Redemption (Book 6)

by Ben Cassidy

Markus lowered his bushy eyebrows. “Enough, I suppose. At least for those still healthy enough to ride. Most of the dragoons who managed to retreat back to Stockade had their nags with them.”

  “Good.” Kendril looked up as a chilling howl rose somewhere beyond the battlements. “We have to go. Everyone who can ride. We’ll take what we can, then cut our way out of here.”

  “We have wounded, sir,” said Markus slowly. “Including Colonel Yearling. If we leave them behind—”

  “If they can ride, then we’ll bring them.” Kendril glanced over at the eastern gate. “Otherwise we’ll have to leave them.”

  Markus took a step back. “That’s a death sentence for them, sir. We can’t just abandon them to their fate.”

  Kendril took a breath. “How many men do you have here, Captain?”

  Markus paused for a moment. “About two hundred-fifty, give or take. Not even a quarter of the regiment.”

  “Have you peeked over that wall lately, Captain?” Kendril pointed at the dark palisade structure. “Because there are thousands of Jombards about a hundred yards away from us.”

  “With respect, sir,” said Markus as he rolled his shoulders back. “You don’t need to lecture me on—”

  “Actually,” said Kendril, “I think I do. Stockade is nothing. It will fall sooner or later, and when it does, everyone inside here will be killed anyway. Meanwhile Redemption is virtually defenseless. Your two hundred-fifty dragoons could mean the difference between holding the walls there and watching every person in the town get butchered before daybreak.”

  “But General,” said Markus, “we can’t just abandon Stockade. We would never—”

  “You can and you will,” Kendril said abruptly. “We don’t have a choice. If we stay holed up in here then the Jombards have already won. Think, Captain. It doesn’t matter if we save the fort but lose the town.”

  “Yearling told me that you had been replaced, sir.” Markus eyed Kendril carefully. “That the mayor of Redemption had removed you from your position.”

  “The mayor is dead.” Kendril looked back at the simmering eastern sky. “And we will be too if we don’t move. Every moment we stay here gives the Jombards more time to consolidate.”

  “Forty-seven men,” Markus said quietly. “That’s how many men I have in hospital right now, sir. Forty-seven. If we abandon this fort then they’re all dead. At least the ones not well enough to ride.”

  Kendril looked at Markus for a long moment. “I know, Captain.”

  Markus took off his hat and ran a gloved hand through his tousled hair. “Eru, I wish I was back on the bloody Wall.”

  Kendril pulled off his lobster helm and cradled it under one arm. The steady downpour began to wash away the mud and blood off his face. “Technically I’m the ranking officer here, Markus, even though I’m militia. I could make it an order if you like.”

  Markus recovered himself. He replaced his hat against the rain. “I...think I’d like that order in writing, General.”

  Kendril nodded. “Understood.” He rubbed a hand across his face, smearing away some of the slime. “You have ten minutes, Captain. Gather your men. Take whatever arms and equipment you can carry. Destroy whatever you can’t.”

  Captain Markus saluted. “Yes, sir.” He lowered his arm. “I hope you know what you’re bloody well doing, General.”

  “So do I,” Kendril said softly.

  “Tomas.” Olan turned from the dirt-stained window. “About time. Where the devil have you been?”

  “Busy.” Tomas stepped into the dusty room of the abandoned tanning house. “Things are coming apart out there, you know.”

  Renaald gave a snort from where he stood near the wall.

  Over by a side door, Callen lounged against an empty crate. He sipped water from a canteen.

  “Did you take care of Kendril?” Olan asked.

  “No.” Tomas pulled down his soaked hood.

  Olan straightened. “Explain yourself.”

  “If you’ll hear me out, Commander,” Tomas said carefully, “I believe we have bigger problems here in Redemption than Kendril.”

  Lightning flashed, lighting up the windows of the building.

  Olan’s face was set into a bestial snarl. “Talk fast, Tomas.”

  Thunder rolled overhead in the night sky.

  Tomas stood by the door, rain dripping off his black cloak and onto the grimy floorboards of the room. “I found someone that I think you should hear from.” He turned and gestured towards the doorway.

