Reaver's Wail (The Legion of the Wind, Book One)

by Corey Pemberton

  Then he charged. He looked like a wolf coming at them, teeth bared, eyes wide.

  Argus grunted. It was the only battle cry he could muster, but it was loud enough to send the Legion of the Wind into battle—one last time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  They charged right for that longsword, glinting angry and black. Nasira ducked left, Siggi went right, and Argus sprinted up the center. Eamon smiled. If he was weakened from the wounds they'd given him, he showed no signs of it.

  Eamon slashed with the longsword. Argus thrust Reaver up to parry, and felt another layer of skin slough off from his hands as he was thrown back. A well-placed kick sent Siggi to his knees, and when the emperor raised his sword again, it no longer looked like a battle; it looked like an execution.

  Until Nasira plunged a dagger into Eamon's back.

  That was the difference between him killing Siggi and missing him completely. Eamon grunted, then reached back to pull out the dagger. There was a splash of blood, but the hole crept back together as if cauterized.

  “You're the girl from Comet Tail Isles,” he said with a smile. “The one who set off the Eldwhisper—ohh.” His smile faded as she pulled away from his ear and drew another dagger.

  “That's right,” she said. “Nasira of Char. Remember my name, and remember our faces. They're the last ones you'll see.”

  Eamon opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again like a hungry fish. He staggered forward, stabbing at Nasira, but she scurried away. He looked at the ground. Clutched his chest and fell face-first into the dirt.

  They watched him there, squirming away from the bodies on which he'd landed. Eamon rose to a knee, wobbled, and with a loud grunt tried to stand.

  His leg gave out beneath him.

  “Wil ana vor maloch!” screamed Nasira. “Die, you bastard! This world isn't your plaything!” When he reached for her, eyes bulging, clutching like a madman, she stepped aside and stuck a throwing knife in the back of his neck.

  His head flipped up with the knife still in it. He started to chant in strange tongues, stopping and starting, repeating himself in different accents.

  Finally his head fell.

  Gray scales sprouted on his cheeks. Argus watched them march down his body like river stones scattered after a flood.

  “Y-you know not what you do. Y-you'll pay for…”

  His hair fluttered away with the breeze. A monster remained. Bold and dry and gray. Even his green eyes were flecked with black. Every limb shriveled, all the moisture sucked away. There was nothing left but a dry rattling sound where his breath had been.

  Eamon took a deep breath. This time when he inhaled his chest sunk and kept sinking. Caving in on itself just like the rest of him. Deboned. Deformed. Inhuman.

  That breath stuck in his throat, which had dwindled to the size of a reed. His eyes jittered, then went still. Argus didn't dare go any closer. All he could do was watch that face flatten against the earth and break apart.

  He's dead, he thought, not truly believing it. The bastard is dead…

  A gust of wind came and picked up the pieces where the man had been. It carried them away, weightless as ash, and swirled and coughed the emperor's remains in every direction.

  When it was done, nothing remained but the tainted longsword and a row of Calladonians trembling in their armor. They looked at each other and screamed. Nasira—the one who'd turned their beloved ruler into dust with words alone—looked at them and set them fleeing.

  Argus got up and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “That was so terrible…” Her words trailed off, and she nuzzled against him.

  He nodded. There was no denying the horror of what they'd just witnessed. Life drained from the inside out. The same thing had happened to Willow, except it had somehow made her beautiful instead of ugly.

  The ringing from Eamon's thunder eased, and a new sound replaced it: silence. They looked around and found a few Deathmaidens murmuring, glancing around like they hadn't the slightest idea where they were. Brenn and a red-haired woman stood inches apart, blinking at each other with their weapons still tangled.

  “Hey!” Siggi called. “Nalavacian! You chopped off my hand, you bastard!”

  Brenn wandered over to them. He stepped over the ashy black spot where Eamon died and said, “Don't jest, Siggi. Not now—not with so many lives lost.”

  “A-ho!” Siggi pulled the severed hand from his pocket and shook it at him. “This look like jesting to you?”

