by K. J. Coble
“We’re...ah...on a break.”
Asyra snorted. “What I’ve heard is the only thing broken was nearly your neck, when you shipped out on this damned-fool excursion.”
Strayden ground his teeth. How’d she hear of that? Of course, probably half the block around the Gruzh had likely heard their row, the night before they’d left for Xyxia. He might have hinted he was retiring and then gone back on that. Hilde’s fury had been something to behold, curses no lady should spew, pottery thrown with near-lethal force and accuracy. She didn’t understand, after the all plunder they’d brought home on their last jaunt, why he needed to risk his neck again. When would it be enough?
He wondered the same thing.
“You know, you let me worry about all that,” he growled. “And you kind of avoided the question, there.”
“You’re quicker on the uptake than the average Vothan,” she replied to feigned outrage from the others in earshot.
“And you’re still avoiding.”
She took a longer drink from the mug, meeting his stare with those lovely, unreadable greens. A shrug followed as she seemed to make some decision. “Like with you, I suspect, the haul from a job never seems to last very long. Girl’s got to eat, you know?”
Strayden furrowed his brows at her. The Ybbassid was nothing if not precise. That she’d run into financial difficulties seemed a hard one to swallow.
“Maybe,” Asyra went on, “it’s not just about the payout, anymore.”
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe it’s about the job, itself. Maybe the loot isn’t the thrill, but getting to it, doing what others say couldn’t—shouldn’t—be done.”
Strayden folded his arms and stepped a little closer, so that he could lower his voice and not be overheard. “You’re talking about the ruins.”
“I am. Old Zadam. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.”
“I was a bit preoccupied with the army standing in the way.”
“Not a problem, anymore,” she said. “Are you and your boys planning on a crack at it, while we’re still here?”
Strayden started to answer, then held it in, his suspicions piqued. “Are you?”
“I asked first.”
“You are.” He shook his head. “After all we’ve been through together, haven’t you had enough of haunted ruins and witchery?”
“So, you’re not planning a side-trip.” She sounded vaguely disappointed.
“Like I said, my thoughts were a little more focused on survival.” He gestured around them. “You might have noticed a war on. And it’s not over. Besides, the ruins will be watched. Everyone knows their reputation. If the approaches aren’t guarded, they’ll be swarming with looters. Not exactly prime conditions.”
“You’ve never had a problem with either, guards or looters—or being either.”
“Maybe I’m tired.”
“Or old.”
Jets of anger shot up from his gut and Strayden tensed, bristled. From another Vothan, that would’ve earned a fist to the jaw. She was faster, slipperier than any man of the Guard, though—probably any man. So Strayden settled on a glower. “You know what? I withdraw my offer to share the night. Think I’d rather sleep with a snake!”
“I’m hurt.”
“You’re nasty, is what you are.”
She shrugged, took another sip of her drink, and handed the cup to him. “Think on what I’ve said, Strayden of Starad. It’ll be easier for me if I have help.” She turned and started away.
“You mean meat-shields,” he growled.
She shrugged again, continued on her way.
“You’ll need more than muscle,” he called after her. “That place is lousy with magic. You can feel it.” He waited as she paused, just at the edge of the campsite. “Have you been to see her yet?”
Asyra turned and, even though she smiled, Strayden could see the effect of his words behind it. “Not yet.”
“Afraid she’ll say no?”
The Ybbassid held up her chin defiantly. “I was just on my way to see her. Maybe she’ll be more help than you.”
Strayden grinned unpleasantly. There was no way Lyssa of the White Guard would be all right with any of this. “Good luck,” he replied tauntingly.
Asyra rolled her eyes again and turned away. Strayden watched her stride into the dark, notably unharried by Vothan bystanders. All the old hands knew her reputation, warned the new ones off her. She was likely the only woman in a hundred miles who’d dare walk a Scintallan army camp unescorted and at night. A playful grope would earn you broken bones or a blade in the groin. You wouldn’t live to try at more.
