by Amy Hopkins
The mystic looked as relaxed as Lord George—or like a viper ready to strike. “Unless someone had the magical ability to find out what’s going on from the men themselves.”
George jerked his head in a rough nod. “I know your people tend to avoid intruding on people’s minds uninvited—”
“Oh, no,” Julianne cut him off with a wicked grin. “That only applies to people we like.”
George smiled, but his face stayed cold. “Well, then. As soon as we finish here, I’d like to formally request you interrogate my men and find out what they’ve done to deserve such a reputation.”
Julianne nodded. “That doesn’t help our immediate issue, though. If you like, I can contact Amelia—she’s the Chancellor of Arcadia. I’ve mentioned her before?”
George nodded, but Bette grimaced. “You don’t think we should call on her aid, Bette?” he asked.
Bette bit her lip. “I just don’t like the idea of relyin’ on someone way across the Madlands ta be runnin’ to our rescue every time we catch a problem.” Her eyes met Julianne’s. “And besides, doesn’t the lass have her hands full as it is?”
“She’s busy, and short-handed,” Julianne admitted. “But she wouldn’t have offered if she couldn’t spare some assistance.”
“Aye, and if a city that was half-burned to the ground barely a year ago can send help, what’s wrong with our own selves if we need it?” Bette asked.
George gave a brisk grunt. “I feel the same, my girl. We’ve enough people in our lands—they may not be fighters, but they’ll need to be just that, if they want to protect their own lands.”
“What about the outlying communities?” Julianne asked. “I know that Patrick came from one of them. Do you think we could send to them for assistance?”
“You’ll more likely be asked to provide it,” Francis said warily. “If we didn’t have the might of Muir behind us, and the help and training Bette’s given, we’d be begging for soldiers to offer protection. That’s if we’d survived this long.”
“Bah, ye built a damn wall heavy enough to keep out the worst of them,” Bette said. “And ye did that yerself.”
Francis allowed himself a small grin at that. “Still, if there are small towns without a proper garrison, we may end up stretching ourselves thinner.”
“If that’s what happens, that’s what we’ll do,” Bette said. Realizing she may have overstepped, she looked to George. “With yer permission, me lord? I don’t think ye’d be the sort to leave whole towns at the mercy of those rot-faced shit-eaters.”
“Whatever it takes, Bette. We must keep our people safe!” George thumped his fist on the table. “If they aren’t under my protection, and they don’t have anyone else’s, we can’t let them suffer. Do what you must, but we will make the region safe.”
Bette grinned, her adoration for their lord increasing. “Aye, me lord. If the small towns pull up as well as Tahn, they won’t need much but some trainin’ and a few lessons on weaponsmithin’.”
George sighed. “I do hope we don’t bite off more than we can chew, but I can’t leave innocent people as remnant fodder. Still, if we can find a way to close the—”
Shouting in the street cut Lord George short. As one, the people in the room shot to their feet. Bette yanked her sword from her belt and ran for the door, then paused. “Julianne?”
The mystic’s eyes were already white. “Go!” she urged Bette.
Bette burst out of the door to find a crowd of people milling about. She shoved past two men, then pushed a woman out of the way to see Sharne, one hand around a soldier’s throat.
“And next time, I’ll slit your throat instead. Hear me?”
The soldier smirked. “Like to see you try it, love. Think your little farmboy soldiers can take on all of us at once?”
Sharne stepped back, letting the man free. “You think we can’t fight.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement delivered in a flat voice.
The soldier laughed, and a smatter of chuckles in the crowd made Bette notice who was watching. Most of those present were Lord George’s hired hands.
Julianne watched as the men shuffled. She recognized those who were Patrick’s men—they moved back, hands on weapons as they eyed their fellow guardsmen with outright suspicion.
One in particular caught her eye. Thumbs through his belt loops, he looked on with a smirk, a glint of fire in his eyes. It was Patrick—and he wanted this fight to break out.
“Fight? I’m not gonna to fight you, love. I’m gonna fuck you!”
