Reaver's Wail

by Corey Pemberton

  “My apologies, lady commander,” one of the guard said. “We heard some shouting during our patrol. We found this outsider with Cal and Julian, and Gunnar's body among them.”

  Danielle's jaw clenched. After a moment of strain she managed to release it and said, “Go back to bed, Lydia and Etienne. I'll resolve this matter shortly.”

  The raven-haired women, who looked similar enough to be sisters, nodded. A pair of perfectly-executed curtsies sent the attendants through the threshold and out of sight.

  “Now,” said the commander, her voice growing more assertive as she awoke, “tell me exactly what happened.”

  She made them approach one at a time to recount their version of the events. First came the men who'd found them. Then the black and gray-haired man and his friend, who stuck to their lies and even embellished them. Supposedly Argus hadn't just stabbed Gunnar to death; he'd decided to kick him down the hill afterward for sport.

  She heard their accounts without interruption. Argus watched her sniff when the men came close, and with the way her lips curled, she must have sensed they were drunk.

  “Come forward, outsider,” she said. “My men are eager for justice, but first I'll have your account.”

  Argus told her the truth without alteration. He carried an outrageous bounty on his head. He was probably the most-wanted man in all the kingdoms. He'd killed the stocky man, but only because they'd left him no choice.

  The soldiers surrounding him booed and hissed, but Danielle's face remained unchanged.

  “Why would I try to steal your horses? You've already been generous enough to let us use yours until we get to Sorbas, lady commander.”

  She rapped her fingers on the table in front of her. “Is that all?”

  “That's all.”

  She whispered to a guard flanking her, and Argus wondered how they would do it. A hanging wouldn't be so bad. Hopefully not a sword or an ax. That can get messy…

  “Give me a moment,” Danielle said.

  Argus nodded and licked his dry lips. One moment stretched into ten, then a thousand. All he saw were silhouettes glaring at him, restless among the guttering candles. It grew hot in the tent. Too hot.

  Finally, when he could bear the waiting no longer, the tent flap flew open and in stormed a pair of soldiers.

  “Here, Commander Danielle,” a woman said. She shuffled over and thrust a piece of parchment onto the table. “We found this in Gunnar's pocket.”

  Danielle flattened it on the table and drew a candle close.

  Argus's breath caught in his throat. He stood too far away to make out all the details, but he recognized a sketch of his face. Right below “Ten Thousand Dragons” written in bold black script.

  * * *

  After holding the bounty poster next to Argus's face and confirming a match, Danielle condemned both men to die.

  “No,” said Julian the sentry. “Please, lady commander. That's a lot of dragons and—please have mercy!”

  Cal, the black and gray-haired man, simply fell to his knees and begged. His words were nonsensical.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “But you know the penalty for breaking the company's laws. We're practically the only mercenary unit who has them. What would we be without them? If lawbreakers went unpunished?”

  The men tried to bargain their way down to a lesser punishment. They put everything on the table—from incarceration and lashings, to restitution and even trials by combat.

  Commander Danielle wouldn't have any of it. “Justice must prevail. And Gunnar would still be alive if it weren't for you two.” She turned to the guards behind her. “See to it that their heads are shaved. We'll have the execution come dawn.”

  The men at her feet broke down, sputtering and spilling tears. They backed away—right into the arms of the Night Wolves who had sneaked up behind them.

  “Quiet,” one of them said as the others bound their wrists. “Don't shirk from your punishment, cowards.”

  Danielle nodded, and the guards started to drag the men toward the tent entrance.

  “Wait,” Argus said.

  “What is it?” she asked. Her soldiers wavered.

  “Don't sentence them to death. Please.”

  “Who are you to tell me how to mete out justice?” Her nostrils flared as she rose from the table, whipping her blond braids.

  Argus went to one knee and watched the floor. “No one, lady commander. I just ask that you—they didn't intend to harm anyone. Greed swayed them, yes, but they didn't want Gunnar to die.”

