— From Dennon Lark’s Military History of the Kingsland
The constant bumping of the wagon’s wheels on the rough country road shook me awake. My back was pressed against the sharp corner of a wooden chest, and several bulging canvas bags surrounded me, giving me little room to move.
The first thing that came to my mind was panic. My hands leapt to check for the terrible burns that I was sure must cover most of my body—but there was no pain, no melted flesh glistening red on my arms or legs. I remembered the agony of burning vividly, but little after it; I could only imagine that I must have fainted. My head ached, and memories of whispered voices and fire flickered through my consciousness. I felt like I was going mad.
It was some time after midday judging by the sun shining full down upon me; I had to squint my eyes against the brightness. A low buzz of voices filled my ears, and for a moment I feared the whispers had returned, but as my eyes adjusted to the light I saw that the wagon was surrounded by hundreds of soldiers, marching in columns or mounted upon horses. They wore the tabards of the King’s Army, with a numeral one sewn in gold beneath the King’s burning tree—the First Company. Scattered among them were the villagers of Waymark, the women and children sitting in wagons or riding double with the soldiers while the men marched alongside.
From the look of the countryside I could tell that we were well away from Waymark, on the road heading east to Barleyfield. I was not sure exactly what had happened the night before, but by the fact that I was still alive, I guessed that the First Company had arrived to defeat the rebels.
I became conscious of several voices closer and louder than the rest, audible even over the rumbling of wagons and clip-clop of hooves. Bryndine’s voice I identified almost immediately, and then Sylla’s, speaking to a third woman whose voice I didn’t know. I tried to stay silent and still, though the autumn chill in the air made it difficult not to shiver. They did not seem to notice that I had awoken, because their conversation continued unabated.
“It was strange, yes. I did not see him wounded.” That was Bryndine’s voice, in answer to something I had not heard.
“Strange? Bryn, he was shrieking like his head had caught fire,” Sylla replied. It was not hard to deduce that I was their subject. I didn’t like it, but it was understandable—why should they have faith in my sanity when I was beginning to doubt it myself?
“Might he have an illness?” a soft voice asked uncertainly. “My uncle used to have the shaking sickness. It would come on him when he got upset.”
“That may be, Genna,” Bryndine said. “I only hope he was not harmed in some way I did not see. My cousin may have need of him.”
“Your cousin is an ass,” Sylla muttered. “Why bring him a Scriber? At least in his condition he won’t be able to report you to the King.” I could not imagine what they were talking about, or what Bryndine might be reported for. But I knew that her cousin, Uran Ord, was the current High Commander of the First Company, promoted after the death of Millum Wren two years before. It sounded as though he had been wounded.
“Sylla…” The soft voiced woman—Genna—sounded concerned. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“I will not wish misfortune on my cousin to save myself, Sylla,” Bryndine said sternly. “We are soldiers in the King’s Army. We have sworn to uphold Erryn’s Promise. Such suggestions do not become us.”
“Sorry, Bryn. I didn’t mean…” Sylla’s gruff contrition trailed off midway. She did not seem a woman accustomed to making apologies. “I wouldn’t trust that Scriber to treat a bee sting, though.”
“He treated my wound well enough.”
“It’s twice as swollen as it was!” Sylla protested.
“He warned me not to use it. I’m afraid I am not the most obedient patient.”
“You just distrust anyone who is rude to the Captain, Sylla,” Genna teased gently. “He did help us get the people out of Waymark.”
“They would have come with us either way,” Sylla grumbled.
“But perhaps not willingly, Sylla,” said Bryndine. “As happy as you might have been to truss them up and carry the lot of them off in the wagon, I am glad we had Scriber Dennon’s help.”
I was not comfortable with Bryndine’s praise. My memory of the previous night was not clear, but I recalled a hazy image of her shield repelling Hareld’s axe—she had saved my life. I reminded myself that she had put it in danger to begin with by failing to warn the village when she first had the chance. I could not forgive her for that. A Scriber never forgets.
