by Amy Hopkins
“Why do you want to know about my plans, Adeline?” Rogan didn’t sound upset, but his moods could change on a whim.
Adeline debated pressing him hard, but decided against it. “I haven’t had a chance to know you well, Master Rogan,” She said, using the honorific he had bestowed on himself. “I only know that you were—are close to my father.”
She silently cursed, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slip. She wasn’t supposed to know her father had gone missing.
“He has such excellent judge of character that I must believe you are an honorable man, worthy of my… attention.” She casually caressed his arm, gratified to feel him shiver.
“Ah, of course. You are not particularly close to your father, though, are you?” Rogan asked as they stepped onto the gravel path leading to the gardens.
“Oh, I love him dearly,” Adeline gushed, “even though he could be so stubborn. A girl has to have her fun, you know. If you don’t let a bird out of her cage, how is she to learn how to fly?”
The reputation she had formed over the last few months was one of a hot-headed socialite. There was, in her opinion, no better way to lead a man to underestimate a woman than by letting them indulge their assumptions. She let the men around her believe she was flighty and stupid, and they never questioned it.
“A father’s job is to smother his children.” Rogan’s voice drifted off and his steps slowed. “To pour love and attention on them, and coddle them in cotton wrap to keep them safe from imaginary danger.”
Rogan reached a hand out to pluck a flower from a bush. Adeline prepared to take it from him… but he crushed it in his hand and tossed it on the ground.
“Sadly, not all fathers seem to understand that.” He stepped around the corner.
“But, I digress.” Rogan’s voice softened and he turned a smile on for her, bright, yet brittle. “You seek a husband?”
Ice ran down Adeline’s spine. “Why, yes, I’m of an age where it’s becoming something of a necessity.” She pouted her lips, looking up at him coyly. “I’ll be old before you know it, and no man will want me.” She had to get this conversation back on track.
“Oh, my beautiful, precious child.” Rogan cupped her cheek and turned her face to him. “You are a stunning, delicate flower just beginning to bloom. Why, I should marry you myself if it weren’t for…” he trailed off, but looked at her expectantly.
Fine, she thought. I’ll play. “For what, dear Rogan?”
“Well,” he started, then sank into himself. “I didn’t think you’d want me.”
The pitiful look on his face was so much like a child in the village who had lost a candy that Adeline teetered between scorn and repulsion. She had to take a steadying breath before she spoke again.
“I certainly don’t wish to marry the insipid little boys I’ve courted so far. I need a man, Rogan, a strong man who can keep me safe, who can help Father and me build our city and make it strong.”
Dammit, girl, just tell him you love him. Adeline couldn’t do it, not even to save her own life. In fact, he could rip her toenails out and shove them in her eyeballs, and she still wouldn’t say that to him.
She made do with batting her eyelids a few times. Even only that made him melt. “Oh, Adeline, the plans I have! I will make Muir an oasis, a refuge where people can be free of greed and envy, will work hard for the satisfaction of working. No one will steal, or lie, or cheat. They will all come together for the greater good to provide for all!”
He looked to the sky, the stars overhead reflected in his eyes. “Adeline, help me. Help me make this city of yours into paradise.”
She stayed silent for a little while, and they walked on, feet scraping the loose stones on the rough path as they brushed past the pointed leaves of exotic plants her father had found.
“People don't like change, Rogan. What if they fight back? What if more like that—that Julianne girl come?”
The reminder of the rival mystic made his face twist in displeasure. “Then I will crush them, one by one,” he whispered. “I will destroy them, if it's the last thing I do.”
“And what of me, if your enemies come back? What will they do to me if I’m left alone and helpless?” Adeline asked breathily. She put a hand on his arm, her heart beating so hard with an anxious need to know his plan that she didn't have to fake her fear.
“They will lose everything,” Rogan said, sneering. “If my personal guard see me die, they will be compelled to avenge my death even if it means their own. It will mean their own.”
