Argus grinned. “No one can escape that, my dear. Believe me. I've tried.”
“I'm not your dear,” she said, jostling her sword belt. “I'm no one's dear. That's the problem.”
After Harun asked her (much more tactfully than Argus or Siggi could have done), about her homeland, Cassie told them she hailed from Azmar. Her father was the rags-to-riches story everyone who stepped foot in that grand city dreamed of. Decades of shrewd business deals in the export industry had taken him from a grimy fishmonger to having a palace of his own.
He'd taken his wife and children with him. While the others were happy to enjoy the good breaks fortune had given them, Cassie demanded something more. To make something of herself. To explore the world and carve her own path.
“I refused to marry,” she said. “My father was too kind to force the issue. So I stayed in his palace and tried to while the days away with reading and music and culture.” She threw her head back. “Bah!”
She went on to tell them how her life there had started to feel like a prison sentence. “I know I'm being selfish for saying so. But it was its own kind of cell for souls like mine. One night I couldn't bear it anymore. I ran away.”
Argus nodded. Cassie's story was the story of hundreds of others in the Night Wolves. Their ranks swelled with those who didn't quite fit the mold society pressed on them. They were knights-errant, spurned lovers, and the superfluous offspring of nobles. The unwanted.
They weren't the same stock of folk Argus roamed with. His friends could never join the Night Wolves. Not that company, whose soldiers were motivated by honor and justice instead of greed and adventure. Besides, they prohibited looting and pillaging and making bets: the mercenary essentials.
“You ever been in a battle, Cassie?” he asked.
She flushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Everyone is green once,” said Brenn, who up to this point had regarded their conversation with little interest.
Cassie watched him with wide eyes. “Are you… Brenndall? The warrior from Navalac?”
He shook his head. “Better not to ask questions, love.”
She looked at him for a long time without saying a word. Unlike with Argus, this time she didn't scold him for the endearment.
“You'll be fine,” Willow said. “When battle comes, you'll be ready.”
The Azmar runaway bit her lip, then nodded. “We'll see soon enough.”
They rode on until evening, when Commander Danielle called a halt. The mercenaries quickly dismounted and made camp as the sunlight waned. In a matter of minutes, a latrine had been dug and canvas tents sprouted from the grasslands in orderly rows. Danielle had chosen a ridge top to give them a better view.
Argus and the newly-reformed Legion of the Wind set up their tents at the edge of the sweeping Night Wolves encampment. They spent sunset over a crackling fire, adding their own billow of smoke to the countless others.
“This will do,” Argus said, sprawling on a bedroll with his boots off. It was a lot better than the ships, dungeon cell, and fleatrap inns he'd recently inhabited. Garvahn was a tourist destination for the wealthy with good reason: its unbeatable climate. Comfortable, sunny days. Balmy nights. A place where one season blended seamlessly into the next.
The only place that could compare was the Cradle. Yet it hardly seemed real at all, and if it weren't for the Five Branches, he'd still doubt the experience. The Five Branches…
He sat up and searched for the books. His body was weary, but his mind was desperate for answers. Reading by the fire while the others talked, Argus didn't even think of eating until the commander visited their campsite and invited them to supper.
They supped with the Wolves, enjoying a savory carp stew seasoned with local cloves and ginger. Mulled wine washed it down, warming Argus's belly as the night cooled.
Soon enough the wine was gone. Locked away and guarded after everyone enjoyed a glass or two. The Night Wolves were nothing if not temperate.
The soldiers sang songs and threw dice, though without the prospect of gambling, the excitement quickly faded. Others sharpened swords while the veterans told stories by the fire.
Argus made his excuses and returned to their camp within a camp. As he sat down to continue his studies, a sentry passed by the canvas tent on patrol. A tall Pellmerean, he saw Argus and grunted.
“Well, hello to you too,” Argus said, offering a mock salute.
The sentry stiffened and shot him a haughty look. “You don't belong here.”