“Besides, Sylla, bringing the Scriber might help our case,” said Genna. “The Army Scribers are mostly Warfare trained, even Tenille. They can perform field treatment at best. If the Captain produces the Scriber who saves the High Commander, it won’t be ignored.”
“If he even is any better than the rest.” Sylla seemed disinclined to give me the benefit of the doubt. “He’s just the local Scriber for a little nothing village. All we know about him is that he can stitch a wound and wrap a bandage. That’s hardly more than field medicine.”
“I have reason to believe he has had the appropriate training, Sylla. I will bring him to Uran as soon as we make camp.” Bryndine’s tone was decisive, and Sylla let the matter drop with a sullen grunt.
I wondered what Bryndine had meant about my training. It was true that I had excelled in many fields at the Academy despite my focus being History; I was an accomplished student in the Schools of Medicine, Arts, and Politics, and I had even done some study in the Sciences. But Bryndine had acted as though she didn’t recognize my name when we first met, and if that was so, she had little reason to think more highly of my skills than Sylla did.
I was struck with the unpleasant feeling that she knew more about me than she had let on; perhaps she had spoken to Tenille. I would not be able to keep my history a secret when we arrived in Three Rivers in any case, but still, it irked me that Bryndine Errynson might have yet another reason to look down on me.
The women were done talking about anything that interested me, and I had questions that needed answering. I sat up in the back of the wagon, trying to act as though I had only just awoken.
As I crawled over the wagon’s cargo towards them, the three women noticed me and ceased their chatter. Sylla and Bryndine turned towards me, and Genna—who I recognized as the stout blond-haired woman I had seen charging a group of rebels the night before—turned her eyes away, focusing on steering the horses with unnecessary intensity.
“Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine greeted me. “Are you well?” She was too polite to directly ask me about my fit, but I heard the question lurking in her voice. I ignored it.
“I’m fine, Lady Bryndine.” The mistake in rank was an accident, but the look on Sylla’s face told me it had not gone unnoticed. I corrected myself before she could. “Sorry—Captain Bryndine. How did I get here? When I—” I paused, trying to think of a delicate way to avoid admitting I had fainted. “That is, the last I recall, the village was overrun by rebels.”
Bryndine quickly filled in the gap between when I had lost consciousness and the moment I had awoken in the wagon. It went much as I had suspected. Her company had held back the rebels as well as they could, given their numbers, but were unable to clear the road in order to evacuate the villagers. Fortunately, the First Company had arrived before they were overrun, and their appearance had sent the Burners running. None had been apprehended—the rebels had vanished as suddenly as they had arrived.
“Do they actually call themselves that? The Burners?” I asked, remembering what the whispers had said: We are the Burnt.
“I don’t know, Scriber. They might. It links them to King Erryn, and we believe that Erryn’s Promise, or the King’s supposed failure to uphold it, may be their motivation. But it could just be a name that spread because someone thought it clever. We know little about the rebels—none have been captured alive.” Bryndine looked at me quizzically. “Why do you ask?”
“I t
hought… I thought I heard one of them use another name. The Burnt. Was I the only one?” I glanced between them hopefully. If someone else had heard the voices, then perhaps I was not losing my mind.
“You heard them?” Sylla peered at me suspiciously. “Scriber, nobody heard them. They never opened their mouths.”
“I heard nothing, Scriber Dennon. Genna?” Bryndine turned to the third woman, who glanced shyly over her shoulder, avoiding my eyes.
“Nothing, Scriber. I’m sorry.” Genna jerked her gaze back to the horses, as though embarrassed to disappoint me.
“If you are correct, Scriber, it may be the first thing we really know about these rebels. A small enough thing, but…” Bryndine shrugged. “I will ask the others if they heard anything.”
“It was nothing, I… I am sure I must have imagined it.” The thought of her spreading word of my madness among her company was appalling to me. “I was not… in my right mind.” Sylla snorted in amusement at that, but said nothing.
