Chapter 2

“He should have been taking us with him,” said Chieftain Yuold.

Frisha sighed. “Chieftain Yuold—”

“Gurrell,” he said.

With a placating smile, Frisha clasped her hands and said, “Gurrell, I know you’re concerned, but he had his reasons.”

“Reasons that I am not understanding.”

Tieran stepped forward. “Chieftain Yuold—”

“Gurrell,” he said again.

“Chieftain Yuold,” repeated Tieran. “King Rezkin explained to you that he did not want his connection with the Eastern Mountains men to be apparent until he knew which way King Privoth was leaning. It is in your best interest, and ours, to keep our cooperative agreement to ourselves for now.”

Gurrell pulled the green strip of fabric from his bicep and held it before Tieran’s gaze. “It is not being a cooperative agreement. He is our chieftain. Until he does become defeated in challenge, he is being our leader. We are the knives at his side. We are the axes at his back.”

Tieran said, “Ah, I am not sure that phrase translates well. In any case, he ordered you all to stay here and help us make this city livable.”

Gurrell lifted his chin as a trickle of pride burned in his chest. “We are great builders.” Then, with frustration, he added, “But nothing is needing to be built here.”

Tieran said, “Then you may join the patrols exploring the bowl.”

“Gah! There is nothing to be fighting in the bowl. We have been traveling to the far mountains and back, and we have been mapping the caverns.”

Frisha said, “Gurrell, perhaps you would help us with something of great importance.”

Gurrell looked down at the small doe-eyed beauty and grinned. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “What is this great task we are to be doing for you, Lady Frisha?”

She said, “You and your men are great warriors.” Gurrell grunted in agreement, and she continued. “Rezkin …um …King Rezkin wants Cael to be a warrior kingdom.”

Gurrell smacked his armor with a meaty fist. “As should all great kingdoms be.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you could assist in training our fighters to be warriors.”

From beneath thick, harsh brows, Gurrell stared at her. His steely grey eyes were intense and unblinking. Frisha was suddenly concerned that she might have offended the very large foreigner.

He said, “You are wanting the Farwarriors of the Viergnacht Tribe of the Eastern Mountains to be teachers?”

Frisha tilted her head to look up at the beastly man. “Um, it was an idea—”

Gurrell grinned broadly, his teeth bright in contrast to his bushy dark beard. “This is being a great honor!” He turned to his men who filled the remaining space in the room behind him and raised a fist in triumph. “You are hearing? We are to be the bringers of strength and courage to the lost people, the people of our chieftain. The farwarriors will be teaching the ways of our ancestors, the greatness of the way of the Viergnacht! The strongest chieftain in history will be leading the Viergnacht Tribe and the Kingdom of Cael, two supreme warrior nations!”

The rumble that followed blasted through Frisha’s head, an explosion of mountain man enthusiasm. She peered up at Tieran who stood at her side. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“No, that was nicely done,” he said, his words nearly lost in the revelry. “It will keep them busy, anyhow.”

Gurrell turned back to them and pointed at Tieran with the butt of a hand axe. “We are to be starting with him.”

Tieran’s eyes widened. “Me? No, I do not—”

“You are being the chieftain’s kin and must meet the challenge if our chieftain falls.”

“No, I told you and everyone else that I do not wish to be king.”

“Then you will be meeting the challenge as champion for the queen.”

“What queen?” said Tieran.

“Queen Frisha,” said Gurrell. “She is being the betrothed of the chieftain. As his kin, you must be standing for her.”

Frisha shook her head. “No, I’m not—”

His massive paw gripped her shoulder. He said, “And you will be training with us.”

Frisha’s heart jumped. “What? But, I am a woman, and you only have men!”

“Ha! Yes, this time the farwarriors are being only men. The women are being the protectors of our home while we are farwalking. Our women are the fiercest warriors. We do leave knowing our women will be fighting with the greatest strength and heart against any who do threaten our people. They are also having the strength of the other men who are not farwalking.”

Frisha wrung her hands anxiously. She had already tried training with Rezkin and had decided being a warrior was not for her. “So, your women are warriors, too? Do you have women chieftains?”