“She is...lovely,” Horsa sighed as he rejoined Strayden, the young man’s eyes on the last sway of Asyra’s hips as she disappeared into the dark.
“So is a freshly-sharpened dagger,” Strayden rumbled, “but you wouldn’t want to roll over on one in the sack.” He looked at the fresh mug held in the kid’s hand, then at the half-finished one Asyra had left him. He quaffed the latter, handed it to Horsa, and swiped up the former. “Go get me another one.”
A flinch of defiance pinched the corners of the kid’s eyes, but he nodded in obedience and went to see to it. Tough being the low cock on the pecking order. Strayden swallowed a mouthful of wine and smiled after the lad. But the way things are going, he won’t be for long.
Raised voices warned of a fresh disturbance to the Vothan revelry. Greetings rang out, stiff and formal. When they held joviality, at all, they rang with a forced note. And a low grumble rippled through the camp in their wake. Men made way for the newcomer and Durrak, tall enough to see over the others’ heads, swore softly.
Ah, shit.
Harald Hegruum stepped through the surrounding Vothans and into the light of the campfire. Grinning widely, he put his hands on his hips, caused a rich, wolf hair-lined cloak to slip back from his shoulders, reveal the full red and gold-trimmed dress tunic of the Vothan Guard. Fire light shimmered off the sunburst medallion dangling at his chest, a garish reminder of the Emperor’s favor and of Harald’s station as commander of the Guard.
“Strayden of Starad!” he boomed.
“Harald,” Strayden replied casually, taking a held-hearted sip at his wine. “Are you lost? The Emperor’s ass is on the other side of camp.”
That brought nervous laughter from all around. Everyone knew the history between them, Hegruum the former subordinate till he renounced the Vothan gods in favor of Bazul’s sun deity and embarked on a meteoric rise.
But Harald guffawed at the snipe. “Oh, that’s very good, Strayden. I see you’re still sober enough to slander our paymaster.”
Strayden downed half of what remained of his wine with a monstrous gulp that left rivulets running from his whiskers. “Not for long.”
Harald eyed Horsa stepping through the crowd, on his way back from the wine barrel line, and snapped the mug from the kid’s hand. “Me neither!” He took a drink and Horsa, sighing noisily, turned and went back to the cask.
“To what does the Fifth Cohort owe the honor of a visit from our mighty Commander?”
“I’d speak with you alone, Captain,” he put a bit of edge on the title and took another sip before adding, “orders.”
The gathering around the tent dissolved at the word, grumbling and whispers receding until they reached other campfires and revelry sparkled up again.
Strayden scowled. “Broke up a perfectly good party.”
Harald stepped closer to him, smiling through his combed, oiled red-blonde whiskers. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be back.”
“Maybe not.” Strayden waved a hand before him. “The smell might linger.”
Harald snorted. “Do you enjoy hating me so much?”
“Do you enjoy sucking so much?”
The Vothan Commander’s smile remained in place, but held no warmth. Neither did his voice when he spoke after a long pause. “You’re feeling pretty high on the horse, these days, aren’t you, old friend? Now that
you’ve been awarded one of these” Harald fingered the medallion at his chest “been decorated with the Emperor’s Favor. Where is yours, by the way? Did you already have to hawk it?”
“Left it with Hilde.”
His smile twisted into something nasty. “Another thing we share.”
“She’s her own woman,” Strayden replied with a forced shrug, and had to fight to keep the rage-tremor from his voice. “No accounting for taste, though.”
“On that, we agree.”
“You said you had orders, Commander,” Strayden said, tiring of the exchange.
The other Vothan nodded grudgingly and started to wander away from the camp, towards the perimeter where the grisly trophy reeked on its post. Harald seemed to notice it vaguely, halted with a glance and a flaring of the nostrils. They were well out of earshot now and the dark made it hard for Strayden to see much of the other man but the glint of firelight in his eyes.
“The Emperor has declared the ruins of Zadam off limits.”
