by Terah Edun
Humming to herself, Sara took careful stock of what she could see and compared it in her mind to the imposing fortress that loomed so perilously close. She refused to look at it. Acknowledging the Kade presence at that moment, even for one more second, would just send her into a rage. She had her priorities. Her first and only mission was to find Matteas Hillan and whatever journal entries her father had left behind. Below that mission was the desire to protect Ezekiel, and last of all was the urge to get involved in the skirmish-that-was-actually-a-civil war with the Kade mages. Sara was beginning to come to terms with the fact that the future battles that faced her were more than just the quick fights between Algardis regiments and brigands at night. If nothing else, the ambush by Kade mages with not a single loss of life on the opposing side confirmed that they were dealing with trained military tacticians. The kind that could tear an empire asunder if they so choose.
She would do her utmost to avoid that, regardless of whether or not she was supposed to be serving on the front lines of whatever battles happened. Sara intended to put her skills to use elsewhere and solve a mystery wrapped in an enigma—the puzzle of who her father really was and what he died for. His cause of death may have been execution for treason, but that wasn’t the reason he died. Before she left this encampment, she would uncover the truth.
As she looked over the camp that sprawled like a flat and orderly ant colony before her, Sara wondered what exactly she would find so many hundreds of miles away from her home in Sandrin—or rather, what was left of her home in Sandrin. Briefly, she wondered while standing in the endless line if there was anything to go back to or would just a shell of blackened timbers and charred stone meet her if she went back.
When I go back, she told herself firmly. Because I’m going home. Sandrin is home.
Exhaling a pent up breath, Sara tried to keep herself convinced of that. Thinking about how the house could have survived the flames was a pretty idea, but she knew in her heart of hearts that it would have been almost impossible. The fire would have destroyed all but the shell, protected by magical fire suppressants so the entire block didn’t go up in smoke alongside one house. But everything inside would be gone. All of her trinkets, the ones that reminded her of what she had already lost from her childhood—her homes, her family, her friends, her material wealth.
There’s one good thing about that fire, Sara thought to herself. Fire burns blood. There will be nothing left of my mother’s ugly demise for me to see.
But she would always remember. She knew that she would never forget that night. The night that a necromancer had walked into her home and callously took the life of the woman who had given birth to her. To Sara her mother meant life. Or had meant life. She’d patched every scrape on her, admonished her when she got in scuffles, praised her when she’d won her fighting matches and fed her like a horse. In other words, she had believed in Sara’s potential even if she didn’t agree with her choice of a career. Now that light in her life was gone. The necromancer had snuffed it out like a candle casually starved of air. That’s what Sara had felt like when she had seen her mother die once and been robbed of life twice—the first time when her throat was cut and the second time when the necromancer had revived her corpse only to sacrifice it in a desperate bid for his own wishes.
She flashed back to the night when she had seen her mother’s dead eyes. The necromancer had stood near her mother, touching the back of her mother’s head to animate her just after death. His death magic seeped into her like the poison that flowed through Ezekiel’s veins—allowing the necromancer to control her mother’s body.
Sara would never forget the chill that went through her when she had realized the voice that had welcomed her home that evening wasn’t her mother’s. Not really. It had her body empty of a soul forced to enact the commands of a heartless mage who would have done anything, and did anything including forcing a mother’s dead body to assault her living daughter in a struggle for control, to get what he wanted.
Absentmindedly, Sara shuffled forward as two more mercenaries were admitted into the camp. Each was given a slip of paper and a pack of supplies.
I don’t resent the necromancer, though, Sara thought with detachment. Not really. Resentment is too futile an action. I hate him. I hate him for taking away the last living person in the world who knew me and loved me before I became what I am today. A penniless drifter with no place and no purpose. Certainly not what my mother planned, especially when my father was alive.
That fierce hate would have kept her going, she knew, if her purpose were to avenge her mother’s death. But it was not. Her mother had been a pawn in a larger game. A game that Sara was just beginning to see involved a far broader spectrum of players than she had ever believed possible. Her father—a commander in the empress’s armies. Ezekiel Crane—a seemingly innocent historian of magical arts who hid more than he revealed. The necromancer—a high-ranking member of the Red Guard mercenaries who had certainly not been acting alone.
She had to wonder who or what else would present themselves as an obstacle in her way. But she knew one thing—even if she wasn’t quite sure who else was playing this maniacal game, she did know how it was played. Strength-for-strength, in a deadly winner-take-all fete. And Sara knew she wouldn’t be acting true to herself if she wasn’t prepared to put everything on the line—including her life—to learn the truth about her father’s treason and who was behind the cover-up.
It is an odd position to be in, Sara thought. I’ve never ventured out for and by myself before. It was always for a cause. When I confronted people on the street and challenged them, it was in my father’s name and for the honor of the Fairchild family. When I entered the academy and trained at the arena, it was in the empress’s name and in an effort to join the elite officers’ rank in the imperial army.