“No, our women do not be sharing in chieftain. The men are not to be fighting against our women. The women are being half of the council, and they do decide which women share in the council. The men are not being involved in this. The Viergnacht Tribe Mother is Auria.”

“Is she your wife?” said Frisha.

Gurrell laughed. “No, Auria is being Olfid’s wife. We are not kin. The women did choose her as tribe mother. After the chieftain wins a challenge, the council does vote to decide which will lead—chieftain or tribe mother. I was selected to be leader, and Auria is my second. While I am away, Auria is being leader.” He motioned over his shoulder to a dark-haired man with matching scars on each of his cheeks. “When I am with the farwarriors, Myerin is my second.”

Frisha hesitated to ask, but her curiosity would not be deterred. “So, if the council is unhappy with the way you are leading—”

“They will be voting for the tribe mother to lead. Auria is a good leader. Our new chieftain must be joining the council. They must know him to make the vote. I am defeated, and now Auria will lead. I will be her second while the chieftain is away. Once the council does vote, he may be leader.”

Inwardly cringing, Frisha said, “So, if the tribe mother does not have to be the chieftain’s wife, then why must I train to be a warrior?”

“You did say that King Rezkin is wanting for Cael to be a warrior kingdom. You are to be his queen. You must be a warrior queen.” Behind him, Myerin grumbled something in their native tongue, and Gurrell stroked his beard thoughtfully. He said, “You are thinking it is not good for you to be learning the fighting of men.”

Frisha was suddenly very pleased with Myerin. “Yes, it does not suit me.”

Gurrell nodded. “You are being right. The women of the mountains tribes do fight differently from the men. Myerin is knowing more of this. His three older sisters did use him for practice as he grew. One of his sisters is now on the council.”

Myerin grinned with pride and slapped his chest.

Gurrell said, “We will be waiting for you in the training grounds.”

The men filed out, and the space suddenly seemed to expand infinitely.

Frisha looked at Tieran who stared at her in defeat. “I’m sorry?”

He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

 

 

Kai strode up beside Rezkin. “May I speak with you?”

The two paused to distance themselves from those ahead, and Jimson pulled the followers back to give them space to talk.

“What is it?” Rezkin said as they resumed walking.

Kai waited a moment and then switched to Leréshi since it was likely only Yserria, and possibly Farson, could understand them. Farson was out scouting, remaining hidden from the mercenaries, and Yserria was too far away to hear. Kai turned to Rezkin and said, “I know you have been confused.”

“About what?”

“Everything. Outworlders. I have been watching you for months now. Your mind is always churning. You observe everything. You think too much. You have been trying to figure them out—us out.” Rezkin nodded, and Kai continued. “What I do not understand is how you can be so confused when you were with the army for a year.”

Rezkin glanced at the others, his gaze lingering on Millins and Jimson. He said, “The army was not the outworld—at least, not in the greater sense. I was trained to understand the army, the regulations, its functions, its people. It was the same with the mercenaries. I was also informed of the kind of men with whom I would be engaging. I knew they would not follow the Rules because they were degenerates. I played a role, and they played theirs.”

“They were not playing roles,” said Kai.

“Perhaps not, but it was all the same to me. As I said, we never went near any settlements. The men lived, ate, slept, and fought together. They also died together. That was all there was. These outworlders,” he said with a nod over his shoulder, “they are not like the soldiers and mercenaries. They are strange to me, but I do understand one thing clearly. Farson is right. I am not one of them. I will never be one of them.”

“We are not all like them. You were trained by strikers. You are like us.”

“No, Kai. You are more like them than you think.”

“How is that?”

“You have ideals. You speak of good and evil as though they are measurable things. You believe in honor and hold it in high regard, whereas I have none.”

“That is untrue. You have spoken often of honoring your friends.”

“Only because it is Rule 1. If not for that, I would not bind myself in such a way. I would have dismissed them as irrelevant—and absurd. But, I must adhere to the Rules.”

Kai did not speak for several minutes. Rezkin watched as a kite swept the sky in lazy circles overhead, and his gaze shifted to the drifting grasses surrounding them. The mercenary company led the procession with one less member than the previous day. The severely injured man had succumbed to fever in the night. Wesson had berated Rezkin for not offering his healing services but had finally accepted his assertion that the man had been too far gone for help. It might have even been true.

