Walk Through Fire (Prequel)

by Joshua P. Simon

  It was the look on Ronav’s face. It’s like what he did surprised even himself.

  Jonrell noticed Yanasi nervously looking behind her. “What’s wrong?”

  “That man. Cord. He’s watching us,” she whispered, grabbing Jonrell’s hand.

  Jonrell glanced behind him and met Cord’s eyes. The soldier scowled, but had the sense to walk away.

  “Looks like he’s not going to let your little meeting go,” said Cassus.

  Jonrell shrugged. He nodded to his right where Ahned bore holes into Ronav’s back as he talked with Krytien. “He won’t be the only one. Ahned lost a lot of money today.”

  Cassus grinned. “Well, he is the idiot who bet against Ronav.”

  Chapter 3

  A slur of curses welcomed Krytien as he entered Ronav’s tent. The commander sat bare-chested on his cot, while Hag tended to the last of his wounds.

  “Shut your mouth, you big baby. Probably wouldn’t hurt as much if you would’ve let me take care of all these at once,” said Hag, pulling on a stitch.

  Krytien noticed little compassion in how she jammed the needle in Ronav’s arm over and over.

  “One Above, woman, just get on with it,” said Ronav with a grimace. “Your stitching is bad enough. I don’t need to hear your mouth as well.”

  Hag gave a final tug, wrenching Ronav’s arm back as she did so. Ronav grunted and gripped his leg hard. “You’ll listen to what I have to say whether you like it or not. Either that or maybe I should let Raker stitch you up next time. That’ll give you an idea of what life would be like without me.”

  Ronav shook his head. “Aren’t you done, yet?”

  “Aye, I’m finished,” she said, putting her things away. “Make sure you keep those bandages clean.” She gathered up her things and cast Krytien a glare. The two exchanged nods.

  “Thanks,” said Ronav as Hag reached the tent flap.

  The old woman left with a grunt.

  Ronav shook his head. “Blasted woman is about as kind as a tiger.”

  Krytien chuckled.

  Ronav clutched his side as he stood. He gingerly slipped on a thin shirt and leather jerkin. He sat in a nearby chair with a sigh.

  Krytien watched thoughtfully as he moved. The commander’s hair may have started to gray in recent years, but Ronav’s swagger had always remained.

  Until now. To Krytien, the fight with Glacar had broken a piece of what made Ronav the man he was.

  Ronav took a drink. “How are the men?”

  “Good. Waiting on orders. What did Effren say?”

  “We leave tomorrow. The entire army will accompany him back to Asantia where he’ll be proclaimed rightful ruler of his newly conquered land.” Ronav waved his hand about in a mocking manner.

  “So, our contract is over?”

  Ronav nodded. “Aye.”

  “So when do we get paid?”

  “Straight to the heart of it.” He laughed. “Effren doesn’t have the funds to pay us now. So we’ll march with him to Asantia.”

  Krytien raised an eyebrow. “Is that wise? What if he tries to renege on our deal?”

  “We really don’t have a choice. He doesn’t have the money with him.” Ronav paused. “We’ve had to worry about others in the past trying to double cross us, but Effren doesn’t strike me as the sort. Besides, he’s tired of the fighting. He wants to sit back and strengthen his lands and alliances rather than shed more blood.”

  “A smart man.”

  “I told him as much. We could use a break ourselves and we need to pass through Asantia to get to port anyway. I thought it made sense for us to return to Slum Isle for a while. The men could use some time for fun.” Ronav paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “I told Effren I might even get some land for myself somewhere and retire.”

  “Retire? You’re not serious.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not. Effren thought it was funny though. He said it wasn’t in me to retire.”

  One Above, I’ve never heard him talk like this before. He’d probably kill himself in a year’s time from boredom. “This isn’t about Glacar, is it?”

  “He did best me.”

  “And?”

  Ronav shrugged. “And, I don’t know. Just thinking is all. Maybe it’s a sign that my time is up.”

