“Good. You see?” Raelinov patted his shoulder. “Telling the truth isn't so hard, now, is it?
“Not when it’s in service to the Dark Lord.” The words emerged through gritted teeth.
“Too true, too true,” Raelinov giggled. “It appears you’ve earned a promotion, Captain! Enjoy your new posting! You and your men have no further assignments for the foreseeable future, so go forth and enjoy the Birthing Grounds’ comforts, such as they are.”
“Thank you, my better.”
The Conscripted bowed low, Little among them, and their new captain led them from the earth. They immediately headed for a barrack, and Little followed, unsure if he should.
On the one hand, now would be a great time to investigate the fenced-in home while these soldiers were distracted by their former leader’s death. On the other, if anyone noticed he was missing, it would most definitely cause a stir after what had happened. His presence in that room had given Overseer Raelinov the excuse he needed to murder their captain.
The barrack door swung shut behind the last of them, and Little waited to see if anyone would protest his absence. When the minutes crawled by without interruption, he decided these people must not care about him, a revelation which came as a relief. Dealing with twenty vengeful men was something he never wanted to do.
Just as he was about to depart, the door opened, and the new captain looked out.
“You,” he pointed at Little. “Inside. Now.”
A single, open room composed the barrack’s interior, and bedrolls, equipment, and carefully folded blankets lined the walls. The squad he’d ‘joined’ circled the empty floor’s center, and when Little strode inside, the burliest of them leaned against the door with arms crossed.
Just like that, he’d been surrounded. Not that the alternative would have been preferable. Leading the new captain on a merry chase through the Kiraak infested Birthing Grounds wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, and he couldn’t lose the man as quickly without a head start from slipping through the others as he might have in the caves.
Little nervously cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about your captain,” he began. “It wasn’t my intention-”
“We don’t blame you for Ibilfer’s death,” the new captain interrupted. “That was simply our bastard Overseer attempting to assert his dominance again. We’re here to decide if we’ll keep you or not.”
“Ah,” Little breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Well, my name is-”
“No names,” another man interrupted. “If we keep you, you’ll be known as Private, and that will be all.”
“But… he just called your captain by name.”
The burly man by the door grunted impatiently. “Captain, we should get this over with and kill him. His ignorance is irritating.”
“You were just as annoying as a private, Corporal,” the captain replied. “Or have you forgotten?”
The corporal sullenly mumbled.
“If you stay with us, kid, and if you survive long enough to see a new recruit conscripted, you’ll tell that soldier your name,” the captain informed Little. “When you die, we learn your name from him. It’s easier this way. No personal attachments.”
Little slowly nodded. The policy was surprisingly practical of them. Sure, joining a Conscripted squad such as this granted a high survival rate in this country, but it was still Auden, the land where if you lived to your third decade, you were lucky.
“How do I prove myself?”
Most of the Conscripted cocked their heads at his question.
“What?” Little rolled his eyes. “You said you hadn’t decided if I was worthy of your squad. So, how do I prove my worth? Do I need to smuggle weapons into enemy territory?”
In an eyeblink, a full-length dagger and three throwing knives were in his hands.
“Or prove I know how to use them?”
He flung a knife at the corporal. Ducking from the door, the burly man drew his sword, immediately lumbering toward Little. The spy tossed his remaining knives, one right after the other. The corporal blocked the first, but to do so, he moved his arm into the second’s path. The blade embedded to the hilt in his arm, causing the corporal to drop his sword.
“Or to take advantage of my environment?”
Little kicked dirt into the corporal’s eyes when he leaped for the fallen weapon. While the burly man retreated, fiercely rubbing his face, Little retrieved the unclaimed sword. Immediately, the room’s occupants went for their blades.
“Or to know when to retreat?”
He slammed through the cleared door, hurriedly spinning to jam it closed with his dagger. Thunks announced the squad’s unsuccessful attempts to chase him.
“Or how to successfully retreat?” he shouted through the door.
The pounding increased in ferocity until the captain’s roaring voice rose above it. Little waited in the blissful quiet.
“Private, I’ll only ask you to open this door once,” the captain eventually called.
“Does that mean I pass?”
“Yes! Let us out!”
Warily, Little jimmied his dagger from wood, his borrowed sword at the ready, but when the door opened, only cheering assaulted him.
“Good show!” the corporal exclaimed, still rubbing grit from his eyes as he approached. “I wasn’t expecting you to fight dirty. You’ve got good instincts, Private.” He patted Little’s back. “I’d like my sword back if you don’t mind.”
Little reluctantly handed over the weapon, intently watching for signs of attack, but the burly man merely sheathed it. He ruffled Little’s hair.
“You’ve taken my spot, Private. Thank you.” The corporal bowed. “My name is Montagor,” he whispered the word as if it were sacred.
“It’s a good name,” Little replied, and the corporal rose.
“Come inside! We’ll send someone for ale, and while we wait, you can regale us with the tale of how you learned to fight like that.”
* * *
Softly closing the door behind him, Little backed away. Picking his way around the snoring, mumbling, drink-addled Conscripted without disturbing them had proved difficult, to say the least. Sneaking and nimble feet had never been his specialty. Those were tasks more suited for Ring or Pointer, but he’d managed anyway.
