by Amy Hopkins
“I really thought building a school would be a grand, adventurous task,” he muttered. “Didn’t know it would kill me this way. Death by parchmentcuts.”
He waved at the few people he passed on the street, shivering in the cold air. The sun hadn’t yet crested the mountains to warm the town.
“You need someone to warm your bed, Mystic,” Tansy teased.
Bastian blushed, grinning. “I’m headed to Danil’s. Polly’s not there, but I bet the place is still roasting. Those two have enough heat to cook a whole hog between their sheets.”
Tansy clapped a hand to her mouth in pretend shock. “Why, Bastian! I didn’t know you had it in you.”
He forced a wink and watched her go, face flaming. He had always been comfortable joking around with Garrett, Marcus, and Danil, but making racy comments to a girl in a catsuit? That was a different story entirely.
“I’m going to have to clean up my mouth once I’m principal of a school,” he murmured. He shivered again, this time from the weight of that title. “I’m going to be running a school!”
Despite the troubles he had encountered, the thought still brought a smile to his lips.
“Glad to see someone’s mood has improved,” Danil commented as Bastian pushed open his door.
“Sorry,” Bastian said. “I have been a bit of a prick lately, haven’t I?”
“Damn right, you have.” Danil motioned to the woodstove, already fired up.
A pot sat on top, bubbling away. When Bastian checked it, he realized it was almost empty.
“I want eggs,” Danil explained. “But I can’t see the timer. Of all the stupid things to ruin breakfast…”
Bastian laughed, filling the pot with a jug. “You’ve been pampered in the Temple for too long. All those little apprentices running to do your errands, so you’d tip them off about who to bet against when the card games started.”
“Yeah,” Danil said, leaning his chin on his hand. “I haven’t had a good card game in months!”
“Danil,” Bastian said, waiting for the water to reheat. “You’re a mystic. You can’t lose!”
“And don’t the villagers know it. As soon as they realized, they kicked me out and never let me play again!” Danil shook his head sadly.
After dropping a few eggs into the boiling water, Bastian flipped the little glass timer over. As he watched the grains fall, he imagined each one represented one of the many things on his plate.
He pictured a tiny image of himself beneath the growing pile at the bottom.
“Someone’s feeling fatalistic today,” Danil commented. “Everything ok?”
Bastian sighed. “The money Lord George and the Temple have pledged won’t cover the school for a month, let alone a year.” He fished the eggs out, hissing when he burnt a finger.
He shoved one plate in front of Danil, then plonked the other down next to his papers. “By the time I pay for timber and labor, then order all the books and pens, it’ll be almost gone.”
“Where are you getting these costs? Surely, the Tahn residents won’t rip you off.” Danil carefully tapped his egg, breaking the shell. He started peeling it, dropping little bits of shell onto a napkin beside him.
“Tahn still has to rebuild,” Bastian said. “I can’t ask them to take this on.”
Danil snorted. “My friend, I know you’re a bit green, but… do you know anything about economics? If you take the work outside of the town, they’ll hate you!”
Bastian froze, staring. “Hate me?” he asked, nerves fluttering in his gut.
“A contract like that?” Danil said. “Well, ok. They won’t hate you, but they’ll be disappointed. Bastian, that kind of work can bring real money into a town. And prestige. They’ll have built the famous Eastern Temple School!”
Bastian choked. “You named my school?” he asked.
Danil shrugged. “No. But it’s as good a name as any.” He bit into his egg, sucking in air to cool his tongue as hot yolk ran into his mouth. “Bitch, that’s still hot.”
Bastian put his own egg onto a roll, using a fork to squash it down. “Look, even if I ask Francis and a few of the boys to help, they won’t do it for free, nor should they. I’m still in over my head, and I can’t even bring myself to admit it to Julianne.”
“Well then,” Danil said, once he had downed a glass of water. “It’s a good thing she’s gone. You won’t have to talk to her for months!” A shadow crossed his face, despite his flippant tone, and the corners of his mouth pulled down. “Pain in the ass, she is. Bitch’s oath, I miss her.”