  Silence stretched.

  “Who would lead us then?”

  Ronav cocked an eyebrow at the mage.

  Krytien held up his hands. “You know I’m not. . . .”

  Ronav chuckled and Krytien saw a bit of his friend’s old self. “Don’t worry, I was only joking. Actually, I was thinking about Jonrell.”

  “Really?”

  “Why not? I thought you got along well. You even said he was one of the best men we have.”

  “He is, and we do get along well. He’s probably one of the few people I know who can think past tomorrow.” Krytien started pacing. “I’ve got nothing against him personally, but he’s twenty.”

  “So? He’s proven to be my best captain these past two years. He’s sharp and can think on his feet. The men all love him. I thought it was going to be a mistake bringing him on once you figured out who he was, but he’s proved me wrong.” Ronav snorted. “I mean whoever heard of someone with his background becoming a mercenary?”

  “You know he looks up to you. Practically worships the ground you walk on.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Krytien. He stopped pacing. “I guess he does have some potential. It’s just…I don’t know. It kind of feels like he’s missing something.”

  “What?”

  “That edge. Seems like he has too much of a soft spot to lead this outfit. For instance, he took in that little girl, Yanasi. Sure, he’s everyone’s friend now, but can he be rotten when it’s called for?”

  “There’s more than one way to lead, Krytien. No one says he’s got to be like me. I think he’s got what it takes if push came to shove. Look deep into those cold eyes of his when he’s serious. A man with a stare like that won’t have to act a certain way, or say a whole lot for everyone to know what he’s about.” He paused. “You do make a good point about the girl though. I’ll have to talk to him about her and make sure she’s looked after before we leave Thurum.”

  “You seem pretty sure of him then.”

  Ronav shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I do. I think I’ll spend more time with him and then see how he responds to what I have to say.” He winked. “You know, just in case I decide retirement suits me after all.” Ronav placed his hands on his knees and stood up. He walked over and gave Krytien a playful shove, nearly sending the mage to the ground. “Don’t get all worked up now. Just cause I’m thinking about these things doesn’t mean I plan on going anywhere just yet.”

  You better not, Ronav. We need you more than you realize. “Changing the subject…so you think we shouldn’t have anything to worry about on the way to Asantia?”

  As Ronav strapped his sword to his side, he seemed more like his old self, standing tall and confident, though Krytien still saw the tired look in his eyes. “Not necessarily. It’s probably nothing, but I worry about Effren’s son. Hezen seemed pretty upset that Effren didn’t want to keep pushing on to conquer more land. The fool thinks that they have the power to unite all of Thurum under one banner.”

  Krytien laughed. “Does he think he is Aurnon the First come again?”

  “You know how it is at that age. Just barely a man and he thinks he’s invincible. All we’ve done is butt heads since I took the contract. Arrogant little fart,” Ronav muttered.

  “Did you express that to Effren?”

  Ronav shook his head and smirked. “No. It’s never a good idea to insult a man’s son without cause. It’s just something I wanted you to be aware of, especially since Jonrell told me that he saw Hezen and Ahned talking at length the other day.”

  “What purpose would he have talking to the general?”

  “None—which was Jonrell’s point.
Ahned is far from a tactical genius, but the men respect his prowess in battle. With our contract up, Ahned will lead Effren’s army.”

  “So what would you have me do?”

  “For now, nothing. I don’t want unfounded suspicions to lead to further discord. Until I say otherwise, this stays between you and me.”

  And Jonrell, it seems. He is a sharp one.

  Chapter 4

  With darkness approaching, the army came to a halt. Just off the worn road, Jonrell tethered the mounts to a tree. Cassus had run off with Yanasi, leaving Jonrell to rub down the horses. As he put a feed bag on each animal, he whistled an old drinking tune. Never having had much of a taste for alcohol, he grinned at the irony. If someone had told him that he would become a mercenary, fighting and killing for money alongside a bunch of criminals, whistling drinking tunes to pass the time, he would have laughed in their face.