The silence that loomed between the footfalls, tromp of hooves, and rickety creaking of the wagon at the front was eventually shattered by Kai’s gruff voice. “You have a sense of right and wrong. I have heard you speak at length about noble duty.”

“It is a role, Kai. If one is to play the noble, he must conduct himself by noble standards.”

“But you understand how those standards came to be. You must value them.”

“Only in that they provide structure to a society that would otherwise endure chaos. The outworlders accept them, so they must live by them. It is their own standard of Rules. When I play the part of the noble, I conduct myself as such. It is not who I am.”

“I do not believe you.”

“It is fact.”

“Oh, I believe that you believe what you are saying, but it is not the truth. I think you underestimate yourself and the connection you have with these people. If you are not the man you profess to be, then who are you?”

Before Rezkin could respond, Farson appeared at his side. “You are free with your words—last night and today. You reveal much. What has loosened your tongue?”

Rezkin ran a thumb along the warm metal of a knife he kept up his sleeve. He had done the same many times as a small-man to remind himself that words could be as dangerous as a blade. He watched the kite swoop in ever tightening circles. He wondered if the citadel’s power was still affecting him and shifted his focus to feel for the warmth of the small stone resting against his chest.

Kai interrupted his thoughts when he blurted, “Is that your cat?”

Rezkin looked down to see the small tortie sitting in the middle of the road staring at him. It flicked its tail and then ran into the grass on the west side of the road. Rezkin’s gaze flicked to the sky, and he followed the kite as it swept around again.

“Raise the alarm. Prepare for battle. Kai, check the rear—Farson, the sides.”

Rezkin yanked the packs from Pride’s back and then threw himself into the saddle. Heavy footfalls tore up dirt and rocks as the horse pounded down the road toward the front of the procession. Men scattered amongst angry shouts but not fast enough. In his urgency, Rezkin was forced to direct Pride into the grass where the chance of a misstep was greater. He had to stop the convoy before they waded into the trap. He was too late.

Rezkin’s furious arrival at the front inspired the drauglics to attack early. Their company had not yet been surrounded, but the horde emerging from the grass was so great it would make no difference. The White Crescents would be overrun.

A horn blared just as the first of the drauglics jumped for Rezkin. Although they were the size of an adolescent child, the creatures were capable of jumping half again their own height. The drauglic crashed into Rezkin’s side, its scaly arms wrapping around him as it gnashed at his throat with its sharp teeth. Rezkin held tight to the saddle as he thrust a dagger into the soft tissue beneath his attacker’s arm. Another drauglic jumped at the stallion’s head, and Pride reared, crushing the creature beneath his massive hooves. Rezkin held tight as the drauglic that had attacked him lost its grip, giving him enough time to draw his sword. The injured drauglic leapt at him again, its perseverance rewarded with a blade through the throat.

Pride gnashed his teeth at another of the creatures and broke through the purple scales on its shoulder. The drauglic shrieked and swung a sharpened stone hatchet at the horse’s neck. Kingslayer took the creature’s arm off as Rezkin drew Bladesunder. He gripped the saddle with his legs as the blades flashed through the air at his sides, scoring scaled flesh and rending armor. One drauglic latched onto Pride’s hindquarters, and Rezkin was glad they had been traveling as mercenaries. The creature’s talons tore through the shabby caparison that hid the quality mail cruppers beneath. Rezkin twisted in his saddle and slashed at the drauglic’s worn armor. As he drew back his blade again, Pride unexpectedly bucked, tossing the drauglic into Rezkin’s back. The creature wrapped its arms, taut with wiry muscle, around Rezkin’s chest, its claws digging into his brigandine.

Rezkin’s muscles clenched as the horse trampled another drauglic, but the thrashing and the weight of the drauglic on his back eventually forced Rezkin from the saddle. Pride kicked out at exactly the wrong time, smacking Bladesunder from his grip in midair. Rezkin landed atop the drauglic, the air knocked from his lungs. He inhaled sharply and then swept Kingslayer across his own chest, amputating one of the creature’s hands. The creature screamed in his ear as Rezkin drew his serrated belt knife. He threw his feet over his head and rolled backward to crouch above the drauglic’s head. He plunged the dagger into the lizard man’s throat, and blood and ragged flesh spewed across his face as he withdrew the wicked weapon.

