"Come on, girls," said Maevor, dropping the remains of his cheroot and crushing it. Cob followed him, and their team blended in with the other slaves as they poured onto the gravel path. Above, the green snakes of enemy magic had been fully expelled from the protective dome, and as they quick-marched through the depopulated expanse of the eastern tents, the dome itself finished mending and faded from strong red to translucent to its usual invisible state, allowing the badlands sun to shine through unimpeded.
Soon the assembly yard spread before the slaves, sprinkled with charred timber fragments. Cob tugged the bandana up to cover nose and mouth, though he could not breathe through his nose anyway, plugged with scar-tissue as it was.
Through the settling dust, the remains of the palisade wall leaned at odd angles or lay shattered around the crater that had once been the gatehouse. Three watchposts lay broken like kindling. Men with carts of tools and buckets made a long line around the periphery, and outside the shattered gates Cob spotted the cuirassed and skullcapped men of the slave-soldier Combat Battalions receiving further orders.
With the palisade fallen, Kanrodi stood visible in the distance, broken siege engines scattered around it like children's toys. Its outermost wall was scarred from months of Imperial assault, but beyond it the sand-colored buildings rose in pristine tiers, topped by spires of blue and white and sea-green. The aqueduct that once connected it to the high wall of the Rift had been riven in many places; on the city wall, a lip of stone remained like the snapped handle of a cup.
More slaves and a swath of freesoldiers marched upon it now, already small in the distance. As Cob watched, arcane lightning flashed from the Imperial ranks to strike at the city, only to be repelled by an emerald barrier.
Under further orders, Cob and his team grabbed buckets and crowbars and advanced on the closest watchpost. A cluster of women in the red-and-white striped surcoats of the infirmary staff picked among the ruins there, occasionally tossing objects onto a stretcher. Cob did not care to wonder why the objects were so small.
They fanned out at their destination, one team among many. Weshker hoisted himself up the wooden beams with fearless agility and Cob took note of where the infirmary-workers were so he could call them when the Corvishman fell to his death. Fendil went off one way, Horrum the other, and Maevor commandeered a handcart and flipped over a bucket for a seat, suddenly turning into a hub of black market trade as slaves from every company surreptitiously converged.
Cob shook his head and struck out toward a spar less swarmed by human termites, closer to the broken wall. The job was to salvage what he could from the wreck, but he knew that had they been anywhere but the Illanite badlands, his fellow slaves would be pouring from the camp in droves. There were not enough freesoldiers around to control them, and no mages in sight. With briar and cacti and scorpions in two directions and Kanrodi in the third, though, no one was stupid enough to chance it.
The fourth option was Varaku. The very thought sent chills down Cob's spine.
He could just see it over the eastern palisade: a panorama of red cliffs and ragged rock spires on the far side of the Losgannon River, rising in tumult to the high wall of the Rift. Sometimes called the Broken Plateau, it was rumored to be plagued by Dark spirits and wraiths, and Cob believed it; though they had left most of the Mist Forest behind, its dark trees peppered Varaku's red rocks and guarded its crumpled northern edge, and where the trees were, so might be the wraiths.
Almost alone by the gate, Cob tried not to think about it. He did not want to let the past or his nightmares rule him, so he focused on the broken spar, prying away its boards to salvage the nails and good wood. Both were a precious commodity here, and a decent haul might be rewarded.
Just as he had begun to make headway, sweat threading through his short dark hair and the sun heavy on his neck, he heard a deliberate scuff in the dust nearby. Tensing, he glanced over his shoulder, then blinked at the black-uniformed man.
"Drink?" said Scout Darilan Trevere, holding up a flask.
Relieved, Cob nodded and hooked the crowbar over his shoulder, then pulled down his bandana. The scout stepped close: a small man, compactly muscular under his dark attire, with Daecian-fair hair bleached even lighter by the sun and a blush of burn on his round cheeks. He might have looked boyish if he smiled, but he rarely did. Right now his green-grey eyes were as hard as agates and kept flicking past Cob to the men and ruins around them, gloved fingers tapping an unconscious cadence on the hilt of one of his long daggers.