  Brenn stepped away. “No—I couldn't have—”

  “I'm afraid you did,” said Siggi with a wry smile. “That's all right, brother. If it weren't for Argus here we wouldn't be having this chat. He can't talk, by the way. Poor lad. The emperor twisted his tongue before he died.”

  “He's dead?!”

  “That's right,” said Nasira. “I whispered the words myself. We're maimed and Argus's a mute. But at least we're alive.” She took a deep breath.

  Brenn threw back his head and laughed. “Here's to the Legion! To Argus's tongue. And Siggi's missing hand!”

  The Deathmaidens gathered around and asked them what had happened. They struggled to believe Nasira's explanation, but cheered when Siggi told them Eamon was dead.

  “What now?” asked the red-haired woman who Brenn had nearly killed.

  He sighed. “Now we go back to Sorbas.”

  * * *

  They reached the city gates at dawn.

  Of the thousand or so mercenaries that had set out, the survivors numbered eighty. There was no sign of the Wolves who'd deserted.

  Argus was delirious with exhaustion, and still unable to speak. They staggered toward the city gates. He wasn't surprised to find the walls crawling with archers. A few of the Deathmaidens greeted them to share the good news, and received a less than enthusiastic welcome.

  “What are they on about?” Brenn asked. “We just saved their arses.”

  Argus shrugged. They passed around the western wall with the Maidens following close behind. Their food and drink was gone, their wounds begging for attention. As they rounded the corner and saw the southern gate, they let loose a flurry of curses.

  The drawbridge was up.

  Siggi raised his fist—his only fist—and shook it at the soldiers manning the wall. “Let us in, you knaves! We just won a war for you, and this is our welcome?”

  I don't know if the war is over, thought Argus. But that was a hell of a battle.

  Siggi screamed at them, and a few of the Maidens joined him. They stood at the edge of the embankment where before the moat began. The soldiers on the wall looked glum, and a few even seemed apologetic. Yet they made no effort to lower to the bridge.

  Brenn puffed out his chest. “If you don't lower the bridge this instant I'll rip your arms off and beat you with them!”

  A few soldiers overlooking the drawbridge scurried along the wall and disappeared into one of the turrets. Argus assumed they were climbing down the stairs to do what Brenn demanded, probably trying not to soil their smallclothes too.

  He assumed wrong.

  A few minutes later, a tall, bearded man appeared on the parapet. Argus recognized him as one of the guild masters from their meeting before the battle.

  “Greetings!” he called. “I would like to thank you for your valiant efforts on the battlefield. My name is Max Clagus, premiere of the diplomacy guild, member of seven others, first of his name…” He proceeded to rattle off a slew of other meaningless titles.

  Nothing worse than a man who's in love with the sound of his own voice, Argus thought. I suppose I won't have to worry about becoming one of those anymore…

  “Enough of it!” Brenn shouted, cutting the man off mid-speech. “We need ailments and rest—”

  “And ale,” Siggi added.

  “—and ale! If you don't lower this bridge…” The veins on his neck twitched, and his eyes assumed the faraway look other men got when they entered a brothel. Except Brenn had a different fleshly pleasure in mind:
battle.

  “Ah,” said the premiere, clasping his hands. “While we do appreciate your efforts, I'm afraid you can't come any closer.”

  The survivors swore and hissed.

  “I am sorry, but you see, there's no way to confirm you haven't been swayed by the emperor's purse, which is quite deep after what happened at the Builders Bank of Davos…”

  “Eamon's dead!” Nasira shouted.

  The guildmaster winced as if he'd almost fallen for a practical joke. “I beg your pardon?”

  “He's dead. We killed him ourselves.”

  “Ah… that… I'm afraid I can't believe. We'll have to wait on reports from our scouts. It could take weeks.”

  “Bugger this!” cried the redhead who'd assumed command of the Maidens. “Let us in! Pay us what we're owed.”

  “That's right,” Brenn said. “At least let us collect our pittance, greedy bastards.”

  Clegus wrung his hands and pursed his lips. “I'm afraid that just isn't possible at this time. We can't risk lowering the gate. Perhaps if you return in the winter—”

  “Fuck off!” Siggi yelled. The others joined him. A few of the Maidens reached for their bows before their new commander stopped them.