Rezkin looked up to see a gangly drauglic in patchwork leather armor grinning at him as it collected Bladesunder from the bloodied dirt at his feet. The drauglic’s yellowed, pointed teeth dripped with saliva, and it hissed. With the hilt gripped in both hands, it raised the sword over its head and then shrieked in pained horror. Its hands came down, but it seemed unable to release its grip. The air filled with the scent of charred meat as the flesh beneath the creature’s scales began to glow red and smoke erupted from its hands, which crumbled like blackened soot. Bladesunder toppled to the ground as the drauglic’s scream was silenced by the blue-swirled steel of the sword’s kin.

Rezkin could hear the discordant crescendo of battle, but he had no time to check on his friends. They were at the rear of the convoy, while he was in the thick of the enemy. Pride stomped and thrashed as drauglics jumped at him, slashing with stolen blades and stabbing with primitive spears. Some of the creatures threw stones, and Rezkin was grateful they had no arrows and crossbows. The battle was fierce, and it did not sound like the other horses were faring as well as Pride.

 

 

Wesson stood in the center of the circle with Minder Finwy, his sword wielding companions fending off the enemies advancing on them. From where he was standing, he felt as though the enemies were targeting him, but he knew that was absurd. Everyone was fighting except him and the minder, and the minder, at least, gripped a dagger. Wesson had never acquired any skills with mundane weapons, believing the curse of his destructive power was terror enough. He knew that using that power could expose him and potentially attract the attention of the Purifiers. A part of him, the part that dwelled deep within, the part he kept locked behind a fortress of mental barriers, was fighting for release. It wanted out. It wanted to spew flame and render flesh from bones. It wanted to burst the bodies of his enemies in a bloody rain, a glorious red swath painted across everything in sight. And he wanted to let it.

No, he reminded himself. Beauty before bane, his personal mantra. Quell the storm.

A drauglic lunged at Yserria with a stone club while another raked her across the back with vicious claws that scored so deeply into her armor that a trickle of blood seeped from the wound. She ducked as the club sailed toward her head, and the creature smacked his own comrade in the jaw. The injured drauglic screamed, his jaw hanging limp, and then leapt at the one that had struck him. While the first drauglic was distracted, Yserria threw her weight into a mighty upswing that cleaved the stone-wielding drauglic from the groin, upward through his buttock, to finally lop off the tail. The creature fell writhing to the ground, and the other landed atop him shortly after with a gushing jugular.

Wesson suddenly stumbled as he was shoved from behind. He turned to see Malcius fighting off a drauglic bearing a rusted, broken sword. The creature, which wore an ill-fitted metal helm and chain mail over its torso, was a few inches shorter than Wesson. Although it was strong, it seemed to be having difficulty under the weight of its stolen armor. Its movements were sluggish, but between the metal armor and its natural scales, it was difficult for Malcius to score a fatal blow. Wesson itched to heat the armor until it glowed yellow and burned through the creature. A moment later, Malcius finally prevailed with a jab straight through the drauglic’s mouth into its brain. Wesson’s mind cleared long enough for him to be sickened by the bloodthirsty thoughts. Malcius immediately turned to engage two more of the creatures who were less armored but equally less encumbered.

Beside Malcius, Brandt blocked a swipe of claws with a buckler he must have claimed from one of the drauglics. He slammed the buckler into the creature’s protruding snout and then sliced his sword across the abdomen exposed below the fragmented wooden armor. The creature doubled over as its entrails spilled over its talonned feet, and Brandt kicked it in the head. As it toppled, Brandt spun to attack one of the creatures assaulting Malcius. He sliced the artery of the inner thigh, grabbed the fiend by the tail, and plunged his blade up through the soft tissue into the creature’s torso.

