But you are her steward.”
“Steward.” He slumped against the chair, rapping his knuckles on the wood. “Her fool is more like.”
“She has allowed me to speak to you, so I do not believe you can be a fool.” Dark eyes sparked with wisdom and laughter. “You saved the girl, and that is what Abiassa wanted.”
“She’s an assassin.”
“She is marked, but are not we all, in one way or another?”
“She has killed. Done the work of the Dark One.”
“Have not we all?” Praegur said. “Lies and selfishness are not relegated to Sirdarians alone. The land has prostituted itself to selfish desires and, ultimately, Sirdar.”
Tili hauled himself out of the chair and discussion. “I have no strength to debate philosophy or theology with ye, Praegur.” At the stand, he poured a cup of cordi and lifted it in offering to the young man.
Praegur shook his head.
Tili dumped back the juice, feeling the vitality it provided, then poured more. “Where is the girl?” He took another drink.
“Tokar guards her at your tent.”
He sucked in a breath, juice flooding his lungs. He cough-choked. Thumping his chest, he strained through watery eyes to look at the Kergulian. “My tent? What madness is that? Ye realize the implication.” Blazes and bolts! What were they doing to him?
Praegur nodded again. “That she is under your protection.”
Snorting and shaking his head in disbelief, Tili abandoned the juice and dropped in the chair again, cradling his head once more. “Mercies, Abiassa, why do Ye torment me with such glee?” He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Bring her here.”
Praegur frowned.
“Bring her,” Tili growled. “She must stand before the . . .” What did he call the men who counseled him?
“I beg your mercy, but she is not . . . appropriate for public.”
What in blazes does that mean? But as soon as he asked, he recalled her torn clothes. Her cut and bruised face. “Have the tailor make her new clothes. Is there another woman to tend her?” He snapped his fingers, remembering. “That Tahscan has a female warrior. Have her help the girl.”
Praegur inclined his head, acquiescing, then bowed and left.
Tili snorted again. It figures. He protected a woman from being raped, and the men stuff her in his tent. Which would lead most, if not all, to assume he claimed her.
Mercies, he wanted no female. Tili growled and left for the command tent. As he entered, Negaer, Draorin, and Rhaemos ducked into the tent.
“Good news,” Rhaemos announced, indicating a fourth man. “Major Grinda arrived with another dozen Pathfinders.”
Tili eyed the younger Grinda—Graem. Saw the worn clothing and expression, and chose to spare him an interrogation. “Well met, Major. I am glad ye are well and safe.”
“It’s good to be with the men again, sir. Thank you.”
He nodded as they seated themselves at the table. “First, I would apologize to General Negaer, who feels I overstepped by threatening to strip his men of their white cloaks.” He could understand the revered man feeling threatened. “While I may attempt to make greater efforts to consider and counsel with those at this table, I will not hesitate to act swiftly when I deem it necessary. Rape of a woman—whether a criminal or not—is criminal in itself. I will tolerate no abuse from any man.”
“What of the men you had me put in stocks?” Negaer asked, challenge in his question and expression.
“General, I will leave that in yer—”
“Might I make a suggestion?”
The half-dozen men turned to the one lurking at the tent opening.
“Vaqar, please,” Tili said, motioning to the warrior. “Join us.” As the Tahscan stalked to the table, Tili explained, “I have invited Vaqar to sit at the council table with us.”
“Not to be impudent,” Rhaemos said, “but what right has he to speak regarding the Nine’s affairs?”
“’Tis a good question,” Tili said. “Vaqar, would ye speak?”
The man half sat, then came back to his feet, knuckles on the table. “I have no desire to overtake your lands or systems. I was sent here—”
“By whom?” Tili asked.
Vaqar hesitated. “Aaesh’s Messenger.”
Tingling buzzed through Tili as Vaqar’s eyes flicked toward Drao
rin, much as they had that first meeting. He’d long assumed Draorin simply shared the name of one of Baen’s Six. The realm was notorious for naming its children after Baen’s famous captains, men who were made immortal for their sacrifice and valiant fighting centuries ago. Was it possible . . . ?
Tili scoffed at himself.
Yet why not? It felt like a mockery, but what if one of Baen’s Six sat among them? A Deliverer at their table. Heat shot through him at the thought.
Almost without his willing it, Tili’s attention shifted to Draorin. “What would ye have us do?”
Shoulders square, hair untouched with gray despite his apparent age, Draorin seemed to grow—taller, bigger, fiercer—and when Tili met his eyes, he found himself staring into the eyes of eternity.
Sharp gasps filled the air as the others came to the same realization.
“Ask the one called Astadia,” Draorin said. “Let Her guide the Guardian and the Paladin.”
15
NORTH OF LITTLE HALL
“I will be no man’s prisoner,” she spat.
As he entered his tent with the others of his council, Tili started at the fair-cheeked, dark-haired girl. The borrowed pale blue tunic and trousers lent her a deceptive softness, but Tili had only to look at her face to see the ferocity of her spirit.
“That is good,” he shot back, “because I have no time for prisoners.”
“Neither will I warm your bed,” she snapped, looking at the others over her hands anchored to the tent post.
“’Twould take more than slip of a girl like ye to warm that cot,” Tili groused, then tipped his head toward her jailor. “Why is she chained?”
“It seemed safest, considering her mark,” Tokar answered.
Ah yes, the mark of the assassin. “Show it to me,” he ordered.
But the girl, her face far too abused for one so small and young, jutted her jaw.
“Is this where ye choose to stay chained to a post and gawked at?” Tili shook his head, realizing she was as defiant and obstinate as his sister. “Fine. When—”
Using her teeth, she yanked up her sleeve, eyes ablaze. And yet there was something in her expression, her posture, that spoke of brokenness. Subservience.