“It is strange, though,” Bryndine mused. “They stay so silent, strike so suddenly and disappear so cleanly. It suggests discipline, but they fight clumsily, like none of them have ever held a sword. We should not have been able to hold off so many, not for as long as we did, and with so few casualties.”
“How many were hurt?” I felt a twinge of guilt for failing to ask earlier.
“Six men from Waymark were killed, and one woman was apparently badly burned. The High Commander took a blow to the head, and five of his men died. Between the villagers and soldiers, we carry thirteen wounded in the wagons.” She bowed her head. “One of my girls was badly hurt. She… will likely not survive the journey.”
“I’m sorry,” I said—but silently, I damned Bryndine to the Dragon. If she had only warned me when she first came to Waymark, none of it would have happened! I had hoped never to feel the weight of another life on my shoulders, but if this girl died, she died defending me. “Is there anything I can do for her?”
“Only the Father can help her now,” Bryndine said. It was a mildly sacrilegious claim—the Father watched over warriors injured in battle, but the Children were fairly adamant that those warriors must be men. “She was stabbed through the stomach.”
She was right: a gut wound was a slow, painful death sentence without expert medical treatment. The surgery was beyond me, even if it could be done on the road, lacking proper equipment. But it felt wrong to so easily accept the girl’s fate. “With the proper facilities… the Academy…” I stammered lamely.
“We aren’t at the Academy, Scriber.” Sylla’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You think we’d just let one of ours die if there was something we could do?”
“He didn’t mean it like that, Sylla.” Genna came to my defense, laying a calming hand on her friend’s shoulder—but still she avoided my gaze. This timid, gentle-voiced woman was completely different than the one I had seen charge three armed men without hesitation the night before.
“There may be someone else you can treat, Scriber,” said Bryndine. I already knew what she was about to ask of me, but I could not let on that I had been eavesdropping. “The High Commander took a heavy blow to the head. He has been in and out of delirium since.”
When they did not know I was listening, the women had mentioned that Uran Ord had some complaint against them, and that they hoped to use me to get back in his good graces. I wondered what was more important to Bryndine: her cousin’s life, or his favor?
“A blow to the head?” I repeated, considering my options. If his complaint was a matter of fluids creating pressure in the skull, then a trephination might suffice, though I didn’t relish the notion of boring a hole in the High Commander’s skull. But if it was more than that, my skills would likely be insufficient. “There may be something I can do, but I was pinned in History, not Medicine. No doubt I can do more for him than an Army Scriber, but…” I shrugged my shoulders. I could not refuse to treat the King’s nephew, but I did not want that responsibility. If Uran Ord died under my care, it would go very badly for me, especially considering the other marks on my record.
“Whatever you can do will be appreciated, Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine said.
With little left to say, we lapsed into awkward silence. After a time, I crawled back to the rear of the wagon. I had no desire to speak to Bryndine further now that my questions had been answered, and I had noticed my chest sitting near where I had woken. I opened it and saw that someone had finished my packing; clothes, books, and writing supplies were all stowed neatly in the box.
I rummaged through and found my journal, a quill, and some ink. I had not yet recorded the previous night’s events, and I could practically hear Illias’ voice in my head, scolding me for putting it off. I had been unconscious, of course, but the Scriber’s instinct was ingrained too deeply in me to accept excuses. Though the shaking of the wagon made my hand rough and uneven, I began to write what I remembered of the attack.
* * *
The sun was low in the sky when the wagon came to a stop, and I was forced to put away my journal as dusk descended. By the time the long train of soldiers and villagers behind had gathered at the chosen site, it was full dark, and the First Company was busy erecting camp by lantern-light. Bryndine took the time to issue orders to her company before bringing me to see her cousin, and while she did that I stood stupidly in place, watching the soldiers set up camp with no inkling of what I might do to help.