“What do you mean?”
“They will throw themselves off parapets and slit their own throats in mourning. The entire city will crumble, and those who rose against me will stand in broken streets, blood lapping at their boots, and know the price was never going to be worth the sacrifice they demanded.” Rogan’s chest heaved and panted as he ran out of steam.
“And me?” Adeline asked coolly.
“My dear Adeline.” He pulled her into a hug. “Why would you ever want to live in a world without me in it?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Garrett heard Bette grumbling at the door as she jerked off her boots. Muttering a curse to himself, he dumped his own shoes through the barn window.
They had made a reasonable living space out of the old building. A wall was extended to the ceiling for privacy, and inside was freshly painted to neaten it up and cover the last of the stale horse smell.
The packed dirt floor was just like home, and indeed, Garrett had visions of himself as a teenager, sneaking out of his room to visit the fights or meet a pretty lass without his parents’ consent.
He hoisted himself up and over the windowsill, cowering beneath the opening as Bette called out.
“Where are ye, ye stinking wee man? I know yer avoidin’ me!”
He scrambled around the corner, cutting across the yard and hoping the long shadows of dusk was enough to cover his retreat. He didn’t breathe again until the old barn was out of sight.
Slowing to a walk, Garrett began to whistle a tune. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Bette, he reassured himself. He just didn’t want to talk to her until he knew exactly what to say.
“Aye, I’ll come up with somethin’ tomorrow,” he said to himself.
“Come up with what, rearick?”
Garrett jumped and spun, then put a hand to his thumping chest. “Mack, ye prick. Ye damn scared me half ta death!”
“Good!” Mack exclaimed, draping an arm over his short friend’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t want you to turn up for training without a strong heartbeat and a healthy sense of danger.”
“Sod off, ye bastard,” Garrett grumbled.
“You’ve been a right prick lately,” Mack commented happily. “What’s up your ass?”
Garrett scowled, unwilling to admit he had been losing sleep over a lass. “Ye think I’d tell ye after that?”
Mack shrugged. “You either need a fight or a fuck. Not much of either round here lately.” The battle against Lord George’s son had been just what the town needed to restore their confidence. Their losses had been low and their success swift.
The only downside was that it left most of the fighters wanting more. They knew—or they thought they knew—what battle was like, and they wanted to do it again.
“Enjoy the peace while it lasts, lad,” Garrett said. “When a real war hits, the food goes ta shit and the price of a good fuck goes through the roof.”
“Well, I never said I wanted war,” Mack said, rapidly backtracking as he realized hot meals and pretty women might be at risk. “Just a good, old-fashioned dust up.”
“Just keep yer nose clean and worry about yer trainin’,” Garrett insisted.
When they reached the barracks, which was really just a small, wooden building at the front of the town, Mack slipped into place and obeyed Garrett's instructions. The evening class was the rearick’s favorite—there was something invigorating about training by lantern light.
Not only that,
it was the session most likely to include some of Madam Seher’s theatre troupe. Every night, one or two performers at a time would wander in and take part in the grueling, repetitive drills.
They were never on time and rarely stayed the whole period, usually chased off by Garrett or Bette for disrupting their soldiers with funny tricks and lightning-fast moves.
Mack slipped into the various battle stances Garrett shouted out, then lined up on command for a sparring session. They had progressed from stabbing at bags of wheat and chaff to fighting each other, using blunt spears and wooden shields, crafted by some of the older folk in the village.
Mack faced off against his opponent, a slip of a figure hidden behind a tall, vertical shield. He waited for the command to begin.
“Go!” Garrett barked.
Mack took a few steps back to give himself room, but his sparring partner quickly stepped closer. Mack stopped, then slammed his smaller, round shield forwards against the other.
The other person stumbled back. Then, with a clatter and a slight whoosh of air, she tossed her own shield aside, darted towards Mack and jumped at his, launching into a flip as she sailed over his head.