Wesson forced his eyes away from the liquid red curtain to survey the field beyond his protective circle. The mercenaries were enduring the brunt of it. Only one of the horses besides Pride still stood, and the beast that had been pulling the wagon was long since gutted. He could not see Rezkin, but he could still hear the furious shrieks of the battle charger, which he hoped was a sign that the elite warrior was also still alive. Kai and Farson fought between them and the swarm of drauglics that had gotten past the mercenaries, and Jimson and Millins were battling the creatures that flanked them through the tall grass. It was obvious that he and his circle were enduring barely a trickle of the overall assault, and he was frustrated he was the weakest among them without use of the power he so often scorned.

Wesson was about to turn when he saw a drauglic leap at Millins who was manning the rear. The soldier was already engaged with two of the fiends, and his back was left exposed. The lizard man’s talons dug into Millins’s lower back, and it wrapped its muscular arms around his head. Without a second thought, Wesson released a stream of raw power, a graceless spell lacking substantial form. The three drauglics and two more beyond simultaneously exploded. Loose flesh, shards of bone, heads, and limbs were ejected several paces in every direction. Those pieces that had sailed upward came raining down with satisfying thuds, and the prostrate Millins was buried under the shower of bodily debris.

 

Rezkin felt the shock of the spell just as it was released. He had but to wait a breath before it activated. From where he was, he could not see the effect, but he knew that if Wesson had taken the chance on using his power, his friends had to have been in grave danger. He was sure that Wesson would protect them if the situation became dire, but he hoped the mercenaries had not seen the action. The fact that they might have born witness to an act that in any other kingdom would have been respectable did not seem like a satisfactory reason for killing men who had martial value.

It had been some time since he had been in a battle this brutal. These drauglics had little or no concern for their own lives, and they attacked with ferocity. Although drauglics had always been fierce foes, they tended to retreat when it appeared they might lose too many. Rezkin had not yet found the ukwa, the leader or chief of the drauglic clan who would sound the call for retreat. While their language was primitive and seemed to have few words, the ukwa held a position of such importance as to be graced with a drauglic title.

Rezkin finished off the five closest drauglics with a flurry of Sheyalin slashes and thrusts and then rushed into the tall grass from which the creatures were attacking. Several of the lizard men scattered upon his approach, startled into running rather than fighting. He hacked through a number of others, leaving a bloody trail in his wake until he finally fell upon his prey. The ukwa was standing on a crudely constructed mound of dirt, stones, and hay so that it could see over the swaying grasses to the battlefield. It appeared to be caked in dried green mud that Rezkin knew to be the dried feces of its followers. The scholars and mages who studied such things posited that doing so allowed the drauglics to scent their leader. Luckily for Rezkin, it was also easy for anyone else to scent the ukwa, particularly if the ordure was fresh.

The ukwa saw Rezkin approaching before he could reach the creature. It screamed a senseless cadence, and the half dozen lizard men who surrounded him echoed his call. The dwindling horde of creatures that were engaged in battle shrieked in unison and then began to retreat. Many flew past Rezkin without even attempting to strike at him, although that did not stop him from hewing down those within his reach. Within minutes, the entire clan had retreated into the grass, and the tousle of stalks continued beyond his view of the horizon.

After searching the immediate area for any stragglers, Rezkin strode down the path of detrital gore that he had paved through the pasture. When he arrived at its end, the remaining men and one woman were gathered at the epicenter of the battle where Rezkin had made his stand. Everyone was keeping a safe distance from the battle charger whose eyes were still rolling as he snorted and stomped on the bodies of dead lizard men. The mercenaries and his friends were covered in blood, much of it their own. Of everyone, Wesson was the cleanest, and he stood pensively hiding in the rear. Farson and Kai were speaking quietly several paces from the others. Their injuries appeared to be minor, but it was always difficult to tell with strikers. Like Rezkin, they were trained to hide their weaknesses. Malcius, Brandt, Yserria, and Minder Finwy all had deep cuts on their limbs and torsos, Millins was laid out on the ground, his shoulders propped against the wagon, and Jimson gripped a dislocated arm, seemingly unconcerned with the seeping gashes across his cheek and jaw.

The mercenaries had fared far worse. Of the twenty-seven from the previous day, only twelve remained, and all their horses were lost. Orin stood in the center of the mounded ring of drauglic bodies. He was slathered in gore, his left hand wrapped in a blood-sodden rag. Rezkin guessed the man had lost a few fingers.