"Somethin' wrong?" Cob said as he accepted the flask. He took a swig, and as always it was cooler and sweeter than the rest of the camp water, which had been boiled flat for safety. He wondered where Darilan got it.
"You, sticking yourself in the middle of nowhere," said Darilan. "You're supposed to stay with your team."
"Team went in all different directions," said Cob. "What's it matter? We'll just reassemble when we're called."
Darilan leveled a sour look at him. They were friends, inasmuch as a slave and a freesoldier could be friends, and Darilan had been looking out for him since their time in Kerrindryr as quarry-slave and guard. What Darilan got out of it, Cob did not know, but for him it had been not so much the protection but the company that mattered. At twelve, having someone around who was neither a criminal nor an indifferently brutal guard--someone who seemed to care that he existed--had filled a hole in his orphaned life. That Darilan reminded him of his childhood best friend did not hurt.
Yet since he was shot, it felt like Darilan had begun treating him like a pet--something to be protected and commanded without backtalk. Darilan had never exactly been a pleasant person, and he was still the one constant in Cob's life, but they were drifting apart.
"I don't like it when you wander off," said Darilan. "Especially not now. The Inquisition is here."
Cob stiffened. The Inquisition meant mentalists, the worst type of Imperial mage. It was their duty to pry into minds, to root out conspiracies and detect Dark taint, to condition the slaves so they could not rise up against the soldiers and to mindwash those who had seen what they should not. They came every year to sift through the thoughts of the Army and eradicate resistance.
"So what?" he said defensively. "If there was somethin' to find, they woulda found it last year."
"That was before your dream."
"It's nothin'. Really."
Darilan narrowed his eyes, and Cob struggled not to flinch. He knew as well as Darilan did that his dream--his one endlessly repeating dream--was nothing to brush off. In the months since the wraith-arrow, he had dreamt incessantly of himself as a child, climbing the cliffs above his boyhood home in mountainous High Country Kerrindryr alongside his best friend Lerien. They were searching for something--a light, a bird, he was never sure--but each time their journey was interrupted by black hands reaching out from the stone. Reaching for him.
Sometimes he fled. Sometimes he fell backward into the ravine. Sometimes the hands caught him and pulled him through the rock into blackness, and then--
It was said that the Dark seeped in through cracks in the mind like water from some deep, stagnant reservoir. It could slowly erode a soul until it filled the body, spoke with the mouth, saw with the eyes, knew every thought and memory. Some nights, when he woke sweating and shaking with Horrum a somnolent lump beside him and the moons shining pale through the canvas, he thought he had been eaten--the bedroll a flat tongue, the tent-stakes teeth, the wind that fluttered the fabric the very breath of the Dark. He did not know how to tell if he was still himself, or the Dark fragment that had hollowed him out.
The Inquisitors would.
That terrified him.
"Anything else I should know?" said Darilan quietly.
Cob shook his head.
The scout exhaled, then looked past him and grimaced. "Crowbar down, stand up straight," he said, "here comes the General."
Cob turned, lowering crowbar and flask. Midway along the road, striding purpose
fully toward the ruined gate, was the unmistakable form of the Crimson General--Crown Prince Kelturin Aradysson himself, the only child of Risen Phoenix Emperor Aradys IV and heir to the Throne of Light. Long hair in war-braids streamed back from his tawny sunburnt face, his jaw set with determination. He carried the iconic phoenix-visored helm under one arm, its bright tassel nearly reaching the dirt, and in the late afternoon light his scarlet and gold armor gleamed as if molten, dampened only by the black cloak that flapped beneath the great sword at his back. Officers broke away from the salvage-work as he passed, pacing him to give reports, and he nodded but never slowed. In his wake, a stream of colorfully-robed mages and advisors struggled to keep up.
Cob had seen him before, but only as a blond speck at the far end of the assembly field. There were rumors about him--womanizing, faithless, spendthrift--but up close he cut a figure worthy of the old Knights of Law, and under his command the slaves had not suffered. Cob pressed his thumb-knuckle to his forehead in the claw salute like all the others, and though the General paused for nothing, his gaze still swept the crowd with a sense of acknowledgment, of awareness and possession. They were his and he was theirs.