  His mind wandered to the books he studied on the military in his youth. He chuckled about how many historians had no concept of what it meant to be in an army, let alone a mercenary outfit.

  A mercenary group does not share the ideals historians like to romanticize about soldiering. Yet, few know warfare better. Mercenaries understand those ideals are useless when a man is trying to spill your guts or slice open your throat. Being rich is a far more reasonable goal than having honor.

  In the past, Jonrell would have scoffed at such a barbaric notion. But living amongst the Hell Patrol had done more than change his opinion on the matter.

  It’s changed my life.

  “What are you in a daze about?” said Raker as he walked over.

  “Just thinking that some of the great minds of the past I once studied weren’t really all that great after all.”

  Raker spat. “I could have told you that.” He shook his head. “Man, I hated you and Cassus those first few months when you both joined up. All either of you did was quote garbage from a book.”

  Jonrell laughed. “Yeah, we had little practical experience then. But still, you hate just about everybody when they first join.”

  Through a mouthful of chew, Raker garbled, “That’s not true.” He nodded off to a tree where a man sharpened a knife. “Take Kroke over there. We picked him up not too long ago and I don’t hate him.”

  “Really? That’s surprising since most everyone else does.”

  Raker shrugged and then spat. “I didn’t say I particularly like the man either. I just don’t hate him. It’s not like I plan to share a bed with him. Every good outfit needs at least one cold-blooded killer like that. Besides, the way I figure it, if he does kill me and I was wrong about him, well, I won’t be alive to hear everyone gloat about it. And if I’m right that he’s ok, well, I guess I’m the one who gets to do the gloating.” Raker let out a laugh.

  “I can’t argue with that logic,” said Jonrell, shaking his head.

  The mercenary flashed a yellow grin and juice dribbled down the sides of his mouth as he spat. “Of course you can’t. It makes too much sense.”

  Jonrell chuckled along with Raker before heading off toward the tree Kroke sat under.

  He can’t be all bad. I just wish I could get the man to talk to me.

  * * *

  Kroke had second thoughts about his decision to join the Hell Patrol. A couple of months back, they ripped through battles, and bodies piled up by the thousands. It had seemed like the perfect place for him. A place where he wouldn’t have to worry about the repercussions for killing a man. But since then, Effren’s enemies wised up and sought truces rather than battle.

  Now the campaign was over and the Hell Patrol would sail to Slum Isle for some rest. He didn’t like rest. He had his fair share long ago when he was locked up after killing his father.

  His hometown had argued about how to conduct Kroke’s trial and pass judgment while avoiding notice by the governor of the territory. Kroke had known the trial would be a farce. If not for the fear of the governor, the town would have hanged him the same day they discovered his father’s mutilated body.

  When the questioning began, Kroke learned his assumptions had been right. He tried to explain, but no one wanted to hear the truth about how his father used to beat on him, his mom, and his brother. Nor did they care to hear how his father raped his sister. No one wanted to believe the old farmer who had a kind word for everyone was really no better than the One Below himself.

  But they sure listened to all the lies about me.

  The town blamed Kroke for every foul thing ever to strike the small community. He shook his head, remembering that helpless feeling of disbelief. They were wrong. It all started with the old man.

  When the townspeople all had their say, Kroke knew that his mother or his siblings would come to his defense and set things straight. But they didn’t.

  They never even visited me in jail. Easier to make me the villain than admit the horrors we all suffered.

  He remembered that look of revulsion in their eyes—the way they had stared at him like he was nothing but an animal. Something died in him that day. He had tried to do the right thing, sacrificing himself so that his family could have a better life, but they turned their backs on him. From that moment, Kroke had decided that he would no longer do right by others.

  Only myself.

  By evening, the sentence had come. He was to die the next day at dawn for his crime. They threw him back in his cell, expecting him to spend the night crying or begging for his life. He did neither. Staying up the entire night, he crafted a crude weapon from a loose nail he discovered in the floorboard. It took him all night and come morning his hands bled from the effort.