The mercenary leader spit a glob of bloody phlegm and said, “Ya see that line over there by the wagon?”

Rezkin surveyed the area. A number of drauglic and mercenary bodies were concentrated in the location. Rezkin nodded.

“My men and yours fought over there—on the other side.” His gaze roved over the surrounding mounds. “I’d say more than half of the dead lizard demons are on this side. On this side of the line was you. You and that beast you call a horse.” He glanced past Rezkin down the bloody path. “Who knows what ya left out there?”

Rezkin adopted a feral grin. With a sloppy Gendishen drawl, he said, “Whether you run cryin’ or bear the torch, I’m there. I am the darkness.” Orin looked at him like he was mad. Satisfied, Rezkin lightened his tone. “I didn’t kill them all, if that’s what yer askin’. They run off into the grass. Thing about drauglics is, if ya sneak up on them, they’ll run. But, if they get all hyped up to fight, they don’t stop—not ’till the ukwa calls them off.”

Blood dripped from Orin’s braided, black beard, but he did not seem to notice or care. “The ukwa?”

“Their chief,” Rezkin said as he stepped over bodies to reach Pride.

Orin never took his eyes off Rezkin. “Couldn’t help but notice over half my men are dead and all yers are still standin’. Well, save that one”—he nodded toward Millins who appeared pained but awake—“but he don’t look to be checkin’ out.”

Rezkin said nothing as he examined a few of the drauglic bodies on the ground.

“I guess I’m startin’ to believe yer fish tale,” said Orin. When Rezkin neglected to answer, the man said, “What’s yer plan now?”

Orin’s face was pale, and Rezkin realized the mercenary was probably in shock or he would have been seeing to his wounds instead of asking questions. Rezkin muttered softly to the horse and stroked and petted his neck and sides as he examined Pride’s injures. Once the stallion was calm enough to be led, Rezkin took the reins and started toward the rear of the convoy where he had left his packs.

“Hey!” Orin said as Rezkin made to pass. “I asked what yer plannin’.”

Rezkin shrugged. With a nod, he said, “Ask the boss.”

Orin glanced toward Kai who was watching the exchange with a sharp gaze while maintaining quiet conversation with Farson.

“You still expect me to believe he’s in charge?”

“Don’t matter who’s in charge. He’s the one ya gotta speak to. I’m busy.”

Orin turned to his men. Those who could stand were helping the less fortunate move to a clear area where they could tend to their injuries. The mercenary leader held his hands out to the carnage in disbelief. “He’s busy, he says.”

As Rezkin passed, Farson looked at him deadpan and muttered, “Seriously? I am the darkness?”

Rezkin grinned. “Outworlders enjoy theatrics.”

He was in the midst of cleaning, stitching, and bandaging Pride’s wounds when Malcius approached.

“What are you doing? Can you not see that people are injured? You care more for the welfare of the horse?”

Dipping his fingers into the ointment, Rezkin answered quietly. “We cannot afford for his wounds to fester. It would be much more difficult to tend to a feverish battle charger without the aid of a healer or life mage. Also, right now he is worn from the effort and energy of the battle. Later, he will be rested and churlish. Trust me when I say that we do not desire for him to turn his ill temper on us.”

Malcius glanced back to the evidence of Pride’s brutality. “No, I should say not. But you will see to the others?”

“None of you look to be dying.”

Malcius scowled. “This will surely scar,” he said, pointing to the gash on his neck.

Rezkin said, “I believe warriors enjoy showing off their war wounds.” He did not mention that if the laceration had been a thumb’s width to the left, Malcius would have bled out within minutes.

Malcius huffed. “Millins is the worst. Those horrid talons ripped into his back and hips. Kai has already seen to Jimson’s arm. We can all use some stitches and ointment.”

“You already know I intend to assist you, Malcius.”

“Do I? What about the mercenaries? You let that one die last night.”

“To aid him would have been to risk exposure for what was likely a lost cause.”

“You might have saved his life,” Malcius replied.

Rezkin met the young lord’s angry gaze. “And he would have lost it today.”

“You did not know we would be attacked. Or did you?”

Shaking his head, Rezkin said, “No, of course not. Do you think that if I had, I would not have planned for it?”