“Dammit, Tansy,” he complained when she landed with a satisfied smirk. “That’s not fair, and you know it!”
“Just keeping you on your toes, beautiful.”
Mack blushed at the compliment. He tapped an imaginary hat and bowed, then yelped as she cracked him on the head with a stick.
“Don’t take those pretty eyes off your enemy!” she scolded.
“Aye. She’s right,” Garrett said, sauntering up. “You let yerself be distracted by a pretty face and ye’ll get yer ass handed to ye on a platter.”
“Is that why Bette’s always kicking your ass?” Jarv called out.
Garrett flushed an angry red and rounded on him. “She could kick the arse of any man she bloody well wanted. And if I hear one of ye, just ONE of ye claimin’ she only beat a man because he was distracted, I’ll put ye in a match against her meself. Hear me?”
Jarv wiped the smile off his face and saluted. “Understood, Sir!”
The sniggers behind him were stifled enough that Garrett could ignore them. “Back to work ye bastards. Ten more minutes, and once yer asses are properly kicked, ya can go stand on the wall for an hour.”
Groans and sighs met his words. The evening shift mostly comprised of the men who worked the fields during the day—they were already tired and an extra hour of standing around with nothing to do was not how they wanted to spend their evening.
“If ye do it right, there’ll be a hot feed at the end of it.” Garrett hoped he could follow through on that promise.
It worked. The soldiers brightened and went back to their training with gusto, the sound of wood against wood clacking through the night air.
Tansy left Mack to find another sparring partner. As she sauntered away, Garrett snagged her with a gesture.
“Do ye think ye could rustle us up some food? The old couple on the corner back there usually cook fer the men, but it might be a wee bit late.”
“Sure, rearick,” Tansy said. “We’ve got a pot of goat stew on at the hall, and I can pinch a bit of that if I can’t find anything else.”
“Thank ye, lass.” He waved her off, glad that she and her friends were keeping his men on their toes. Since the fight against George’s men, they had become just a little too confident for his liking.
“Garrett! Where’s Garrett?” Sharne came pushing through the lines of sparring men, barely pausing to let them pull back fists and weapons.
“Over here!” He hurried over. Sharne was rostered on for wall duty—she wouldn't have left unless something had happened.
“Garrett, someone is camping out in the woods.” Sharne leaned on her knees, panting.
“Eh?” Garrett squinted at her in confusion. Then, remembering Julianne’s cover story, he stammered, “Ahh, that’ll be the, err…”
“We’re not idiots, Garrett.” She gave him a withering glare. “We know Julianne took some people on a mission to Muir.”
“Who the bloody hell told ye that?” he snapped.
“No one ratted them out, but you don’t send a damn mystic leader and the head guardsman on a hunting party,” she said flatly.
Garrett kicked the ground. Then, with a sniff, he pinned her down with a glare of his own. “Well, what of it? They’re off doin’ whatever they’re doin’. What’s goin’ on in the woods, then?”
“We can smell roasting meat. The wind tonight is a southerly, so it’s coming from that way.” She pointed. “If Julianne is headed to Muir, she’d be that way.” Sharne shifted her index finger over. “Plus, they only left at sundown. They wouldn't stop to eat an hour after leaving.”
“Aye, yer right. Take two men; go scout it out.”
Sharne saluted. “Permission to request an animal-speaker from Madam Seher?” she asked briskly.
Garrett narrowed his eyes warily. “Ye keep havin’ ideas like that, ye’ll be takin’ me job. Aye, ask the old woman for one of her people.”
Sharne took off at a run. Garrett rubbed his head, wondering if his hair really was thinning or if he was just paranoid. “Too fuckin’ young ta be going bald, ye bastard,” he muttered to himself. Then, louder, “Alright ye mangy pricks, get yer asses to the wall. Double-shift fer the next two days, and don’t shoot yer squad leader when she goes out, or when she comes back.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lawson paced around the sputtering fire, trying to ignore the aroma of fresh-cooked rabbit over a spit. There were only three—hardly enough for the dozen men that watched it roast, practically drooling on their boots.