Argus laughed. “Is that so? You don't look like you belong in Garvahn either with your blonde hair and blue eyes.”
The sentry spat into the dry grass. “No. You don't belong here. With us. Your lot isn't worthy. Cravens, all of you. Instead of making an honorable living all you do is rape and pillage.”
Reaver flashed out of her scabbard, angry in the firelight. “Come closer and say that again.”
The sentry didn't. Instead, he just looked at Argus from the other side of the tent. He watched him closely, with the calculation of an ancient man trying to remember a familiar face. Finally he said, “I know you.”
“I doubt that. If we'd spent much time together, I would have killed you already.”
The Pellmerean sneered. “You're the chap who caused all the commotion in Azmar. The one who was supposed to hang for killing the King of Leith.”
“You must be mistaken.”
He nodded. “Don't try to fool me. It's you, all right. There's a big bounty on your head. Last I saw it was ten thousand dragons. But Syrio is so desperate it might be twenty by now.”
Argus couldn't suppress his grin. Ten thousand? It was a record if he'd ever heard one. He'd have to pass on the news to his mercenary brothers. Their competition to see who could draw the highest bounty was over; the others had no chance.
“That's a lot of money,” the sentry said.
“That's right. Good thing your wolf pack doesn't hunt bounty. You fight for justice.”
“Yes,” said the sentry, smiling. “What if it's just to turn you in, though? Hmm.” He left Argus with that, and continued his patrol.
Argus swore. He could smash the Pellmerean's skull without batting an eye. Yet the Five Branches were proving to be quite the distraction; in this case, they were instrumental in saving a man's life.
He continued on with the Hearing Branch. The passengers were so familiar at this point he could recite them by heart. The challenge was figuring out what to do with them. He'd tried reading them aloud, touching the words, picturing them in his mind.
Now he sat by the fire and tried to feel them. He watched the flames dance, licking greedily from one log to the next. In and out he breathed. Just he and the fire. The fire…the…
Then he heard it.
Snap.
It reverberated deeply in his ears. Then came rustling sounds as the rabbit scurried through the undergrowth. He tried to follow the sound, but the moment he tried at all it faded away just as quickly as it had come.
“Damn!”
The sound had only pierced his consciousness for a split second. Yet he had no doubt that a rabbit was out there, fifty, maybe a hundred yards away. He'd done it… or at least gotten closer than he'd ever come.
Argus tried to settle his mind again, but couldn't focus. The fire crackled and collapsed. He couldn’t stop thinking about that Pellmerean wandering the perimeter just like his company's namesake.
Perhaps feeling the words was the way forward. He hadn't been able to control what he was listening for or where it came from. But this was a start.
He tried the hearing spell one last time, this time thinking of Commander Danielle. Useless. Argus kept on. Time fell away. Next thing he knew, the others from his fledgling mercenary company were back and the night had grown cool.
“Still at that silly book?” asked Harun. He crouched on the other side of the fire, which had dwindled to a tiny flame. His posture was tense. He might have called the Five Branches silly
, but he feared them.
Argus grunted, turning the passage over again in his mind.
A warm hand fell on him. “Pace yourself,” Willow said. “It won't work unless you give the words time to sink in. This isn't something you can master by force.”
He closed the book and sighed. “What news from the Wolves?”
Siggi shrugged. “Not a whole lot. I s'pose we aren't exactly the most… trustworthy-looking folks—”
“Bugger that—”
“—right. Anyhow, word is there's a second force massing at Calladon's southern border.”
Argus's eyes widened. “You think Eamon will try to cross the bridge?”
“Who knows? But if they overrun the island of Mael, it's only one more bridge to Rivanna.”
“A war on two fronts.”
“Maybe,” said Siggi. “All I could get from this lovely soldier—her name's Iris—was where the forces were building up.”
Brenn laughed. “I'd pay good coin to see that. Have a go with the Maelish? The emperor's men might be loyal, but loyalty loses to savagery on the battlefield every time. And the Maelish? Them boys are hardly even human.”