“What now, then? Will you help the mercenaries, too, or let them suffer and die?”

“I will assist. Let them think I picked up some few healing skills in the army. We shall not mention which army.”

Malcius nodded, seemingly satisfied, until Rezkin said, “Hold this,” as he pulled together split horse flesh. Cautiously, Malcius approached the deadly equine and placed his hands as instructed. A massive black head snaked around, and Malcius yelped as if the horse would bite him. The beast merely rolled his eyes in challenge.

After seeing to the worst of Pride’s injuries, Rezkin cleaned and stitched Millins. Someone had started a small fire, and the mercenaries were busy cauterizing the worst of their wounds. It was a primitive technique, one used by men with no knowledge or skill in the proper stitching and dressing of wounds. Unfortunately, most who did not die from the wound succumbed to infection. The survivors were left with unsightly and possibly disabling scars. In Gendishen, where even mundane healers were often accused of cavorting with evil spirits or demons, people were willing to risk infection over outright blood loss.

Rezkin was in the midst of stitching Millins’s wounds when Wesson squatted beside him in the shadow of the wagon.

“Do you think any of them saw?” the mage asked.

“I do not believe so. If they had, we would surely know of it by now.”

Wesson glanced at the mercenaries pensively. One of them, in particular, was staring at them. “Perhaps, but it could be that they are pretending not to know until they find a purifier. Maybe they are afraid that if I know that they know, we will kill them.”

“We will,” said Rezkin. At Wesson’s disapproving glance, he said, “It is not my preference either, but if allowed to live, they will betray us.”

“You cannot know that. I cannot believe that everyone in this kingdom is so cruel and hateful. They should be given a chance.”

Rezkin gave him a disparaging look. “A chance to betray us?”

“No, a chance to prove themselves.”

Rezkin shook his head. “I recognize your conviction, but if they fail and behave exactly as we expect them to, we will be the losers.”

“He’s right,” said Millins. The sergeant was damp with sweat, and his eyes were glossy, but he was aware enough to follow the conversation. “These people … the sentence for harboring or aiding the afflicted is torture and death. They will not risk that for you.”

Rezkin did not wish to continue the discussion where they could so easily be overheard, so he ordered the mage to check on the others. Although Wesson had no innate healing ability, and he could not have used it if he had, he did have some education in anatomy and mundane treatments. Wesson stood and bumped into Minder Finwy as he left to do Rezkin’s bidding. Rezkin felt the minder’s gaze as he finished the final suture. He applied additional ointment to the wounds and then sparingly applied the bandages. The others still required treatment, and he had no idea if they would be attacked again before he was able to replenish his supply.

As Rezkin collected his supplies, he said to the minder, “If you were hoping to aid the sergeant in his passing, your services will not be required.”

Millins gave the minder a wary look and shook his head.

Finwy smiled and said, “No, it seems you have done well enough to prevent that.” He glanced up to see that the mercenaries were still gathered afar and said, “This is not the behavior I would have expected of the dark warrior who defied Ionius in his own throne room.”

“You were there?” Rezkin said.

“I was.”

“Then you should know already that my concern was for my people. Sergeant Millins is one of them.”

Finwy dropped his gaze to the listless soldier. “Ionius also believes his concern to be for his people, but I doubt anyone would ever find him administering to their needs personally.”

“I have the Skills, we are few, and many are injured. Ionius has plenty of people to see to the needs of others in his stead.”

“You defend him?”

“No, I concur with your conclusion. It is unlikely, however, that he would ever be put to the test.”

“Yet you would not hesitate to kill others who have done no wrong.”

“Would you kill someone to prevent a terrible injustice that has not yet occurred but that you know will happen if you do nothing? Or will you allow it to happen and then punish others for the offense? If you know it is going to occur, are you not also culpable for doing nothing to prevent it?”

“I see your point. It is a most difficult conundrum. I would look to the Maker to guide me.”

“And if the Maker is silent?”

“When the Maker is silent, it is because the experience of making the choice is more important than the outcome.”

“If the Maker denies his counsel when it is requested, then how can one be held accountable for making the wrong choice?”