Bette surged past the edges of the crowd, reaching Sharne a moment too late. The wet smack of a fist in a jaw rang out through the shocked silence at the soldier’s words.
The peace broke in a wave. The crack of fists was echoed by cries of support from the crowd, some in favor of Sharne and others egging on the man who had her in a headlock.
The soldier dropped Sharne to the ground and straddled her.
Bette felt the blood drain from her face. Ohhhh, shit on a stick. This wasn’t going to end well.
The soldier ground his hips on Sharne, who lay still. She looked up, eyes wide.
“Like that, bitch? A good fuck will loosen you up, you tight-snatched whore.”
It was all Sharne could take. She bared her teeth in a ferocious grin. Then, in a blur of movement, flipped her attacker over so that he was flat on his back, Sharne kneeling over him, spear in hand.
“You need a dick to rape a girl, love.” She ground her knee into his groin, pressing harder when he squealed in agony.
Bette sighed. “I knew it’d end bad.”
She watched as Sharne lazily grabbed the arm of a man who tried to pull her off. A moment later, he was on the ground next to his friend, though this one had the sense to cross his legs.
Sharne kicked him in the head, buying her enough time to deal with the third man. She parried his sword strike with her spear, tripped him, and stabbed his thigh. “You’re lucky that wasn’t your cock,” she spat.
When two more soldiers made to join the fray, Bette stepped in. Sharne faced off against the man she’d head-stomped, while Bette stood at her back, sword raised.
The crowd exploded. Townspeople screamed and ran, while others did their best to fight off armed soldiers with fists and baskets. A small handful of soldiers turned on their own as Patrick’s men launched into the fray, protecting the citizens.
Bette rammed her sword into the gut of a leather-clad fighter, grimacing at the waste of a life.
She slapped her pommel at someone’s temple, and grinned as he crumpled to the ground. Two men came barreling at her, and she ducked and rolled, coming face to face with Patrick.
“Bout time someone showed that pig-fucker some manners,” he grunted, then lunged towards Bette, sword out.
She yelped and threw herself to the ground. Blood squirted on her arm, and she darted a look up to see Patrick sliding his sword from the chest of one of his own men.
“What the fuck are ye doing?” she yelled. “I’m in me good pants! Don’t bleed ‘em on me!”
Patrick laughed and nodded. “Fair enough.”
He spun and ran, dragging away a soldier flicking his fist. Jessop was reeling away from him, cheekbone split.
Bette growled but turned away, satisfied the offender would be dealt with. She caught sight of Mary, the tavern-owner. The wrinkled woman thrust a metal baking tray up as a blow glanced off it, then shoved the hard edge forward.
The soldier who’d attacked her was caught off guard. When Bette attacked, he was less surprised—but only because he was dead before he’d realized she was there.
Bette jerked her head around. The remaining soldiers stood, hands in the air, faces terrified.
“I can’t move!” one whimpered. “I can’t move! Something’s got my body!”
Julianne stepped outside, eyes white, knuckles tight on her staff. She gestured while murmuring something. The seven men walked to Francis, who calmly held out several lengths of rope
. Silently, the soldiers began tying each other up.
“Oy!” Bette yelled. “Not that one!” She pointed at Patrick, who suddenly dropped his rope, shook himself, and scrambled away.
His eyes darted around.
“Oh, grow some balls, ye pussy. It’s what ye get for ruinin’ me clean shirt.” Bette held his gaze until she was sure the panic had eased, then turned to Julianne.
“I see,” the mystic said. Two more men were released from her psychic prison. “Bette, I’m still a little tired from yesterday. Could you address the ones who are injured?”
“Address them how?” Bette asked, hopefully.
“Non-lethally,” Julianne said.
Bette’s face fell, but she snatched up one of the dropped ropes and walked over to a groaning soldier on the ground.
Her eagerness returned when she realized it was the man who’d started the fight with Sharne.
“And what did ye do to me troop leader, ye scum-shitting crap-licker?” she asked as she bound his wrists to his ankles.
“Frigid slut,” he grunted through his broken mouth.