  Danielle laughed. “That's the path they put themselves on with their foolish notions. It isn't just for the bounty hunting either. It's for the drunkenness and attempted desertion.” She pointed a sharp finger at the prisoners. “You swore by all you held dear that you'd serve faithfully until your contracts expire.”

  “They are bottom feeders,” Argus said. “Scum. Cow dung. But please don't let them die, Danielle. I beg of you. Because once word gets out why they died—”

  “Everyone finds out about the colossal bounty on your head.” She snorted. “Don't take me for a fool. You don't care a lick about mercy for these men.”

  Argus shook his head. “Ten thousand dragons is a king's fortune. Once everyone in the Night Wolves knows my price, it will tempt even the most committed soldiers. Having your soldiers fight and scheme against one another—all to get me—is the last thing you need with war looming.”

  Danielle cocked her head, considering it.

  “By all means, punish them. But please don't turn their deaths—and the reason behind them—into a big spectacle.” Argus's words trailed off. He'd done everything he could to spare the men who reminded him so much of himself.

  “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “They won't die. So long as they forfeit the rest of their yearly wages to Gunnar's family and never lay hands on a bounty poster or drop of alcohol ever again.”

  The men gushed their thanks. They whirled back and forth between Argus and the commander as if to check if they were real.

  “One more thing,” said Danielle. “From time to time I'll need you for hard labor—and other undesirable tasks. Be ready always. And serve happily at my call.”

  The men nodded vigorously. “Of course, my lady. Thank you! You've been most merciful.”

  “Don't thank me. Thank the man you tried to steal away.”

  The men did. They took Argus's hands and did their best to squeeze the life from them. When Argus extracted himself, he thanked Danielle and made his excuses. His ambushers followed him out of the tent in a daze.

  Argus made his way through the heart of the encampment, back to the tiny corner where the Legion of the Wind waited. The fire was burning again when he returned. Harun sat beside it, poking at the embers.

  “Where were you?”

  Argus groaned and eased onto his bedroll. “Taking a piss. What's it to you?”

  The Tokati shrugged. “That's the longest piss I've ever seen.”

  Argus rolled onto his side, away from the light of the fire. Tomorrow would be another of those endless days he'd had far too often lately. He shut his eyes. Dawn approached quickly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  They had a light breakfast of porridge before Danielle resumed the ride. The Legion of the Wind fell in without a word between them. Somewhere near the middle of the column, Argus spotted the attackers from the night before. They looked younger in the sunlight, more boys than men. They gaped when they saw him, blushed, then averted their eyes.

  Argus wasn't sure why he'd risked his own life to save theirs. But what was done was done. Besides, they'd need every sword they could muster when battle came.

  Soon his thoughts returned to the Five Branches. He spent all morning and most of the afternoon puzzling over a passage from the Hearing Branch. Yet when their ride ended, he found himself no closer to figuring it out.

  “There!” Siggi called, fidgeting in his saddle atop a miserable-looking horse. “Sorbas!”

  Ar
gus looked down into the pleasant valley. There, nestled among a group of low hills, stood the capital city of Sorbas.

  The city was beautiful from up here, with its terraced gardens and ivy-covered walls, but it was what lay around the city that grabbed his full attention.

  Sometime since his last visit to Sorbas, a cluster of tents had attached to the walls and expanded outward. The sprawling tent city claimed everything in its path. It was growing, too. Growing before his eyes as the people down there scrambled to pitch even more tents on the periphery.

  “Looks like every mercenary company in the world is already here,” Harun said. He made a clucking sound with his tongue. He leaned close to Argus and whispered, “How are we supposed to assassinate the emperor with the city crawling with mercenaries? You know how they are. They'd bury a dagger in your back if it meant they'd be the ones who got to kill him. To be the hero in the minstrels' songs.”