“First one to our lord,” he snapped as one of the men stood to pull them off the fire.
Any grumbles of discontent were quickly smothered. They were the last of their army, loyal to a fault and willing to follow their lord into any battle… or, in this case, in random circles around the countryside.
During the battle of Tahn, Lord George the Third had suffered some kind of injury. Perhaps it was some kind of “Bastard-spawned magic,” as the men had claimed. Lawson suspected it was more likely a knock to the head.
It was irrelevant. They had pledged their lives to their leader, and would follow him to the grave.
Still, there were opportunities to be had. Twice, they had found old farms outside the village proper as they circled around Tahn at their master’s command. Their raids had uncovered a few crocks of preserved vegetables, and potatoes buried deep enough that they were still edible, though a little green.
He knew if they could get into the town, they could empty a few cellars and eat well for days.
“Arnold,” Lawson called and beckoned his second over to talk.
“You still on that hare-brained plan of yours?” Arnold asked. He darted a glance back at George. Their lord was chewing slowly as one of the men fed him strips of meat. The soldier jerked his hand as George bit hard on a fingertip.
Lawson ignored the look of disgust on Arnold’s face. “We’re close enough to town. You and me can go in and have a look around. They don’t know we’re here.”
“Oh, they don’t, do they? What about that witch and her friends that killed Wallace?”
Four soldiers had encountered a woman from Tahn, the one rumored to have caused George’s condition. Only three had eventually returned. “I sent Antony to examine their tracks. They were headed to Muir, and unless they flew back, they didn’t return.”
Arnold frowned and looked away. Lawson set his jaw, staring the man down, daring him to argue.
“Yes, Sergeant. What are your orders?”
“Wait until the men are asleep. I don’t want anyone thinking they’ll sneak along behind us for a free feed. Tell the watch you’re going for a piss, and wait for me behind that gully over there.” Lawson jerked his head towards a dried-up creek. “Moon should be gone by then.”
Indeed, a heavy cloud bank was slowly moving in f
rom the east. Arnold shivered as a chill breeze brushed past. “Right.” He stomped off and tucked himself into his bedroll. A few jeering calls were sent his way, but he warded them off with a surly look.
Lawson’s eyes fell on his lord for a moment. George’s greasy chin shone in the firelight, ignored as the young lord sat cackling to himself about nothing. Lawson simply turned his back on the sweaty, uncouth soldiers. Staring out into the night, he vowed he would take revenge for what the people of Tahn had done to his army.
To anyone watching, he would have looked like a statue carved from stone. No one was, though. Lawson knew the watch were slacking, discipline once worn with pride now discarded in the face of this minor difficulty. When the hour grew late and their meagre rations had been depleted even more, the men eventually rolled into tents and began to snore.
The watch patrol—a mere three men—idled nearby, talking. Not one of them saw their sergeant standing off to the side, nor did they notice when he quietly walked away.
One of the watch gave Arnold a wave, but no one bothered to ask where he was going. He had his excuse ready—and in fact, he was dying for a piss, having held on so he didn’t raise questions by going out a second time.
Wouldn’t have bloody mattered, he thought to himself as he sprayed the bushes. Those morons wouldn’t notice a herd of wild hogs sitting by the fire and eating our dinner.
He took a minute to savor the feeling of a now-empty bladder, then set off to meet Lawson.
“Took your bloody time,” the sergeant muttered.
“Sorry, Sir,” Arnold said. He didn't bother offering an excuse—his sergeant had told him to wait until the others were asleep, and he had. Lawson was an asshole, though, and Arnold knew better than to argue.
Without saying anything else, Lawson took off, his long, powerful strides through the densely wooded forest seeming effortless to Arnold, whose short legs struggled to keep up.