Besides that small annoyance, his skill set almost fortuitously matched this task's challenges. Reading a room or a person and becoming the man needed in the moment were skills he’d mastered as a child. He’d been lucky with his choice.
He’d picked the Birthing Grounds because it seemed the most difficult of the tasks laid before the Hand. The challenge would be a welcome change from the boredom of sailing and the monotony of fighting. He wasn’t a soldier, damn it! He was a spy!
So, when the choices had been Doldimar’s factory of Kiraak or an extensive list of trading towns, Little had jumped on the one interesting task presented. He hadn’t considered what might happen if he was successful with his infiltration.
As he turned his back on the barrack, Little fought down shame. The people in that building, the ones he’d laughed and shared with in the last few hours, were the enemy. He’d chosen to serve Raimie, and those men served his lord’s mortal foe. Maybe in another life, they could have been friends, but in this reality, such a prospect wasn’t to be.
Realizing the soldiers he’d killed during the beach battle might have been like the people in that squad disturbed him. Middle and Pointer would laugh at his naivety, but they’d fought in wars and rebellions before. Many of them! Little had joined the Hand in a time of relative peace, a time where little killing had been required of him. Could he bury the knowledge that each enemy soldier had a life outside the battlefield when he was called to fight once more?
The gate for the fence around the pit's center was locked, a circumstance which shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. The captain had claimed the Birthing Grounds’ entirety was open to all, so Little had assumed that would mean no locks. Apparentl
y, he’d been wrong.
Testing how much space the chain allowed the gate to open, he made a face. The fit would be tight, but threading the opening would be preferable to picking the lock, again another member of the Hand’s specialty. In this case, Thumb’s. If he hadn’t gained any weight in the last month…
He squeezed through the exceedingly narrow gap, ripping his tunic on his way. Sucking a scraped finger, Little examined the yard around the house.
“Are you- you’re not one of Doldimar’s, are you?” a voice whispered. “Can you-?”
Little sharply glanced down. A woman lay beside the gate, her stomach hollow and face gaunt.
“I can’t help you,” he muttered. “I’ve a job to do.”
Her sobs chased him across the grass. He’d spoken the truth. He couldn’t help her, but Raimie could. The sooner he finished scouting, the sooner he could report to the King, and the sooner they could free this place. His reasoning didn’t entirely dissipate guilt.
Quickly gliding through the dark, Little skirted the house’s walls, looking for a point of ingress. If he wanted his presence to remain undetected, he couldn’t waltz through the front door. Fortunately, this house hadn’t been properly constructed. The daub composing the walls crumbled given enough pressure from his fingertips. Making his way up to a second story window, Little slipped inside.
The smell hit him first. That stink of sweat and distinct odor of fear were so familiar they brought tears to his eyes and his stomach roiled. The metallic scent of spilled blood delicately intertwined with the others, and Little gagged.
His first client of the day departed, and he let himself relax. Only minor rope burns so far this morn. He could keep going, maybe earn enough for two meals rather than one today.
The next client knocked on his door, and when he opened it, his hopes broke. The big man was one of his regulars, and he knew exactly what to expect from the monster.
“Come in, good sir!” he exclaimed.
The man smacked him, and he willingly accepted his tumble to the floor. Gingerly touching his split lip, he tasted blood and raised teary eyes to his client.
“I’ve offended you!” he whispered, unsure whether his horror was faked or not. “Please, sir, how may I satisfy you-?”
The word choked off when a thick hand snatched his neck and tossed him onto the bed.
“Fight back, you little bitch,” the big man said, the first words those cruel lips had spoken.
He tore at the sheets in his scramble to huddle at the headboard. “Please, master, don’t hurt me anymore!”
I need to eat today!
“I’ll do whatever I damn well please with you,” the big man smirked. “I paid good money specifically so I could.”
His client unlaced his trousers, and he pressed his face to the headboard to hide his tears.
He was eight.
Coughing vomit from his mouth, Little wiped his fingers on his shirt. There went his plans to remain undetected. Don’t focus on what had ruined those plans.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark, so he examined his surroundings. He appeared to be in a child’s room, complete with a toy wooden sword and rocking horse. The peaceful setting created a strange sense of disconnect as the memories the smell provoked warred with the idyllic sight he beheld.
Quickly retreating to the hall, he searched the top floor’s every room, growing steadily more confused. So far, this house seemed just that, a home. From the way the captain had reacted to it, Little had expected… something more.
The stairs again dashed his hopes of remaining undetected. Each step softly creaked no matter how gently he transferred his weight, but no one came running to investigate the out of place noise.
The foyer was also absent abnormality, simply populated with traditional decorations and furniture. Two doors flanked the staircase he’d descended, and Little quietly slipped through one.
Whatever sense of normalcy he’d acquired while exploring the house shattered on the other side. Behind the door, the first floor had been hollowed to make room for lines of people hanging from the ceiling by their wrists. Blood pooled beneath their feet, dripping from multiple lacerations and gashes coating their naked bodies. The floor was stained red.