Sara was brought back to the present when she heard a faint commotion at the end of the gangplank. She turned her head to see what the fuss was about. She saw a man dressed in the tunic-style of the archers arguing with the guards surrounding him, only to be dragged off by two soldiers and a third at his back.
“Now,” Sara Fairchild whispered to herself, “I’m infiltrating an army under the leadership of a man I no longer believe in and beside a friend who may be more my enemy than ally.”
The man seated at the end of the long line shouted, “Next!”
Sara shuffled forward obediently and thought, Making your own path sucks.
She didn’t know whether she should be disgusted or impressed at the complete fallacy the public of Sandrin was living under.
“They think we’ll be winning this war any day now,” Sara muttered to herself as she lowered her arm and took a good look at the Algardis encampment she would be calling home. At least for the next day or so. Sooner, if she could find Hillan and get recalled back home with her father’s journals in hand.
She watched the backs of the final four weary and filthy mercenaries in front of her proceed down the gangplank and out into the wider area. No complaints. No arguments. Just walk up, talk a few minutes, get a piece of paper, receive some supplies, and head off again. Uncomplicated was just what she needed right now.
As she strode down the gangplank with only her weapons and the clothes on her back, she took in the size of the camp before her. The empress’s encampment was extraordinarily large. For the sheer amount of territory taken up, it dwarfed the massive Kade fortress three times over.
She knew she would be exploring the camp soon, if not within the next few hours. But for now, it was time to leave the ship.
The tired-looking official didn’t even glance up at her as he asked, “Name?”
It was the tedious first question he had asked each person before her.
“Sara Fairchild.”
“Occupation and regiment?”
“Mercenary. Corcoran Guard.”
“Division?”
“First,” she said.
That elicited the first non-
banal response she’d seen from him yet. He looked up at her sharply with something akin to disbelief in his eyes.
“A chit like you?”
Sara raised her eyebrows, not bothering to get angry. Yet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The man spit to the side without taking his eyes off her. “It means a young girl without any battle experience, who wouldn’t know her hands from her ass on the first charge. What are you doing on the front line?”
Sara glared down at him and crossed her arms. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business...Ensign.”
She was guessing his rank, but she’d gone as lowest as she could safely go without outright insulting him.
The man flashed his darkened and pitted teeth in a grin. “Lieutenant.”
Sara smiled with no amusement. “Lieutenant, then.”
He shuffled some papers while looking up at her as if he had all the time in the world to harass her. “Well, Mercenary Fairchild, I can’t seem to find any record of you being assigned to first division,” he said with a malicious leer.
Sara stared in disbelief. She didn’t know what had crawled up this man’s bum, but he was actually enjoying this. She was hungry. She was tired. She was filthy. She was scared—not of him, but of the questions that kept piling up in front of her like an endless riddle with no clue how to solve it.
So having a lieutenant mess around with her on her first day at post was not her idea of fun.
Not one bit.
She leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, baring her teeth in nothing that could be mistaken for a smile. Coldly, she said, “Listen here, you self-important worm of a man, who I am and where I am assigned is no business of yours. I work for the Corcoran Guard....” She paused and glanced at the badges on his shoulder blade signifying his assignment, if not his rank, and continued, “...not the empress’s imperial army. Nor the crappy Buccaneers’ Union, if you catch my drift.”
“That’s all well and good,” said the administrative official with a growl in his voice. “But I outrank you, so don’t get snooty with me. You’re probably lying your face off, and when I speak to your superior officers, you’ll be demoted to latrine duty before this day is through.”
“You must be joking,” Sara said dismissively.
The man stood and leaned forward in her face. “I don’t joke with the likes of you.”
“The likes of me?”
“Grunts,” he said with a sniff as he sat back down. “Now tell me your true position.”
“What are you not understanding?” Sara demanded, “I may be young but I’m not stupid. I’ve told you the truth. It’s your job to act in good faith and follow up.”
“No,” disagreed the man, “It’s my job to man this desk, at this time, for this reason.”
Sara glared at him.
He barked at her, “True assignment. Now.”
People began muttering behind her. She didn’t plan on them. She’d already been standing in front of this desk for twice as long as anyone else.
Sara’s mouth dropped. She couldn’t fathom why he was being so obtuse about this. Instead of ramming the same answer down his throat, she tried to confront the situation from another angle.
“Why is this so important you?”
His skinny framed swelled with pride as he puffed out his chest. He didn’t fill out much of his uniform. “My duty is clear. Too many skinflint mercenaries trying to get an extra coin or two from the imperial coffers. You’ll not be paid a shilling more, if I have anything to say about.”
Sara sucked in a breath in realization at what this was about. “You honestly think I lied about my division—committed a criminal offense—for money?”