Bastian winced. When Artemis had given him the communication bracelet, he had assumed Danil would have one as well. As not only Julianne’s best friend, but a mystic who outranked Bastian by an order of magnitude, there was no way that Bastain should have accepted the device instead of Danil.
“That’s not entirely true…” Bastian said, bracing himself for Danil’s outrage.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bette grabbed the slip of paper off the boy and unrolled it, eyes widening as she read.
“Mathias said it was urgent,” he panted.
“Damn straight it was,” she said, grabbing her sword. “Guards! Four with me. Jarv, pull in a few to replace them. I don’t want the town left unprotected while I’m gone.”
“What’s that?” Garrett called from the bottom step of the lookout post. “There’s been another one?”
“Aye,” said Bette, hurrying down as her soldiers scrambled to follow. “Remnant again, they said.”
Garrett huffed. “They said. They wouldn’t know a bloody remnant if it bit ‘em in the arse. Any casualties?”
Bette nodded. “Two traders. Four still alive. They’re still out there,” she said, voice flat. “Ye coming with me?”
“Aye,” he said, hurrying over to the gates as four horses trotted over, saddled but unattended. Garrett grabbed one, grateful for the druid’s foresight. “Do ye wanna wait fer another horse?” he asked.
Bette shook her head. “We don’t know how long ago the first letter was sent. We might already be too late.”
Garrett pulled himself up, Bette mounting barely a moment later. She wheeled the horse around.
“Sharne, Carey, with me. Sorry, Mack, ye’ll have ta stay,” Bette said. “But get three more men and prepare ta ride out if ye see the flare.”
Mack saluted. “Yes, Captain.” Then, he grinned. “If you all get eaten, that leaves me in charge, right?”
“That’s the biggest incentive I have right now fer stayin’ alive,” she replied before kicking her horse.
“Fair enough!” Mack yelled as the team galloped away.
Sharne nudged her horse faster to catch up to Bette. “How far are out are they?” she called.
“The message said they’re near the Wolf’s Head,” Bette said, watching for smoke.
She didn’t really expect to see it—though remnant would often burn a campsite or town after an attack and cook the bodies, the small band rumored to be plundering the Muirian countryside hadn’t been acting like typical remnant.
Though Bette would reserve judgement until she saw them herself, she thought Garrett’s theory that they were really bandits posing as remnant might well be correct.
They rode hard and soon, the well-worn trail to Muir curled around, and the Wolf’s Head came into view. Named for an ancient, crumbling statue at the edge of it, the seemingly random clump of forest stood alone in the flat fields around it.
She knew it was often used as a campsite due to the pond in the center clearing that bubbled with clean water from an underground stream—and that meant it would be the perfect place for the terrified traders to take refuge.
The namesake stone carving of an oversized wolf peeked through the trees, one ear now broken away and the once-pointed nose dulled with age. It had once been a majestic figure, but now it was little more than moss-covered rock.
Bette called the horses to a halt and slipped off, drawing her sword. “Easy, no
w,” she murmured to the horse as she gently looped the reins over a soft, immature branch.
If spooked, the horse would simply pull away from the branch and run. Bette would rather she bolt than be massacred by remnant—or bandits—because she was tied too tightly to escape.
Carey and Sharne go left; Garrett, go right, Bette instructed with silent hand signals before pushing through the first line of trees. She heard sobbing, the sound winding through the trees from somewhere up ahead.
The clearing was right ahead. Peeking through foliage, Bette could see a woman’s back, shuddering while she cried. To one side, an old man with a grey, drawn face and to the other, two younger men, with thick beards and dismal expressions.
“Susie, keep your noise down,” one of the younger men hissed. “You’ll bring the savages back.”
That made her stop, though the shuddering continued. Bette caught sight of Carey and signaled for him to stay hidden. She couldn’t see Garrett or Sharne, but hoped at least one of them would do the same, in case she had misjudged the situation.