  This was their plan all along, Argus thought. Thin us out, hole up behind the walls, and rip us off. A part of him felt a sick envy at just how brazen they'd been.

  “My apologies,” said the premiere, though he offered it flanked by dozens of bowmen. “We do thank you for your efforts. Now there's just one more thing—”

  “What?” said Siggi. “You want this too?” He whipped his severed hand out of his pocket and thrust it upward.

  Clegus cringed, then continued. “You'll have to break camp by nightfall. Whatever is left after then will be confiscated. Farewell.” He gave them a curt bow then ducked behind the archers.

  They cursed him until they were breathless, but in the end none of them was up for another battle. They retreated under the watchful gaze of the city guard. Back in the tent city, they rested and tended their wounds while their anger simmered.

  Argus drank and feasted with the rest of them, raiding the slain Silent Company's provisions. He wandered back to their camp and made sure the Fire Branches were still right where he'd left them. There, Brenn held Siggi down, and Nasira burned his stump to stave off infection.

  Argus looked away. He'd seen enough pain that day to last ten lifetimes. It was just another drip in the bucket—one more battle to add to the countless others that lived on in his head.

  He looked out into the countryside west of camp and spotted the oak where he and Willow had lain. He felt her lips, then, brushing against his own.

  He crawled into his tent and slept.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “Argus? Wake up, Argus!”

  He rolled away, moaning. The dreadful shaking continued until he opened his eyes.

  “Come on,” said Nasira, “it's almost nightfall.”

  He sat up. His body felt like a piece of dog shit that had dried after a week in the sun. Every nerve ached. Every muscle burned.

  “Do we really have to leave?” he asked.

  Nasira recoiled. “Did you just—”

  “Yes… I suppose I did.” He felt his lips, which were still cold and tingly. He tried to smile, and his lips curled upward slowly.

  “Thank the eternal flame!” She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.

  Argus laughed as his tongue thawed. He hugged Nasira for a long time, though his thoughts drifted to Willow. Her lips had been the last thing he'd felt before falling asleep. The emperor's magic could have been wearing off on its own, or maybe, just maybe this was her doing. He chose to believe the latter.

  “I'll go tell the others!” said Nasira.

  “Okay. I'll get packed.” He sang songs as he gathered his things and broke down the tent. More like slurred them. He spoke as if raging drunk, but slowly, gradually, his control returned to him.

  They loaded up four of the finest Pellmerean horses and rode west. The Legion said farewell to the Deathmaidens, who were headed northeast for Harlock. After they parted ways, they turned their attention to the road ahead.

  “I never want to see Sorbas again,” Brenn said. “We should have let those fools rot behind their walls.”

  “Yet here we are,” said Siggi. “One hand fewer, and no less foolish for our troubles.”

  “Maybe you won't cheat so much at king's folly anymore,” Argus said. “Harder with only one hand.”

  Siggi snorted. “I don't know about you all, but I liked him better when he was a mute.”

  The others laughed, and the Legion of the Wind rode west.

  * * *

  They rode all night, and rested their weary bodies under the shade of an olive grove come morning. Argus took first watch. The countryside was empty. They'd been on the lookout for another empire force to come creeping over the horizon, but none came.

  As Argus flipped through the Five Branches, he thought of Harun and Willow. He remembered how he'd seen them last—at their deaths. Yet he forced those memories out of his mind and thought of better ones instead. The good times. He would do his part to help them live on, along with the people from Davos.

  Reaver lay at his side. For the moment she was quiet, though he wondered when she would sing again. Finally, when it was nearly midday, Brenn found him in the olive trees and sent him to bed.

  Three more nights of travel took them to the port city of Palmyra. They had been uneventful. Hours of silence with nothing to entertain them besides Siggi's bawdy tales. Here, in the edge of Garvahn, the mercenaries hired to protect Palmyra bragged about trapping what was left of the empire forces and killing them off.