  When the guardsmen came around, Kroke saw he wasn’t expecting much from a boy of twelve.

  Kroke killed him quickly. It was much easier than it had been with his father. There was no faint pulling at his heart or doubt in his mind. That had all gone away when the world turned its back on him. He killed three others before escaping the town.

  Kroke had never been good at much in life, but killing… killing was different. He figured he could find a way to make a living out of that, at least until someone stuck a blade in him.

  He found work as an assassin, trained by a guild he discovered. His size worked in his favor as they needed someone smaller. Kroke had used the time to hone his skills.

  Eventually the guild got rich and so did he. Most retired and the guild dissolved. He could have done the same, but money never interested him. He later whored most of it away while trying to find the next thrill. But nothing could replace the kill.

  Sharpening his knives and improving his dexterity helped calm his restlessness, but even that could only distract him for so long. He put one of his knives down and picked up another. Perhaps it is time to move on.

  Footsteps across the soft grass drew his eyes up, squinting into the glow of the setting sun. A man walked toward him, tall, square jawed, and with long reddish-brown hair. Kroke had talked to him on a few occasions. He liked Jonrell less after each conversation.

  Always smiling. Too regal. Carries himself like he’s some noble.

  But something prevented Kroke from fully hating the man. Something about his eyes. A cold gray. Eyes like that are hard to read. You never know what he might do.

  The thought gave him pause. So, what does he want now?

  “You mind if I join you?” asked Jonrell.

  Kroke picked up a long serrated knife and twirled the bone hilted handle in his hand. “That depends.”

  Jonrell sat across from him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it worth your time.” He unstrapped a dagger from his waist and laid the weapon on the grass. “I want your opinion on this.”

  Kroke eyed him. “Why me?”

  “You’re the expert.”

  Kroke put his weapon down and picked up the one Jonrell had presented. He drew the dagger and examined it closely. The jagged blade curved in a wicked manner—sharpened to a paper thin edge that sliced his thumb at the slightest touch. The intricate h
ilt and guards took the shape of an eagle’s body and wings. The blade was unlike any he had ever seen before.

  Imagine the damage I could do with this.

  After several moments, he forced himself to resheath the dagger and set it back down. “It’s a fine blade. You must be better with a knife than I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the balance, only someone who really knows what they’re doing could use it properly.”

  Jonrell laughed. “Figures. It belonged to my brother long ago. He was pretty handy with the thing, but I’ve always favored a sword.”

  “Most people do.”

  “What would you say it’s worth?”

  “A lot,” admitted Kroke.

  “Enough that you’d be willing to trade one of yours for it?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Kroke thought a second. Something didn’t seem right. “Why? I don’t have anything comparable to its worth. And you said it was your brother’s. To most people that means something.”

  Jonrell shrugged. “It’s mine to do with as I please, and truthfully, I’d rather have a knife that maximizes damage with the least amount of effort.” He pointed to the serrated dagger Kroke had twirled earlier. “Something like that.”

  He held back a curse. “That’s actually my best blade. It’ll cut through anything. I’ve killed more men with it than any other.”

  “So, I guess that’s a no on the trade?”

  Kroke eyed Jonrell’s dagger before looking at his own. Who cares about sentimentality? He sure doesn’t. That weapon’s wasting its potential with him. “No. If you’re serious, I’d say it’s a deal.”

  Jonrell held out his brother’s old dagger. Kroke didn’t hesitate as they swapped weapons. He immediately drew the blade again to feel its weight in his hand. He looked away from it only as Jonrell stood and strapped Kroke’s old dagger to his side.

  Jonrell drew the blade and grinned before resheathing it. “I like it. Maybe you’ll have to show me a couple of simple tricks I can use if I’m ever in a bind.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Alright. I’m going get some chow. You want to come along?”