“I read the bridges haven't been breached in a thousand years,” Nasira said.
“A millennium is but a blink of an eye for those bridges,” Willow said. “They were built by my ancestors. Brenn's too. To provide passage over land between the continents. Once the Kingdom of Eld fell, the bridges remained. Powerful magic was used in their construction—magic even I cannot comprehend. No one has figured out how to destroy them since.”
They talked some more about ancient battles for the bridges, about what new battle might break out. Argus's thoughts strayed back to the Branches. I was this close. I felt it traveling through me. Like the spark when Willow sealed our bond with a kiss…
Finally the Legion of the Wind laid out their bedrolls and reclined around the fire. They didn't bother crawling into their tents; the night was fresh, and they chose to sleep under the stars.
Argus closed his eyes and listened to the snapping wood. He heard low voices. A lute. The occasional whinny of a horse. All around them, the encampment prepared for sleep.
It came for him quickly. His eyes fluttered and he was plunged into deep, dreamless slumber. When he awoke a few hours later, their fire had burned down to the embers and the camp was silent.
Argus sat up and saw the others sleeping heavily. He felt a strong pressure in his bladder and swore under his breath. Forcing himself to his feet, he stepped over his companions and wandered to the edge of the encampment.
He was halfway down a hill when the men jumped him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Argus went from half asleep and pulling down his trousers, to tumbling down a hill.
The stars spun. His body battered roots and rocks. He tried to reach for something to hold on to, but there was nothing except the man on top of him.
Argus grunted, grasping a chunk of greasy hair and holding it with all his might. His other hand found a thick leather necklace. He used it like a horse rein as they rolled.
Finally they careened to a stop at the bottom of the hill.
Argus grabbed the necklace and twisted it. His spotted a set of brown eyes. They belonged to the stocky man who'd tackled him, and they widened by the second.
The man bucked and thrashed. He was heavy and strong, but too slow. Argus used the man's hair to smash his face into the dirt, then sprang away. Somehow he found his footing.
He went for his sword.
Reaver flashed in the moonlight… but only for a second.
It fell to the ground, victim of another ambush. Two men, who must have lain in wait at the bottom of the hill, barreled into him while the first ambusher recovered.
Argus reached for Reaver, but it was no use.
The men crashed into him from both sides, jolting his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. His legs buckled and he slid to the earth almost delicately, like a leaf come fall.
The ambushers wrenched his legs together and sat on them, pinning him to the ground. Argus flailed his fists wildly. Soon those were pinned too. The men smothered him, sweat all over him. They grinned horrible grins, and their breath smelled of wine gone sour.
Argus watched helplessly as the stocky one—the man who'd sent him flying down the hill—went over and grabbed Reaver. He held it clumsily. Without respect. He pointed it at Argus and laughed.
“What do you want?” Argus asked, looking at the ghoulish faces. “I'm good. But three on one isn't exactly a fair fight.”
His captors didn't laugh.
“We aren't looking for a fight,” said the man pinning his legs. He had black hair with streaks of gray, and long skeletal limbs that seemed to stretch forever.
“We're just looking for some dragons, friend,” said the man on his arms. Argus glared at him and recognized him as the same sentry from earlier. He was off-duty now—and a great deal drunker. His eyes were ravenous.
Argus groaned. “I should have known. No man takes such an interest in me unless he wants me dead.”
“We don't want you dead,” said the Pellmerean. “We just want to get paid. What's ten thousand dragons split three ways, lads?”
The stocky one chuckled. “A lifetime of service in this miserable company.” He held Reaver over his captive, as if letting her decide where to cut. “I should kill you, though. Bastard hurt my neck.”
“That will be the least of your worries when this is over.”
The man laughed. “Lord Syrio will be glad to retrieve you, my friend. The gallows will be even larger than before. Can you imagine? All of Azmar will turn out.”