“Now that doesn’t even make sense,” Bette said. She left him with a swift kick to the skull, shrugging when Julianne caught her eye. “What? I tripped!”
Julianne snorted, but didn’t say anything.
“Now,” Bette said, resting fists on her hips. “Are ye goin’ ta tell me what the fuck just happened, and why me good pants are all caked in goat-fucker?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sharne rested the steak gingerly on her face, reclining on a bed behind Francis’s office. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“Sounds like the bastard deserved what he got,” Bette said.
“I don’t regret that. I just can’t believe I let one of the pricks knock me out cold!”
Sharne had explained why the fight started. She’d been going to start her shift, when she had come across one of the soldiers hassling a young village girl. When Sharne had caught his attention, he’d simply walked up and grabbed her ass, pulling her close and trying to kiss her.
Thoroughly revolted, Sharne had shoved him off and given him a lecture, then told the entire troop to get the fuck out of Tahn.
They’d thought that was hilarious.
The fight broke out, and Sharne had eventually been taken down by a punch to the jaw.
“And what’s yer story, then?” Bette darted a glance to Patrick, who’d shamefacedly brought the meat and tried to slink away.
Patrick sighed. “I knew they were dicks. Plenty of rumors—always are about men like us, but this was different. Not stories spread in bars, but whispers in the street. I couldn’t get anyone to actually drop a name, though.”
“Too scared?” Bette asked.
He nodded. “I tried to offer protection, but fear won out.”
“So ye thought ye’d let us clean up yer mess?” Bette’s disgust was clear in her voice. “Ye thought ye’d risk my soldiers?”
“Risk?” Patrick laughed. “I’ve seen them fight, Captain. There was no risk… uhh, of death, anyway.” He turned to Sharne. “Sorry about your face, though.”
Sharne groaned. “It was worth it.”
Patrick raised his hands. “See? I knew your lot would kick their asses. And really, I don’t think I could have stopped that fight breaking out even if I’d wanted to.”
Bette narrowed her eyes, unhappy that she might just have to agree with his logic.
A shadow filled the doorway, and Lord George lumbered in. “Next time, my boy, take your concerns to someone who can deal with them, eh?”
Patrick nodded. “I owe you an apology for that, Lord George. I didn’t want to catch you between rumor and hearsay, but I guess keeping quiet didn’t make things any better.”
“That’s right. If I’d known, I’d have sent for a mystic and cleared it up right away.” Lord George rested a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Thank you for stepping up when it counted, though. I saw you fighting.”
“Ye call that fightin’?” Bette scoffed. “Ye need a week in the trenches with Sharne, here. She’ll have ye fightin’ like a real man.”
Patrick laughed nervously. “Maybe.”
“Fantastic idea.” Lord George looked around, beaming. “Sharne, if you return to Muir with me and train up some of our aspiring soldiers, it may fill some of the gaps.” George pursed his lips.
The ‘gaps’ had just increased. Bastian had taken on the task of interrogating the offenders, but it was unlikely any would find a place back in the guard again.
“We can deal with the numbers later,” Bette said. “Got plenty to keep us busy in the meantime.”
“Yes.” Lord George sighed. “We do need to finish our meeting, and I believe Sharne here needs to rest. Shall we retreat?”
Bette lingered for a brief moment once the men had left.
“Sorry, Captain.” Sharne winced at the pain of speaking.
Bette chuckled. “Ye did well, lass. How do ye feel about goin’ to Muir?”
“Me? In the big city?” Sharne thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I guess, as long as it stops old George from having to hire on more dick wipes like those guys…”
“That’s the spirit.” Bette stepped outside and gently closed the door, hoping Sharne would have the sense to sleep.
“And there was no mention of how a portal might be closed?” Francis was saying as Bette took her seat.
“No,” Julianne said with a sigh. Her head ached from the burst of magic she’d used, and she made a note to thank Danil and Bastian for taking over as soon as she’d called them. “We might have to count on our first attempts failing.”