"Where's his horse?" Cob mused as he passed beyond the gate.
"They like magic about as much as we do," said Darilan, nabbing the flask. "Probably kicking the stables apart."
"D'you think he's goin' for Kanrodi?"
"He can't break the barrier himself, Cob, and he's not allowed to parley. And don't change the s--"
Pain flashed up Cob's leg, the world spun, and the next thing he knew, he was on his side in the dirt with Darilan's knee rammed into his ribs as the scout hunched low behind the toppled spar. Cob coughed and Darilan yanked the bandana up to cover his mouth.
"What--" he tried to say, but Darilan clamped his hand atop it.
Nose useless, mouth covered, Cob grappled at Darilan's arm but the scout's grip was iron, his weight expertly positioned to nail Cob to the earth. His attention was on something beyond the spar, though, and after a moment of hammering his shoulder with a fist, Cob tried to lie still, tried to quell his startled panic and see.
Through the veil of splintered wood, he glimpsed a shape moving up the road where the General had passed. A shape in black robes.
His lungs burned. Raised in the heights, he could hold his breath better than most, but that was when he had forewarning. He smacked Darilan's shoulder again and this time the scout looked down, then blanched and quickly let go.
"Throne, sorry, I forgot," he hissed.
"You're sorry? Why are--"
As the hand clamped over his mouth again, Cob thought, Now I know why Wes always bites me.
A moment later, when he did not struggle, Darilan relaxed. "No hollering," he murmured. "He's not far gone."
"Who?"
"The Inquisitor Archmagus."
Cob tried to peek up and Darilan immediately shoved his head back down. "Stop that!" Cob growled. "Like he didn't pikin' see you take me down!"
"He didn't. If he did, he'd be over here already."
"The Archmagus? Why? One pikin' dream isn't enough to require the Inquisitor pikin' Archmagus..."
But Darilan was not listening, just peering over the spar, murkwater eyes tracking the mage to the gate and beyond. Finally he exhaled through his teeth and unpinned his knee from Cob's side, and Cob sat up slowly, rubbing at his new bruise.
"What's wrong with you?" he said, glaring.
Darilan did not answer, so Cob kept up the stare. Casual violence was not abnormal for the scout, but never had he seen him so distracted. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but Darilan spoke first. "Usual guards are at the siege line, so you're on guard duty tonight. River Gate."
"River--" That was too much. Not only was it extremely irregular for slaves to work a guard-shift, but River Gate was the gate by the command post hill, near all the warehouses and the dock and of course the Losgannon River. Putting slaves near the warehouses was like setting up your own robbery just so that you could catch the robbers and execute them. "Is that wise?"
"Orders are orders. Just thought I'd let you know."
"Darilan, seriously, what's goin' on?"
The scout looked at him, and for a moment there was a pain in his eyes that Cob could not fathom.
Then a rusty-haired head popped over the edge of the spar and said, "Heh! I knew yeh were--"
In a blur of black and red, Darilan hauled Weshker over the spar and slammed him face-down on the ground, nailing a knee into his back. The Corvishman coughed weakly through his bandana, dark eyes wide with surprise. Wincing in sympathy, Cob grabbed Darilan's arm as he drew it back to bludgeon.
"Don't," he said. "Don't. I know he's an idiot, but he's harmless."
Darilan looked at him sidelong, expression flat, but when he twisted from Cob's grip he did not resume the assault. He stood instead, hauling Weshker up by the tunic, and said, "If you insist."
"Yeah."
The Corvishman sneezed dust and blood, then pulled down his bandana to grin as Darilan let him go. Taking a skittering step away, he said, "Pikin' stars, Cob, yeh girlfriend plays r-- Agh!"
Cob closed his eyes. Weshker really did need to watch his mouth.
Once the sounds of scuffle had subsided, he looked up to see Darilan straightening his uniform as Weshker wobbled to his feet, face bloody, shoulders slumped. "Neither of yeh got any sense of humor," the Corvishman muttered.
"Twelve lashes for disrespect of a freesoldier," Darilan said curtly. Weshker nodded, unsurprised. Together they started the walk toward the whipping post, a place Cob knew all too well.