“You’re serious?” Strayden groaned. “Half the grubbers in this army—Vothan, Scintallan, or otherwise—came along just to gawk at those.” He thought of Asyra and her plan to do far more than that.
“And gawk is all they’ll be allowed. He wants a perimeter formed.”
“Oh?”
“And the Vothan Guard has drawn the duty.”
“Oh.” Strayden went from scowl to smile in an instant. “That is interesting.”
“I thought you’d find it so. The Guard will throw up picket posts across the lower part of the escarpment. No one gets by them. We’ll rotate cohorts every four hours.” He paused. “The Fifth will get the shift starting near midnight.”
Strayden’s smile broadened. “That is...convenient.” A fragment of doubt scraped through his mind. “Why us? Your favorites in the First Cohort won’t be happy.”
“You know as well as I do the Emperor has his informants there.”
“I’m sure you know every single one of them, too. After all, you let them in when you ‘purified’ the Guard.”
“The Emperor prefers that those guarding his person and family share his faith. You should be grateful I’ve given up on converting you.”
Strayden took a swallow of wine to hide his disgust. This was an old—and pointless—fight between them. Harald could bare his throat for the Scintallans’ Sun God; but Strayden walked Gruzh’s path and sneered at weak-willed oath breakers who flipped deities as quickly as they changed tunics for a mortal’s attention.
“So, the Fifth gets the prime time,” Strayden pressed.
“And I’m sure you’ll make the most of it, quietly.”
Strayden folded his arms, swished the almost-finished mug at one side as he eyed the other Vothan. “You’re not in the habit of just giving things—especially not to me. What do you get out of it, Harald?”
“Smarter than you look.”
“Which makes me twice as smart as you!”
Harald absorbed the insult with a swallow of wine. “I have a contact of sorts who wants in those ruins.”
Strayden groaned. “We’ll be babysitting?”
“You’re not going to have a lot of time, up there, Strayden. It’ll be dark and the moons are waning and, knowing you, you’ll get lost, anyway.” Harald stepped close, pitched his voice a little lower. “This man knows the layout of the place.”
Strayden frowned. “Some limp-dicked Scintallan scholar?”
“A Xyxian, actually,” Harald replied, “and if you let him, he can point you to the places most likely to yield something.”
“Xyxian...” Unease rippled along Strayden’s nerves. “Someone from our allied contingent?”
“You could say that. I will bring him before the first hour of your watch. You will let him through and provide whatever support he requires. In exchange, like I said, he’ll be useful to your endeavors.”
Strayden quaffed the last of his wine. “Maybe I’m interested.”
“Maybe?”
“You didn’t really answer my question. What’s in this for you?”
“I owe this man something.”
“Ah. Like what?”
“Like none of your business. Are you interested, or shall I put the Fourth Cohort on it?”
Strayden chuckled. “The Fourth can barely find their dicks with both hands and directions tattooed on their bellies. We’ll take the damned job.”
“Good.” Harald slugged the last of his wine. “Good.” He shoved the empty at Strayden’s chest until he took it. “Like I said, right before your watch. Look for him.” He started to turn away.
“You didn’t want an official report, Commander?” Strayden called after him, almost tauntingly. “You used to at least care about our losses.”
He paused and half-turned back to him. “As long as enough of your rogues survived to get this done.”
“Gerbhert has gone the Hall of the Mighty.”
An almost unnoticeable flinch went through the other man and, for a moment, Harald’s voice went husky with emotion. “Another of the old hands.” He fully met Strayden’s gaze. “Not many of them left, at this point.”
“Not many of us, no.”
“See that you don’t join him; at least not before this task is done.”
Strayden smiled. “I’ll pass on your heartfelt concern to the others.”
Harald turned away again, paused, again. His gaze went to the severed head on the post and he grimaced. “And one more thing; take that down.”
“Skulls for Gruzh,” Strayden said by way of protest.
“Take it down,” Harald repeated hotly. He started on his way again, calling over his shoulder, “That’s our new client’s brother and I wouldn’t want him seeing it.”