  Two figures, one cloaked and hooded in green, the other wearing a greatcoat and broad-brimmed hat, entered the room.

  Renaald straightened and put a hand on his rapier.

  “What is the meaning of this, Tomas?” Olan asked in a dangerously quiet voice. “Have you turned against the Order, too?”

  “Hardly,” said Tomas. He looked back over at Joseph and Kara.

  Joseph stepped forward, keeping his hand well away from the hilt of his rapier. “Greetings, Olan, Callen.” He looked sharply at Renaald, then over at where Yvonne stood by the window. “I don’t think I’ve had the privilege of meeting all your associates.”

  Yvonne gave a slow nod. “I am Yvonne. That is Renaald. You already seem to know the rest of us.” She arched an eyebrow. “Might we have your name?”

  “This is Joseph,” Tomas said hurriedly. “He helped us fight the Seteru in Vorten.”

  Yvonne bowed. “Well met.”

  Joseph bowed in return. “And you.”

  Olan narrowed his gaze at the cloaked woman in the shadows behind Tomas. “And who is your other friend?”

  Kara stepped forward before Tomas could answer. She lowered her dripping hood, revealing her beautiful face and short red hair.

  The Ghostwalkers moved at once. Olan and Renaald both drew their swords. Callen jumped up and backed against the wall. Yvonne turned and took in a sharp hiss of breath.

  “Well,” said Kara, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “it’s nice to see you all too.”

  “Are you mad, bringing her here? How is she even still alive?” Olan stepped forward, his blade still out.

  Joseph put a hand on the hilt of his rapier, ready to draw it.

  Tomas stepped quickly between Olan and Kara. “Peace,” he said with both hands raised. “I brought her here for a reason.”

  “You should have killed her.” Yvonne stared dispassionately at Kara. The twisting scar on the Ghostwalker’s face made her seem strangely monstrous in the half-light of the room.

  “Tomas,” Joseph said in a hoarse whisper. He kept his hand on his rapier.

  “It’s true,” Tomas said, his hands still raised. “Kara touched the Soulbinder in Vorten. She was possessed by the goddess Indigoru for a short time.”

  Kara crossed her arms. “Thanks, Tomas. That’s a really convincing start there.”

  “It’s too dangerous to allow her to live,” Olan said. His gaze was fixed solidly on Kara.

  “And it might be just as dangerous to kill her,” Tomas said. His eyes watched Olan and Renaald closely. “Please, Commander. Allow me a moment to explain.”

  “What is there to explain?” Olan looked over at Tomas for a brief moment. “If she was possessed once, she could be possessed again. If that happens—”

  “Yeah, if that happens then you’re all in a heap of trouble.” Kara pushed past a startled Tomas and Joseph, and stepped right up to Olan. “But it’s not going to happen, and we’ve got a much bigger problem than that.”

  “Kara,” Joseph whispered. He reached for her arm to pull her back.

  Kara shook him off, her gaze still on Olan. “I’ve had dreams, visions. They’ve all led me to this place, tonight.” She looked over at the other Ghostwalkers. “Something terrible will happen here if we don’t intervene. Kendril will die.”

  Olan gave a derisive snort. “Sounds good to me.”

  Joseph glanced over at Tomas. “How in Zanthora did this guy become a commander?”

  Olan’
s face twisted in anger.

  “I know you and Kendril have...issues,” said Kara. She lightly pushed the tip of Olan’s sword away. “But you have to believe me when I tell you that Kendril is the key to everything. If he dies, then the Seteru will win.”

  “So,” said Olan with a sneer, “now you want us to believe that Kendril is some kind of ‘chosen one’? You’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical.”

  “I have to admit, Kara,” said Joseph in his soft drawl, “I’m a little skeptical on that last one too.”

  “The Guardian appeared to him first,” Kara said. “He was the one who first tracked down the Soulbinder. He was the one who shut the gate to the Void in Vorten. He was the one who banished Indigoru. Twice.”

  “It’s funny that we should come back to Indigoru again,” Olan said ominously. “Because you still haven’t shown us that you can be trusted.”