  “Easy,” Argus said to Brenn when he saw the Nalavacian twitching after a few pints of ale. “Let the braggarts talk until their tongues fall off. They aren't worth it. Have another drink. Tomorrow we rid ourselves of this wretched kingdom.”

  Brenn nodded. “You're right, you bastard. Cheers.”

  They clinked the mugs they'd just bought with Nasira's counterfeit dragons. “To the Legion of the Wind.”

  “Hear hear,” said Siggi. He'd spent most of the evening telling women how he'd lost his hand and trying to sympathize his way into their beds. Finally he'd given up and just decided to get drunk instead.

  “It was an honor,” said Nasira. “Truly. Even though you're scoundrels, the lot of you.” She smiled, cheeks flushed from the ale, and looking nothing like the girl Argus had captured in Calladon.

  “Just remember us when you're ruling The Comet Tail Isles,” Siggi said.

  Nasira blushed. “If all goes well.” They'd met a Comet Tailer merchant while they supped earlier that evening. He told them that the artificers were clamoring for a new election. “I'd hurry back if I were you,” he'd said. “Though I am no artificer, just a humble maskal. First Artificer Shanaz is still clinging to power. But with rumors that the emperor is dead—”

  “He is dead,” Argus had told him. “You're looking at his killer.”

  The merchant had made his excuses then, and looked at them like they were mad. Maybe they were…

  They drank until the barman threatened to drag them out of the tavern. They bathed and changed into fresh clothes at an inn by the docks, and in the early hours met there to say farewell.

  Each of them sought ships—though they were all headed to different destinations.

  Siggi left first, finding a captain willing to give him passage south to Rivanna. “It's where I belong,” he told them as he waited for the captain to set sail. “I've been fighting and drinking and running for a long while, but my heart lies in Rivanna.”

  Argus knew what he meant. Therese. The only woman he talked about without making jokes. The recurring subject of his ballads.

  “Go find her,” Argus said. “And stop by my new venture some time.” They embraced, then Siggi moved on to Nasira, whom he showered with a dozen kisses. Brenn came last. The Nalav
acian wrapped him up in a crushing hug after Siggi reminded him, “You owe me a hand.”

  He waved from the deck as his boat sailed out of the harbor. He'd taken his lost hand with him. Argus wondered what he would do with it.

  Next it was Nasira and Brenn's turn to leave. They chartered a boat together, he heading northeast around the coastline to frozen Nalavac, and she continuing on afterward to the Comet Tail Isles.

  “I'm glad you captured me,” she said to Argus, and kissed him on the cheek. “If you and Harun hadn't found me I'd already be dead.”

  “I'm not so sure about that.” He smiled. “You will rule well. Just do me one favor. Muster an army and raze Sorbas? I can't stand those bastards.”

  Nasira laughed. Then it was Brenn's turn to say farewell. He picked Argus up and swung him around like a helpless puppy, then set him down and rubbed his head. “You'll always have a place in the Legion if you decide to return.”

  Argus nodded. “Thanks for breaking me out of that dungeon.”

  The Nalavacian laughed. It was a big, hearty laugh—the kind that made one warm on a cool morning such as this. They got on their boat and waved goodbye. Argus watched them disappear into the morning fog. Brenndall the Bold would visit his homeland again, but it was only a matter of time before he was back on the battlefield with new recruits, leading the Legion of the Wind to glory. The quiet life didn't suit him.

  I wonder if it will suit me? he thought. Only one way to find out.

  He found a merchant set to export some wool to Azmar, who agreed to take him on. He doubled his rate when Argus told him the destination, though Argus was so glad to leave Garvahn he paid it gladly. Besides, the dragons were counterfeits.

  They didn't speak much on their journey. The merchant asked Argus what he'd been doing in Garvahn, and he told him about the battle, leaving out as many details as the man let him get away with. He smoked some tobacco the merchant gave him, puffing smoke clouds up into the real ones as the waves crashed against the boat.

  By night, outside the eyes of the merchant and his crew, he studied the Five Branches below decks. He found he couldn't sleep without them. They were a ritual now—a sorceress's kiss.