THAT FOOL.
Asyra had seen the Guard commander, Hegruum, coming as she left the Vothan camp and paused, lingered in the shadows. The Eyes had had their—well—eyes on him since before she’d joined them, just as they did anyone who’d drifted close to the Emperor’s inner circle. Questions had begun circulating around the blonde giant after he’d been seen frequenting the haunts of Duke Urius. And, of course, the Eyes had a lot of questions about the Emperor’s cousin—particularly after his conveniently late arrival in putting down the riots that’d rocked Scintallard several months ago.
But Asyra’s curiosity only really piqued when Hegruum pulled Strayden off into the outskirts of camp. Sliding through the shadows, she’d gotten easily within hearing of the pair—Vothans couldn’t even breathe quietly, let alone whisper. And what she’d heard had left her seething.
You’d think the big, dumb bastard had gotten tangled up enough, she thought as she watched Hegruum leave. Of course, you’d think I had, too.
Strayden she could deal with later, but this “client” of Hegruum’s interested her, so she slipped in after him as he passed. Tailing him wouldn’t be easy. His path already took him toward the heart of the camps and plenty of drunk and horny Scintallans would attempt their usual passes at her. No, she’d need to get creative.
A cloak she plucked up from where it lay bunched next to a random Vothan’s bedroll. She threw it over her shoulders and flung the cowl up over her head to mostly conceal her face. A walking stick she improvised from a tent post left stacked—and smiled mischievously as the squawk of a Scintallan looking for it filled her ears. Ash she scraped up from the edge of guttering campfire and smudged across what little of her features could be seen, giving them a hint of age or infirmity.
Asyra’s whole frame sagged as she tailed Hegruum, back stooping, steps crumpling into a hobble—though maintaining a gait that would allow her to just keep the Vothan in sight. She became one of the bent, malnourished locals that’d flocked to the army’s train, seeking work or whatever scraps of sustenance could be scavenged off its mass. Sneers from passing soldiers—or, more telling, lack of notice, at all—spoke to the effectiveness of the disguise.
But—
—Hegruum stiffened to a h
alt at an intersection just ahead of her, where two of the army camp’s main lanes met. He half-turned, seemed to give way for a passing noble and his retinue. But guile wasn’t a Vothan trait and the obviousness of his side-eyed, backwards glance told Asyra she’d been noticed.
Ducking between tents as a pair of spearmen stumbled in front of her with the beginnings of an argument, she side-tracked. She slid swiftly through the stinking warren of the encampment’s underbelly, nose wrinkling at the interwoven miasmas of urine, horse dung, dank leather, steel, and unwashed bodies. A hand reached out with a drunken mumble as she passed and she shot a kick under the man’s armpit, birthed a grunt, rather than a squeal that would’ve drawn attention. She leapt over a pair of forms writhing in twist of blanket, too immersed in their passion to notice her.
Judging the distance and angle sufficient to throw off Hegruum’s alarm, she sidled between carts of entrenchment supplies and leaned back out into the lane that had branched to the Vothan’s left and right. It took a moment, but she found him again, striding away from her, having taken the right. More cautiously, Asyra resumed the pursuit.
And realized fairly quickly it would be pointless; Hegruum’s course was taking him back to the center of camp, and the Emperor’s massive, well-lit pavilion.
Well...so much for that.
Her blood cooled—then warmed—as her gaze drifted to one side.
Lyssa and the White Guard contingent kept their quarters near the Emperor’s, but somehow separate from the rest of the camp, surrounding by an unintentional buffer of open ground—as though the rest of the camp recoiled from what occurred within the tight cluster of tents. Candlelight fluttered from a tent flap as it slipped briefly open. Shadows moved within the largest of the shelters.
Asyra stepped out of the lane, off beside another cart, this one empty, but stinking of blood—likely an ambulance out of use. Huddling in the dark and throwing back the cowl, she pondered next steps.