A man hummed before a prisoner hanging on the far side of the room. The blue tinge in his blonde hair glistened in the firelight, and black armor encased his body. While Little watched, shadows gathered around his badly burned hand, and he needled them into a cut on the prisoner’s stomach. Moaning, she weakly struggled against her chains.
Little carefully reached for the door knob behind him, but before he could turn it and escape, those same shadows darted at his face. He dove and rolled to the side. When he sprang to his feet, the Eselan stood before him, gray eyes narrowed. Little stumbled backward until a wall halted his retreat.
“What are you?” the Eselan asked, advancing on Little. “Not Kiraak. Could be sworn to me, but I doubt it. Not enough cowering.” He paused as if listening. “Corruption says you’ve Ele’s stench on you, but you’re obviously not a primeancer. What are you?”
He stopped toe to toe with Little, and the spy plastered his body against the wall. A sudden, hungry look overtook the Eselan, forcing a scream of panic to stop unsung against the block of fear in Little’s throat.
“Are you from him?” the Eselan asked. “Are you a gift of entertainment?” The gray eyes narrowed again. “Your name,” he demanded.
“Lornilen,” Little coughed.
His eyes widened. He hadn’t used that name since Middle had recruited him years ago. It carried a heavy load of history and baggage with it. Sure, the Eselan may remind Little of clients he’d entertained in the past, but he hadn’t thought it would be enough to drag such a reluctant truth from him.
“You’ve experienced devastation of the soul?” The Eselan didn’t ask it like a question.
“I’ve a pretty face,” Little answered anyway. “It didn’t help me as a child.”
Something shifted behind the Eselan’s eyes, and he nodded distractedly. “Do you know an Ele primeancer, Lornilen?” he asked. “He’d attempt to fade into the background as long as possible, only revealing his power as a last resort.”
An answer to this question would be non-negotiable. This Eselan had gotten it into his head that Little wasn’t a Conscripted, and he’d torture what he wanted from the spy, an experience Little had no desire to incite. Fortunately, he’d a throwaway answer to provide.
“There was an Eselan, Kheled, who matched that description, but he’s dead.”
The Eselan mouthed the word Kheled. “He’s not dead,” he continued. “He’ll be the new person attached to your leader, whoever that may be.”
Strangely, Little believed the other man’s assertion. Kheled had pulled off many incredible feats in the short time he’d known him. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn Raimie's strange, Eselan friend had somehow faked his death.
“I don’t want to kill him yet!” the Eselan growled to the side.
The reference to his mortal danger had Little quickly revisiting his attempts to decipher a means of escape. “Please, sir, I-I’ll do whatever you want,” he started but quickly frowned. “You’ll never get me to talk, though!” he began again.
No, that wasn’t right either.
Peeling from the wall, Little brushed past the Eselan to poke a hanging man. The hapless human swung back and forth, each pass blocking the Eselan for brief instants.
“Fuck if I know what I’m supposed to say to you,” he declared. “You’re impossible to read.”
The Eselan burst into laughter, and Little guardedly watched him, swinging the hanging man once more.
“You know what?” the Eselan asked as his chortling subsided. “I’ll make you a deal. I’m going to ruin your pretty face.” A knife materialized in his hand. “If you can keep from flinching while I do so, then maybe I’ll let you go. If not, I’ll kill you.”
Oh, Alouin, no. Please no…
“Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor.” Little shrugged. “May I at least sit? There’s only so much pain a man can take before his legs give out.”
Fleeing hadn’t even crossed his mind. The Eselan was a Daevetch primeancer if the earlier display of penumbra was any indication. Little wouldn’t make it to the door before Daevetch tore a hole in him.
“Please.”
The Eselan gestured to the floor, and Little sat cross-legged, shifting until he was comfortable. Once settled, the Eselan joined him, his knees touching Little’s. Perched so close together, they might have looked like children playing a game if not for their age and the knife. That brightly flashing knife.
Little clasped his hands in his lap. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Lifting the thin blade, the Eselan lowered it to Little’s skin. He hummed a strange tune as he cut and mangled the spy’s flesh, puckering a lip here, leaving slashes across a cheek there.
For his part, Little sat motionless as stone. Sure, there was pain, but pain was a friend. It was a reminder he lived, that he hadn’t wasted away in his childhood abode. Still, while the mind may be strong, the body is weak, and he clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking.
The Eselan finished with one side of his face, and while he worked on the other, Little retreated to his happy place.
His final client was due any moment now, and he scrambled to straighten the room. The woman with whom he’d recently finished had been messy as well as a screamer. Hopefully, the ringing in his ears would fade before his next appointment.
Soon enough, the knock came, and he answered. The man behind the door didn’t look like the type to visit this place, but he’d learned long ago appearances could be deceiving.
“Please, come in.”
Reluctantly crossing the threshold, the man stopped short.
Squeezing around his client, he laid on the bed, arms behind his head. The man seemed uncomfortable, and he internally groaned. He preferred when the client knew what they wanted because then, he didn’t have to think. He could react, send his mind elsewhere.
“What’s your name?” he asked, innocently blinking.
A King's Caution (The Eternal War Book 2) Page 10