  Argus tried to reassure the Tokati, but abandoned the effort when his words came out flat. The truth? he thought. I haven't the slightest clue…

  He supposed Willow would have a plan. It struck him then, just how much faith they'd put into this strange woman who was pulling them ever closer to a battlefield. But if it wasn't for her, the Five Branches would have been nothing more than a fantasy.

  As the column rode into the valley, the tents revealed themselves as not a single city, but many cities that ran together. He spotted banners for the Reaper Battalion, the Silent Company, and the Deathmaidens. Some of the world's most renowned mercenary units had assembled, ready to shed blood for the highest bidder.

  The arrival of the Night Wolves wasn't met with cheers, but glares and glum looks. Their column pressed on through the narrow path that the other companies had left between them, heading straight for the city gate.

  “Vultures, all of 'em,” said the man who rode just in front of them, a Calladonian named Ben. “The Wolves were one of the very first companies to answer Garvahn's call for mercenaries. Yet they look at us like we're the ones trying to cut a piece from their pie.”

  Argus did a quick estimate of the tents. Just paying all these mercenaries a week's wages would bring poorer cities to a halt. Rumor had it that the guild masters were made from gold. He hoped it was true—for their sake. Things would get bloody in a hurry if the dragons flew away, and the army that once protected Sorbas would besiege it.

  They twisted and turned their way toward the city. Merchants and farmers clogged the road with their carts. A gaggle of scantily-clad women hawked their bodies on the roadside, right next to a fortune teller flourishing a deck of cards vital to his craft.

  The path grew wilder with every inch they rode. Finally, after jostling their way past a few scruffy-looking Reapers, they found themselves on the drawbridge.

  “You'll want to go register your unit with the premiere of the treasury,” said Ben. He smiled. “If you want to get paid, that is.”

  Argus and the others thanked him, then broke away from the Wolves column.

  “I want those horses returned!” yelled Commander Danielle.

  Argus told her they'd find them in the tent city after they spoke to the premiere. She pursed her lips. “Very well. But don't test the limits of my generosity.” Her eyes narrowed, and said what her lips didn't: outlaw.

  They rode on, swimming through the traffic that clogged the bridge. The River Cauldron roared down below, azure and littered with flat white rocks.

  At last they reached the end of the drawbridge and passed through the city gate. The contingent of guards there glared at them, but made no attempt to bar their passage.

  “Where are we supposed to go?” asked Nasira.

  Harun said, “I know just the place.”

  He led them through the crush and into more peaceful streets. Along the way Argus spotted guild flags for the shipwrights, the fletchers and the merchants. He'd never seen so many of them flying together. Harun led them into an alley, where smithy and carpenter flags fluttered in the breeze.

  “Desperate times,” said Siggi. “Never have I seen Garvahn's guilds this cooperative.”

  “They're usually at odds over every little trifle,” Harun said. He threw up his hands. “But this is war. Things are different. Ah—here we are.” They tied up their horses and climbed a stone staircase that spilled out onto a terrace. The terrace stretched the length of an entire city block. Surrounded by houses and chimneys and shops, it offered a hidden oasis in all the chaos.

  As they headed for the building at the end of the terrace, they passed small groups of people sitting at marble tables. Some drank, others talked or pondered the gardens in silence, but all of them wore the sumptuous garb of the treasurers. They paid little attention to the newcomers.

  The soldiers, on the other hand, took notice. Argus spotted them among the hedgerows, peering inconspicuously through the bright purple flower. One by one they emerged. By the time the Legion of the Wind reached the end of the terrace, they were surrounded.

  Argus sighed. “Great.”

  Willow shoved him so hard he nearly stumbled into the line of guards in front of them.

  “Who are you?” one of them asked. “You aren't wearing any guild emblems.”

  “We're here to register our mercenary company,” Willow said. “To pledge our service.”

  The soldiers, all of whom bore a golden emblem of crossed swords on their breasts, looked part confused and part amused. “Go around back,” said the one who'd spoken earlier. “This entrance is for guild members only.” He leered at them as they followed the wall around to the other side. There were no flowers or other luxuries back here. Nothing but an arched doorway so low they had to duck beneath it.