"Hoi," called Cob, and both glanced back, Weshker bedraggled but hopeful, Darilan cool. Their expressions bothered him equally and he faltered, not sure what to say. He owed Weshker nothing but still felt responsible, and as for Darilan...
He had no idea what was wrong with Darilan.
"Go easy on him, eh? I'll tell the watch-captain he's out for punishment," he said finally.
Darilan regarded him flatly. Weshker tried to crack a smile but his lower lip had already puffed up, making him wince instead. "We'll see," said the scout, then pulled Weshker away, leaving Cob in the dust.
He looked to the blasted War Gate, then toward the River Gate beyond the barracks, and wondered what was going on.
*****
By the time the official word came down about their assignment to guard duty, it was dusk. They had been called in from salvaging and stood in dusty ranks, listening to an officer read the duty roster, and the ripple of intrigue at Bridge Company's assignment put Cob's hackles up. These reprobates might find it thrilling but for him it would be a night of tension, of vigilance, just waiting for one of his comrades to try something stupid that would ruin them all.
The officer had not sounded sure about what he was reading, but it must have had all the proper signatures and seals, for soon they were hustling across camp, following another officer with a lantern. Already the mother moon was up, her face a thin sliver that threw weak shadows across the path. From northeast of the command post came the howls of hounds being set loose for night patrol, and as their eerie cries swelled, some of the slaves broke from the column to dash for the gate. The officer shouted after them halfheartedly then took the rest of the company up to a run; no one, not even freesoldiers, wanted to be off their post while the hounds were out.
Finally the River Gate loomed up, with anxious soldiers and supply-men waiting there to be relieved. The officer drew to a halt and started assigning posts briskly, running down the list of names while the suppliers passed out secondhand swords and pikes and cheese biscuits.
Weshker will be sorry he missed this, Cob thought as he strapped on the shabby swordbelt and tried to pretend this was normal. The one time we get to have weapons and he’s gotten himself whipped.
"Slaves Maevor and Weshker, post twenty-one," said the officer, pointing to it. "Slaves--"
"Sir?" said Cob. Every
one glared at him. "Sir, Weshker's out for punishment."
The officer gave him a piercing look, then made a mark on the roster and said, "Slaves Maevor and Erevard, post twenty-one. Slaves Fendil and Dernyelson, River Gate door. Slaves Horrum and Orstant, River Gate overlook..."
Cob grimaced, as always annoyed that they had pinned 'Dernyelson' to him as a surname. He did not want to be reminded of his traitor father at every roll call, but he supposed that was why they did it.
Soon enough, the slaves dispersed to their positions and the soldiers and supply-men beat a hasty retreat. Down either span of the palisade wall, lanterns were refilled and crossbows pulled down from their hooks, the watch officers drifting from post to post as the slaves settled in for the long evening.
Cob and Fendil bracketed the small door beside the River Gate. As soon as the officer passed from view, Fendil reached under his tunic and withdrew his pipe, packed it from his rashi pouch and lit it off the lantern. He took a pull, the ember-flare uplighting his long face, then exhaled a thick coil of smoke. "You want?" he said, tipping the pipe toward Cob.
Cob waved it off. He had tried the stuff before, back when the army had supplied it to the slaves for its calming properties, but it had done nothing for him and then had been banned after the camp wards went up. Apparently its interaction with arcane emanations made users hallucinate. The black market trade in it was fierce.
"Your loss. Got more if you want later," Fendil said, and tucked the pouch away. Cob nodded and tried to breathe through the far corner of his mouth.
Of all the team, he found Fendil the easiest to get along with. A northern Illanite with an intense rashi habit, he was a bit leaner and lighter-toned than Maevor or Horrum and seemed to exist in a constant state of geniality. Rumor said that he and Erevard had been more than just grifters before being caught and enslaved--that they had been murderers--but though Cob would have believed it of Erevard, it did not fit Fendil. Deep in his mellow haze, he could be directed easily, but in a crisis he was muddled and useless. Putting him on guard-duty meant that he would spend the whole night watching the butterflies in his mind.
The Light of Kerrindryr (The War of Memory Cycle Book 1) Page 2