“People have lied for less,” he said while pawing through the papers with a devious glint in his eyes. “Let’s see what your records show.”
“Wait—” Sara tried to intervene, already knowing what it would say.
“Ah ha!” crowed the ensign triumphantly, pointing his finger at whatever was on the page. “I knew you were lying.”
“I’m not lying!” Sara argued. “Those are records from my registration in the Corcoran Guard upon leaving Sandrin. That assignment changed mid-journey.”
“No one’s assignment changes mid-journey,” the man said derisively.
“Mine did,” insisted Sara.
She heard more grumbling, and the person behind her reached up to tap her shoulder. As she turned around, he asked, “What’s going on? Hurry it up, we all got meals to get to!”
Sara snarled in his face. “Get your hands off me and mind your own business.”
The man behind her upraised both hands and backed away. “Relax. Didn’t mean nothing by it.”
“Not to worry,” said the obnoxious lieutenant behind the desk, “Mercenary Fairchild was just leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sara said as she whirled back around.
“You are, since you can’t prove...“
“I don’t have to prove anything to you, you obnoxious toad.”
“You’re demoted to latrine and pit duties as of now,” he said with a malicious smile.
“You can’t do that,” she spluttered.
“Little-known rule. I can demote lower-ranked mercenaries and soldiers as I see fit. And I just did,” he replied.
Sara reached over the table and grab him by the throat.
“Don’t you touch me,” he squabbled.
She pulled back a curled fist, fully prepared to give him a well-deserved broken nose, when she was stopped by a newcomer’s command.
“Mercenary Fairchild,” said a strong-timbered voice. “Halt where you stand.”
Sara’s eyes opened wide. She released the administrative official from her grip and turned around stiffly to see the woman with her own eyes.
Standing just a few feet away from her—with her grey hair cropped short, a shield on her back, and her dark brown eyes as wise as they had been ten years ago—was her father’s captain of the guard, Alena Moonsetter.
Also known as Alena Bonebreaker, Scourge of the Western Isles.
Chapter 17
Sara blinked for a moment, not quite believing her eyes. It had been years since she had seen any of the people who had served in her father’s households or under his capacity as commander in any position of the empress’s armed forces. That enforced separation had happened for good reason. It wasn’t that there had been some great betrayal of her family or massive exodus of staff after the initial verdict, no that had come after she and her mother were summarily dismissed from their own home. Until they had been forced to leave their two mistresses unprotected, the men and women who had served the Fairchild family faithfully had not left. But an imperial edict had been issued in the months after his death which not only evicted them from their home, but also forbidding her and her mother from contacting household staff, servants, and guardians on pain of a fifty lashes per an offense after her father’s death.
At the time, Sara had wondered why the courts had bothered to keep kicking her family while they were down.
Her mouth cracked into an ironic smile as she thought, Not that I knew what being down before then meant. I thought it meant moving into a smaller mansion with less servants and having to go on the training field with whispers emitting behind my back. I soon learned it was living in the streets, not knowing when my next meal would be, and having friends turn to enemies for ‘honor’.
She shook her head silently to regain her thoughts and stared in dismay at the woman who had confronted her and her tormentor.
Although, he has a pretty good case that I was tormenting him, Sara Fairchild thought to herself. She knew how this would look in court. She had her hand around his neck. She was looming menacingly over him. It was her voice that raised. Never mind the insipid smirk that graced his face, the knowing glimmer in his eyes, and the body language as he leaned over his desk, with every line of his shoulders screaming insolence. None of that would b
e proof in the courts. They would take any excuse to shackle and execute a battle mage who went from merely stoically angry to enraged, because enraged was just a few steps away from berserk. Sara knew it, and they knew it.
Alena Moonsetter knows it as well, Sara thought as she stared at the woman who had been such a big part of her life growing up.
Alena had been the first name on the list of former servants forbidden to speak to a Fairchild upon her father’s verdict of treason. Even when Sara had tried to keep tabs on her through back channels and tips here and there, she’d quickly lost track of her in Sandrin. When the woman didn’t want to be found, she couldn’t be found. It was the same on the battlefield; it was said that she could disappear like smoke as she ghosted through the ranks of the living and the dead, striking down any who she decided met her challenge. Sara wasn’t sure how much of that was fact and how much was fiction, but Sara knew that even Alena couldn’t hide forever, and so she kept her ears open to any news about her whereabouts. Even after she had lost personal contact with her and had no definitive guess about what she’d been up to these last few years, she had heard rumors. The last bit of gossip she’d managed to collect had said that the woman was back to pillaging islands off the coast of the Algardis Empire—all in the name of the empress, of course.
Carefully studying her weathered appearance and hardened face, with the three cheek scars that indicated a sea commander with over a hundred kills, Sara thought, I guess the rumors were true. Alena Moonsetter, scourge of the battlefields and all those who stood before her, has become a buccaneer.