  “Yes?” a muffled voice called. “What is it?”

  “We're here to register our mercenary company,” Willow said.

  The man groaned. They waited for further instructions. None came. Willow shrugged and stepped down the uneven stairs. The breeze closed the door behind them, plunging the room into darkness.

  Argus squinted and made out a slew of candles. They sat on desks and bookshelves, and around them gathered hunchbacked guild members. Their stooped heads looked identical from this distance, like a row of turtles poking out from their shells. They were busy at work.

  The only sound inside was the scraping of quill on parchment.

  “Next!” called the same man from before.

  They shuffled between two rows of guild members and around a teeming bookshelf. And then they found him. He was a fat man with a forked red beard and no neck to speak of. Using his belly as a makeshift desk, he scribbled furiously onto a piece of parchment and chewed a pipe, which he sometimes stopped to puff between murmurs and coughing fits.

  He didn't look at them.

  “Excuse me,” said Willow. “Are you the premiere of the treasury?”

  The man coughed a billow of smoke so violently he spilled a splotch of ink on his fine shirt. “Gods! Premiere of the treasury? Ha! These days it's nothing more than the premiere of cramped hands and strained eyes.” He sat up, his chair creaking, and looked at them.

  “We're here to register our mercenary company,” Argus said. “The Legion of the Wind. We'll work for cheap if you'll have us.”

  The man's eyes narrowed. “You look like regular street urchins… but you happened to say the magic word. Cheap is all I can do these days. Garvahn's coffers are about as dried up as the Rona Desert.” He glanced at the parchment and scribbled a few lines, then puffed his pipe. “What did you say your name was?”

  “The Legion of the Wind,” said Brenn.

  “The Legion of the Wind,” the man said, jotting it down. He looked up. “You're a hulking bastard. You know that?”

  “So I've heard.” Brenn stepped forward, hunched over to avoid the rafters. The premiere squirmed in his chair, one chin retreating into countless others. “Y-you'll need to sign this ledger.”

  Willow signed the leather-bound book he handed her, confirming their c
ompany's name and numbers.

  He smiled when she handed the ledger back to him. “There's just one more topic of concern…”

  “Payment,” said Argus.

  The man nodded. “Quite right. I've already told you the treasury is on the brink. We don't want another slave riot, now do we?” He looked at Brenn and laughed, but turned away quickly when the Nalavacian glared at him. “How would you feel about ten dragons per day?”

  “Ten dragons?” said Brenn. “I couldn't wipe my arse with ten dragons!”

  The red-haired man cringed. “My apologies, sir, if I've caused offense. Tovar has learned a lot of tricks in his day, but when they ask him to rub one dragon together and make it two—that is a skill that eludes him.”

  Willow put a hand on Brenn's back. “Ten dragons a day is fine, Tovar.”

  “Really?” Tovar leaned forward, blowing out a few candles with his sudden movement. “How wonderful. I'm sure the premiere of defense will be delighted to have a unit with a stature such as yours—”

  “Quit blowing smoke up our arses,” Brenn said.

  “O-of course.” He scribbled a few more details in the ledger to finalize the terms of payment, then cringed as if readying for a blow. “You'll have to wait a few months to collect, I'm afraid. But I'll write you some promissory notes guaranteeing payment…”

  Willow waved him off. “Fine.”

  Tovar wrote those up too and sealed them with the seal of Garvahn. He handed them out and said, “Now if that will be all, I have quite a bit of work to do.”

  “Just one more thing,” Willow said. She told him about the Calladonian fleet she'd seen. Just like with the Night Wolves, she left out the part that she'd seen them only in her mind, not with her eyes.

  “Hmm,” Tovar said, nodding, mumbling, scribbling all the while. “Interesting, indeed. I'll be sure to take it up with the defense guild when we meet tonight.”

  She snatched the quill from his hand. “Can't we just talk to them ourselves? Time is of the essence.”