“Garrett loves ta play with things that go boom,” Bette interjected. “He might have an idea or three. Of course, they might be really fuckin’ terrible ideas…”
“It’s Garrett,” Julianne pointed out. “Of course, they’re terrible ideas. But, it might be just what we need.”
“Aye,” Bette agreed. “But don’t let him know that. His head’s already big enough.”
“If we can’t blow it up, maybe we can wall it off?” Francis asked. “I’ve seen them come through—it looks difficult. If they were to encounter a solid barrier, maybe that would make it too hard to push through.”
“A reasonable suggestion,” Lord George said, looking to Julianne.
“That might work,” Julianne said.
“And if it doesn’t?” Francis asked. “We need a plan C. Any ideas?”
Julianne frowned as heads shook around the table. “Actually… I might. Or, not an idea as such.” Her conversation with Bastian replayed in her head.
“Spit it out, lass,” Bette said.
“I think the varks are sensitive to mind magic,” Julianne said. “Remember how Bastian said they may even be susceptible to it?”
“What? Like a human?” Bette screeched. “Not a bat-slapping chance! A druid would have more chance at magicin’ ‘em, wouldn’t they?”
Julianne shrugged. “Not necessarily. The creatures beyond the rift are somehow linked to our nanocytes.”
Blank looks surrounded her. “The tiny things in our blood that give us magic are called nanocytes,” she explained.
Bewildered nods didn’t give her any more confidence.
“We’ll take your word for it,” Lord George said. “Though, I admit I don’t understand it. Not at all. But, if you can take this information and formulate a plan, I won’t argue.”
“At this point, I don’t know how it will help us, but I plan to investigate further,” Julianne said. She fiddled with the tablecloth.
“Am I to assume we shouldn’t discuss this plan with Marcus?” Francis asked carefully.
“What? Yer plan’s half-cracked, ain’t it?” Bette slapped her knee, laughing. “Bitch knows ye won’t be able to keep ‘im in the dark. That lad has a nose fer yer crazy ideas!”
“She’s right,” Julianne admitted. “I’ll tell Marcus when he gets back. He won’t be impressed, but
we need to know more about the varks, and whatever else might be out there.”
“We won’t need to know more if we can stop them coming altogether,” Francis pointed out. “Why don’t we try the safer plans first?”
“Ye think lettin’ Garrett loose with a cask of powder and a match is safe?” Bette asked.
Francis sighed. “This isn’t going to end well, is it?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Danil led the surly rearick towards the tiny tavern. Mary was outside, lighting the lanterns as dusk settled.
“Evening, Mary,” he called.
“Evening, Danil, Garrett.” Mary hung the last lantern on its hook. “Dinner, or just drinking tonight?”
Garrett mumbled something under his breath, and Mary sighed. “I’ll pour the drinks. Danil, don’t you let him go crazy tonight, you hear?” She wagged a finger at the mystic.
Danil laughed. “I promise I won’t, Mary. And despite my friends festering mood, we’ll eat, too.”
When Garrett protested, Danil shuffled him past. “You’re mad as hell, and you need a few stiff drinks. If you don’t eat, you’ll end up puking in the bushes again. If Mack catches you, he won’t let you live it down for weeks.”
“It was three months since last time!” Garrett whined. “And he still brings it up every time I raise a mug to me lips. Soft-cocked cheese monkey.”
Danil lifted an eyebrow in response to the half-hearted insult, and guided Garrett to a table in the corner. He hoped Mary’s wouldn’t be busy tonight.
“Look,” he began. “I know you’re angry, but—”
“Angry? The bastard made a pass at one of me guards! And grabbed her ass!” Garrett snarled. “I’m not angry, I’m fuckin’ livid.”
“Sharne ground his face in the dirt—and his nuts. She’s fine!”
“Aye, but that’s not the point, is it? And Patrick, the gall o’ the bastard. Bringin’ ‘em here!” Garrett crossed his arms resolutely. “Ye won’t change me mind about that one, I’m tellin’ ye.”
“His hands were tied,” Danil said. “Come on, Garrett. If someone came up to you and said half your soldiers were lecherous bullies, but wouldn’t say who it was, what would you do?”