The people of Waymark milled about among the men of the First Company, though scattered amid four hundred soldiers, fifty villagers were hard to pick out. Those I did see had nothing but smiles for me, and a few even greeted me with enthusiastic handshakes. I saw Penni making moon-eyes at the young soldiers, and was surprised when she rushed over to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek before running away giggling. I had thought the villagers would be resentful, considering I had called them all fools less than a day before; such warm treatment was wholly unexpected.
It was not until I spoke to Logan Underbridge that I understood. He shouted my name as he jogged towards me, his round cheeks still flushed red from the long march.
“Scriber Dennon! Glad to see you up, looked like you got hurt pretty bad.” He clubbed me on the shoulder enthusiastically with a meaty hand. “I was a fool last night and I don’t mind sayin’ it—if you hadn’t got us movin’, and seen them Burners, we’d all be dead and burned, and that’s a fact. Them Dragon-damned women would have seen us all killed!”
That was the answer, of course. The townsfolk were making a hero out of me so they didn’t have to admit Bryndine had saved them. I did not mind them hating her; though they did not know it, she had chosen to leave the village in danger for a full day without warning. But the women she commanded deserved credit for what they had done. I wanted no part in this mass denial.
“I did nothing praiseworthy, Logan. I was unconscious for most of it. Those women saved you, not me.”
“They didn’t!” he insisted. “It wasn’t them got us out, it was the First. The Bloody Bride and hers only made it that long on account of you seen the Burners comin’. They hardly knew what they were doin’ with those weapons.”
It was a laughable claim—I had seen Bryndine and her company fight. A girl was dying from her wounds as we spoke; wounds taken saving our lives. She might have been dead already. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch Logan in his jowly red-cheeked face. But before I could, Bryndine intervened, begging Logan’s pardon and escorting me away to see her cousin. It was for the best—I would only have hurt my hand, and looked a fool. I am not skilled at violence.
Uran Ord’s tent had already been erected by that time, a massive canvas structure that dominated the camp around it. Tent is almost too small a word to describe it—it was closer to a personal pavilion, probably large enough to fit the entire population of Waymark, if not comfortably. From a spire on the top, the banner of the Ord family—twin towers, gold on dark grey—flew proudly above the smal
ler brown flag of the King’s Army. I was not surprised by the ostentatious structure, impractical as it was. Uran Ord was the eldest son of Baron Uldon Ord of Highpass, and his family’s taste for opulence was no secret.
A cleanly shaven brown-haired man of perhaps forty years stopped us as we approached the entryway to Ord’s tent. He wore a Lieutenant’s red cord on his shoulder.
“Lady Bryndine, the High Commander is being attended by our medics. No one is to enter.” His expression was sour, and he pointedly avoided referring to Bryndine by rank.
“This man is a Scriber, Lieutenant Ralsten, and better trained than any in my cousin’s ranks. Are you willing to take responsibility for the High Commander’s death when this man might have saved him?”
I shifted uneasily—this was the second time Bryndine had mentioned my training. She had to know who I was; of course she did. Even if Tenille hadn’t told her of me, she had lived in Three Rivers most of her life, within walking distance of the Old Garden where the accident had happened. It had been foolish to hope that she did not know me. I resolved to confront her when I had finished with the High Commander, though the idea of broaching the subject myself went against every instinct I had.
Lieutenant Ralsten scowled at Bryndine, but pulled the entry flap open. “He may enter. You will return to your company and await the High Commander’s judgement.”
Whatever she had done to anger her cousin, it must have been serious. She saluted and left, making no attempt to defend herself. Curious, I watched her go, until Ralsten cleared his throat to regain my attention and ushered me into the large tent.
The light inside was dim, emanating from a few oil lanterns set around the Commander’s cot, and the smell of sweat and vomit wafted through the air. Two Army Scribers hovered over the cot where Uran Ord lay, speaking in low, worried tones. They turned as I drew closer, and I gripped my collar, tilting my pin at them so it caught the light.
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