  “I won’t deny it,” Kara said fearlessly. “I had Indigoru in my head. I saw what she saw, watched what she did and couldn’t stop her. That’s why you can believe me. I’m the only person in this room who has had contact with the Seteru. I’m the only one who has known what they know.” She cast her gaze over the Ghostwalkers who faced her. “And I know this. The Seteru are afraid of Kendril.”

  The room was silence except for the sluicing rain against the windows.

  “You’ve heard it from her own mouth,” Renaald said. He stepped forward. “She’s had the demon in her head. She’s not—”

  “Shut up, Renaald,” Olan snarled.

  Surprised, Renaald faltered mid-step.

  Olan glanced back at Yvonne.

  The female Ghostwalker had her arms crossed. She looked at Kara intently. “Our orders on this matter are clear, Olan.”

  “I know. We should kill her now.” Olan looked back at Kara. He took a step back, then slowly sheathed his sword. “The problem is, I believe her.”

  Yvonne made a tight line with her mouth. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “No,” said Olan. He looked over at Renaald. “Put your sword away, Renaald. That’s an order.”

  Still glaring hard at Kara, Renaald put up his rapier.

  “Kendril betrayed out Order,” Olan said stiffly, looking back at Kara. “He’s gone rogue. I can’t—”

  “I know what I know,” Kara interrupted. “And I don’t really care about your little Order and its rules. This bad blood between you and Kendril isn’t my problem. But if you really want him dead, then just sit by and do nothing. I’ve seen it in my visions. He dies here in Redemption if we don’t help him.”

  Olan glowered at Kara, but didn’t say anything.

  “It gets worse,” Kara said softly.

  Yvonne kept her arms crossed. “How?”

  “My dreams are hard to interpret, hard to understand,” said Kara with a frown. She bit her lip, knowing that every eye in the room was on her. “But from what I’ve seen...I think it’s clear that—” She hesitated.

  “Tell them, Kara,” said Tomas quietly.

  Yvonne raised an eyebrow expectantly.

  “One of the Seteru is coming to Redemption,” Kara said.

  After the tumult of the last few days, the blockhouse was eerily quiet.

  Kendril stepped down the dark hallway and into what had once been his office. The maps and charts that had been spread out for Yearling and his officers were still there. Most of the flags and markers had not been updated.

  Rain pattered gently against the window of the room. The storm was beginning to abate. The thunder, when it came, was rumbling further and further off. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle. The wind was coming now in short, strong gusts with gentle lulls between.

  War, unfortunately, didn’t take its cues from the weather. Kendril had not doubt that the worst part of the evening was still ahead of him.

  His eyes burned, both from lack of sleep and all the mud and blood that splashed his face during the ride and combat before the gate. The side of his head ached where the javelin had struck his helmet. He probably had a nasty bruise forming there, but there hadn’t been a chance to check it.

  To add injury to injury, Kendril’s month-old thigh wound was acting up again, throbbing with searing stabs of heat. It was all he could do not to limp or groan in pain around the other men. He must have wrenched his leg sometime during the ride or the fighting.

  Kendril lowered himself to his knees, allowing himself a grunt as he did. He opened the heavy chest in front of him that still held the last bit of the personal belongings he had brought to Stockade.

  There was no time to take the whole thing. Kendril had perhaps five minutes before the cavalry and dragoons would be ready to ride.

  He reached into the chest, rummaging around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled out a pair of oddly-shaped pistols. They were souvenirs, mostly. Trophies. In all the weeks of fighting he hadn’t used them yet, preferring the reliability of his dueling flintlocks.

  But now seemed like as good a time as any.

  “You’re going to let them get killed, aren’t you?”

  Kendril snapped his head to the left at the words. He reached for the handle of one of his pistols.

  Atherton leaned against the entrance of the room. “All those men. You’re going to leave them to die. Just like me.”

  Kendril blinked hard, his heart fluttering.

  Atherton was gone.

  He had never been there to begin with. The man had been dead for years. Dead.