Bette stepped out of the trees, carefully keeping her hands up so the group could see them.
The two younger men jumped forwards, fists balled. “Who are you?” The one on the left barked.
“Yer the traders that sent fer help?” Bette asked. “I’m from Tahn, sent ta keep ye safe until the Muir soldiers come ta get ye.”
“It’s ok,” the woman said. “She’s not one of them.” She spat the last word, eyes blazing.
“Do ye mind if I ask yer name?” Bette carefully sat on a fallen log, positioned so she could watch all four of them.
“I’m Susie,” the woman said, then gestured to each of the men. “He’s Bart, and that’s Stanley. We hired them for protection.” She hissed the words, her voice dripping with venom. “My father’s name is Edward.”
Hearing his name, the old man’s eyes flicked to Bette. “The ones she won’t tell you are Eddie and Carney, my sons. You’ll find them on the road back there.” His eyes fell. “Carney’s the one without a head.”
“Can ye tell me what happened?” Bette asked softly.
Susie let out a fresh sob and pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Remnant,” Stanley said in a gruff voice. “They jumped us on the road. We fought, but were protecting these two when the others fell.”
“You were hired to protect all of us,” Susie sobbed. “You damn cowards.”
Bart snarled, but Stanley just sighed. “Anyway, we managed to barter for our lives.”
“Barter?” Bette asked, suspicions flaring.
“Yes,” Susie said. “All our food, our coins, my jewelry and the case of silver spice bottles.”
“A remnant doesn’t barter,” Bette said flatly, trying to bite down on her frustration.
“Are you calling us liars?” Bart growled. “They were remnant. All black around the eyes, blood on their faces. The beasts didn’t talk, of course, just grunts and snarls. They attacked, killing the brothers and then herding us in here.”
“They took the trader’s things and left,” Stanley finished. He shifted his glance to the old man. “We were hired to protect them from bandits, not the cursed.”
“And what do ye think a bunch o’ dirty remnant are goin’ ta do with a handful of shiny rocks and pretty metals?” Bette asked. “Ye fool. They were men. Oh, aye, I don’t doubt they painted their faces to look like a remnant, but the real beasties? Ye wouldn’t be left ta tell the tale.”
Bette gestured for the others to come out. Her three companions emerged from the trees, and Garrett saluted. “The stand is clear. No one about except for this lot.”
“It was remnant, I tell you!” Susie insisted.
Bette leaned towards her. “Have ye ever seen one before today?” She asked in a low voice.
Susie shook her head.
“Did ye look them in the eyes?”
Susie jerked her head in a nod. “One. He stared me down, eyes as blue as the ice in his heart.”
Bette sighed. “A true remnant has eyes of red—like a mystic or a druid, but a different color.”
Susie swallowed, hard.
Bette continued. “They’re not like the stories. They talk, alright. Call ye a bitch and a whore, and boss each other around all fierce. They’re cunning, if they’re not bright in other ways, but all they care about is the hunt.”
Susie swallowed. “The hunt?”
Bette nodded. “They kill fer the blood lust, not fer coins. Once they have a taste of it, they’ll fight and kill and bite and stab until they’re dead. Ye can’t reason with a remnant, and they have no use fer yer pretty trinkets.”
Susie’s lips trembled, and her nostrils flared. “But they were remnant. Bart said…” she hiccupped before continuing. “He said that’s why they got scared and wouldn’t fight back.”
Her eyes fell on the pair of hired guards. “Bitch help me, if you let my brothers die because you were pissing your pants over a few painted-up men, I’ll kill you myself.”
CHAPTER SIX
Patrick’s face drew in as he regarded the man kneeling at his feet, hands and ankles trussed together like a pig set for market. The forest around them was quiet, but Patrick knew the rest of his comrades would be watching.
He sighed, a deep and painful ache tightening his chest as the air deflated his proud posture.
“Please,” Leeds begged. “I swear, I was defending myself.”