Argus's eyes flickered between them, probing for weaknesses. They were drunk enough to get a boost of courage, but too sober to make mistakes. Except one…
“You can't hunt bounty,” he said. “That's outlawed in the Night Wolves.”
“Is it now?” asked the man pinning his legs. “Well we quit.”
“I'll scream,” Argus said.
“Do it,” the sentry replied. “We'll just say we caught you trying to make off with some horses. Who's Commander Danielle going to believe: us or a lowlife cretin like you?”
Damn, Argus thought. They aren't drunk enough. Screaming would put his fate in the hands of a stranger. The Wolves commander could sentence him to die, and her orders would be carried out without question.
“So what, then?” he asked. “You're going to take me all the way north to Azmar?”
“Something like that,” said the stocky man, pulling him up.
The black and gray-haired man grabbed the captive's arms and wrenched them behind his back.
Argus headbutted him.
Bone clacked on bone.
Pain exploded in the crown of his skull.
Tears flowed down his face, black motes swam in his eyes, and his feet threatened to fall out from under him.
The man screamed and crumpled to the ground.
The others reached for him. Argus twisted out of their grasp for just a moment. But a moment was all he needed to reach down and draw the dagger from inside his boot.
The stocky man grabbed his shoulder, Reaver cast aside. “Help me grab him, Gunnar!”
They have to take me alive. They can't kill me, but I can kill them…
That's exactly what Argus did. He thrust upward with the dagger and buried it in the stocky man's chest. The grip on his shoulder tightened, then slipped free as the man started to wobble up the hill.
Argus stayed on him. He ripped the dagger out and stabbed a few more times until he went still.
“Stop it!” the sentry cried. He stood a half dozen paces away, holding Reaver again.
“You don't want to do that.”
“You killed Gunnar, you bastard.”
“Put the sword down,” Argus said. “This needn't end like this.”
The sentry's eyes bulged. He took rapid, shallow breaths. “I… you…” The man who Argus had headb
utted groaned in the grass, regaining consciousness.
Argus inched forward.
The sentry clutched Reaver with both hands. It quivered violently as he held it there and waited. He glanced down at his wounded friend, who crawled to his knees.
“Give me the sword,” said Argus, “and you'll have no more trouble from me.”
The black and gray-haired man turned to the sound of his voice. He saw Argus lurking with a bloody dagger. Screamed. The sentry dropped Reaver and covered his friend's mouth, but it was too late. A pair of torches burned at the top of the hill, approaching fast.
“What do we do?” asked the black and gray-haired man.
The sentry didn't reply. He stared at Argus and started to back away, changed directions and stopped. In the end all he could do was stand there and quiver as the torches joined them at the bottom of the hill.
“What's going on down here?” one of the torchbearers asked.
“Gods!” said the other, pointing to the body in the grass. Both men advanced shoulder to shoulder with their swords drawn.
“Th-th-thief,” the sentry stammered. “Tried to steal our horses.”
“He killed Gunnar,” said the other. “After we confronted him.”
The swordsmen yelled at Argus to drop the dagger. He let it fall and held his hands high. They asked him if the sentry's story was true.
“No,” Argus said. “I killed that man, but the rest is all lies.”
Armed with the false confidence of two witnesses, the torchbearers took Argus to the commander's tent.
Argus found himself preparing to die as they approached the modest canvas tent. He felt less confident with every guard they passed. Then he heard the commander's voice from deep inside the tent, and there was no more time for such thoughts.
She received them in an anteroom, which was stuffed with books and candles and rolled maps. Plenty of soldiers too. Heavily armed, and none too happy to see him.
Danielle walked into the room, and all eyes fell on her.
“What's the meaning of this?” She padded into the anteroom wearing a simple white nightgown that hugged tightly to her body, which was shapely and well proportioned. Her long blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. It made quite the contrast with her two raven-haired attendants, who stood beside her wearing similar nightgowns.
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