  Kendril swallowed, clearing his mind and steadying his nerves. He must be more tired than he thought. He was seeing things more and more.

  And what about the Soulbinder? Had he imagined that too?

  The front door of the blockhouse opened and slammed shut again. “General?”

  “Here, Captain.” Kendril stood, shaking off the last of his jitters. He checked the pistols quickly in the half-light. Fortunately, even though he had not had the opportunity to use them, he had still loaded both of the weapons.

  First rule for a soldier. Trust in Eru and keep your guns loaded.

  Beckett appeared in the doorway, his coonskin cap pushed back on his head. “The men are ready, sir.” He looked down at the odd pistols in Kendril’s hands. “What the devil are those, sir?”

  Kendril tucked both weapons into his belt. “Insurance. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  Beckett grunted. “It’ll definitely be harder getting out of here than it was getting in, sir.”

  Kendril nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. “Beckett—”

  The captain raised himself to his full height. “Sir.”

  Kendril hesitated.

  He wanted to tell Beckett about the Soulbinder he had seen, but it suddenly occurred to him that Beckett probably had no idea what a Soulbinder actually was, much less the significance of one hanging off the neck of a Jombard chieftain. For that matter, Kendril couldn’t help but wonder if the Great Fang himself knew exactly what he had.

  And what good would it do to spread potential panic through the ranks of men at this point? They were already outnumbered, faced with a monstrously difficult task of breaking out of Stockade, and were most likely going to be facing werewolves.

  Beckett continued to look at him expectantly. “Sir?”

  Kendril forced himself to smile. “Just be careful, Captain. I need you alive and in one piece when we get back to Redemption.”

  Beckett grinned. “Understood, sir. Though I was thinking of skinning one of those werewolves and making a new hat out of it.” He touched the fur cap on his head. “I am fond of the coon skin, though.”

  “Nothing says you can’t wear both,” Kendril said. He stepped past Beckett into the hallway. “Alternate days.”

  “Sounds good, sir.” Beckett stepped in line behind his commander. He voice became suddenly more serious. “You think we actually have a chance, sir? To make it out of here in one piece?”

  Kendril headed for the door that led out onto the parade ground
. “We’d better. Because if we don’t, everyone in Redemption is as good as dead.”

  Chapter 18

  A bare minimum number of dragoons manned the walls, firing their carbines over the sides at the massed Jombards beneath. Arrows and javelins occasionally came hissing over the top of the palisade wall. The relentless chanting and wailing of the barbarian army filled the air. Severe pounding rattled the gates that faced east out of Stockade. Intermingled with the human voices of the Jombards were the chilling howls of werewolves.

  Kendril took it all in a heartbeat. He stood on the steps leading up to the blockhouse, his eyes sweeping the yard of the fort.

  Beckett’s troop was mounted and ready to ride. They were bloody, bruised, and many were wounded, but there was a grin determination on their faces.

  Behind them, and filling the parade ground, were the dragoons. Most were still getting their nags ready, or checking equipment and carbines. Two wagons had been brought out by the mess hall, and were being loaded with supplies. Captain Markus moved among the men personally, issuing orders and dropping words of encouragement.

  Even so, the dragoons wore fatigued and defeated expressions. In the last six hours they had been beaten at the Wall they were supposed to defend with their lives, watched many of their friends and colleagues get killed in the process, and had been pushed back to Stockade. And now they were in a headlong retreat for Redemption.

  And regardless of how optimistically one viewed it, a retreat was exactly what it was.

  They were leaving many of their wounded behind, too. The knowledge of it darkened the faces of the dragoons and their officers alike. Many of the more lightly wounded had managed to get on a horse, but the badly wounded were being left to fend for themselves in Stockade’s hospital.

  Kendril had no illusions that they would hold out for very long.

  Wilkes brought Kendril’s horse up to him, then saluted. “Here you are, General.”

  “The dragoons are lagging,” Beckett said quietly. “If we give them ten more minutes—”

  “We don’t have ten more minutes.” Kendril hoisted himself into the saddle of his mount, suppressing a groan as he did so. He glanced up. “The men on the walls?”