“You engaged those two.” Patrick spat on the ground beside him. “You know my rules—we don’t kill. We’re not bandits. I’m sorry, Leeds. I can’t let this go.”
Leeds snorted a rough, huffing laugh. “We’re not? Could have fooled me. Why should I lay my life down for them? None of them came to our aid when we needed them.”
Patrick shrugged. Leeds told the truth, but it didn’t matter. He had pledged to get his men out of this mess, to provide for them. His methods were unsavory, but it was all he had. All he had asked was that there be no killing.
Though technically under the protection of Lord Garvenor, their protector had refused to give them soldiers or food to help them establish a new colony when their hemmed-in town had outgrown its spot nestled between two mountains.
When the men had begged re-entry to the town after the first remnant attack, Garvenor had met them at the gate with swords. Claiming they had defaulted on taxes—after nine months struggling on their own, Patrick remembered sourly—he had denied them access and demanded they leave.
Patrick was no leader, but he had done his best to keep his men fed and clothed. It was his idea to dress as the beasts who had attacked them, in hopes they would scare their victims into surrendering and avoid bloodshed.
It had worked, until now.
“We’re better than bandits,” Patrick said. He forced confidence into his words, though he didn’t believe them himself.
“Better?” Leeds laughed again. “At least a bandit goes home with a full belly and gold in his pockets. We’re starving, Patrick. Broke and starving.”
“But we’re not killers,” Patrick hissed, guilt clawing his throat.
Leeds had taunted the two young men by the wolf stand. He had acted coy, letting the boys get close enough to think they could land a hit—but Leeds was a fighter, trained by necessity when their tiny settlement was run over by crazed beasts with glowing eyes.
They all were. Those who couldn’t fight had died, if not that first night, then soon after. The remnant had swarmed and dogged their heels for days.
“We’re not killers?” Leeds asked. He jerked his arms against the tight ropes binding his wrists. “You’re gonna let me walk off, then? After all your proud words?”
The dull shine to Leeds’ eyes made Patrick swallow a lump in his throat. Leeds knew how this would end.
Patrick glanced away. Then, he flung his axe around in a single swing, feeling it shudder as it contacted flesh and bone.
“We don’t kill, Leeds,” Patrick said, looking at the head
less body sprawled on the dirt. He rubbed one eye with his sleeves. “We’re bandits, but we don’t kill.”
Dinner that night was quail, flavored with some kind of peppery spice that made the men’s eyes water. They didn’t care, ripping into the two birds with greedy fingers that moved fast over the steaming meat.
Patrick watched his men eat, aware they had noticed his empty plate. They were too hungry to care, stomachs protesting too loud to allow them to offer him a morsel.
He wouldn’t have taken it. He had retched twice tonight, once while trying to wash Leeds’ blood off his hands, and once when the cook started gutting the birds.
Patrick leaned back on his bedroll and closed his eyes, letting the nightmare he had lived every night for months flit across his eyelids.
A fire, much like this one, had crackled in the center of their makeshift homes. A pot bubbled away, simmering potatoes and beans, carrots and parsnip, scraps of boar, and a scrawny chicken plucked in celebration of their first good harvest.
Maybe the smell had drawn them. Patrick knew it wasn’t so, but the alternative was too grim to consider.
For when the remnant had burst upon them, they hadn’t been looking at the pot, or the men around it. No, they had been looking over their shoulder, running so fast they had surprised even themselves when they had erupted into the ramshackle town.
No, Patrick thought. I was wrong, imagining things. Because nothing… nothing could scare remnant enough to send a whole pack running.
He repeated the lie again and again, finally lulling himself to sleep, only to dream of a thousand remnant all running away from a terrifying beast with glowing red eyes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Julianne pushed the branches aside, leaning low over her horse, so the foliage didn’t slap her in the face. Marcus rode in a similar position ahead, giving her a great view of his ass.
She sent a mental message to him, a combination of image and feeling that let him know what she was thinking.