Finwy tilted his head. “Perhaps neither decision is wrong. Perhaps it is about how we deal with the effects of making that choice.”

“One of those effects being the judgment of others?”

“You will be judged no matter the choice you make.”

“Which is why I do not concern myself with the judgment of others.”

Finwy looked at him doubtfully. “Is that so?”

“I follow the Rules, and so I prevail. Eventually, I will not. The opinions of others concern me only in so far as they either aid or obstruct my plans.”

“Whose rules are those?”

“I do not know who made the Rules.” He turned to check the status of his friends as he said, “Perhaps it was the Maker.”

Followed closely by the minder, Rezkin meandered between the corpses to where the mercenaries were tending their wounded. They rejected his offer of aid, insisting that they were as capable as any field medic. They were not, but Rezkin had no desire to argue the point. His friends were assuaged that he had tried.

“We’ll need the horse to pull the wagon,” Orin said for the seventh time.

“No,” Rezkin replied, for the seventh time.

“Yer a selfish bastard, thinkin’ that beast you pass off as a war horse is too good to be pullin’ a wagon. We’ve got half the wealth of the White Crescents in that wagon.”

“I’ve told you. That horse won’t pull a wagon,” Rezkin said. “You try to hitch him up, and you won’t have a wagon left to pull.”

“You whip him good, and he’ll learn,” Orin groused.

Rezkin scoffed. “He’s a finely trained war horse. Ain’t no one gonna break him to pull a damned wagon.”

Kai said, “You try to whip that horse, it’ll be the last thing you do.”

Orin spied the stallion out of the corner of his eye. He shouted to his men to gather what they could carry and then push the wagon into the grass, covering the tracks as best they could. As he turned away, he muttered, “Bloody horse killed more drauglics than I did. I don’t know how you got such a beast, but he’s as ornery as you. The both of you—killin’ things and doin’ whatever the hells you want. You deserve each other!”

A strange sound erupted beside Kai. Rezkin had never heard Farson laugh, but he was laughing now. Rezkin had no idea what was so funny. He and Pride were both trained to be efficient and effective in battle. They were a matched pair, as they should be.

Those well enough for the task dug shallow graves for the fallen mercenaries and then put as much distance between themselves and the carnage as they could. With a single camp, the healthiest kept watch in shifts while the injured fell into fitful, feverish slumber. When Orin became too delirious to reject the healing draught, Rezkin poured it down the mercenary leader’s throat. Although Orin’s death would have been an opportune time for Rezkin to claim his men, he was disinclined to suffer the trouble. He was satisfied to let Orin keep the other mercenaries in line, and Rezkin was reasonably sure the man knew where he stood.

The following day was worse. The wind whipped across the prairie, and every inch of skin not covered suffered its ill effects. Seeds and pollen danced on the breeze like tiny pixies, and every time the travelers were forced to leave the road, the grasses lashed at their arms and legs. The aches from the previous day’s abuse had set in, and no one had slept well during the night. They were all too aware that an unknown number of drauglics had escaped and could attack again at any time. Eager for the safety of walls and other men, they trudged forward, injured and without horses, forced to carry their own supplies.

Just after midday, a plantation came into sight. It was far from the road, but the dirt wagon trail had been well maintained. The main house was a large, one-story affair, the kind that wrapped around an inner courtyard. The trim and sills were painted yellow, and white lace blew in the breeze from the open windows. Several outbuildings dotted the property, including quarters for field hands, a barn, smokehouse, and drying shed, along with three squat silos. A trail of large stepping stones led through the shorn lawn to a rustic gazebo that stood in the shade of a few cultivated trees beside a small pond. With autumn near, the cool breeze swept over the short stone wall, still warm from the late summer sun, and insects buzzed and snapped a soothing cadence. It was a tranquil scene, designed and sustained by the loving care of a tender heart, except for all the blood.

Bits of bloody hooves and tufts of fur were scattered in the pens. Smeared across the front porch and along the yard was a dry, rusty trail, and scraps of shredded clothing were strewn over the dirt and grass, some still containing body parts. Carrion birds squawked as they fought over the remnants. Pride snorted and stomped over the debris toward a low trough to one side of the barn. The horse vigorously expressed his displeasure as he was forced to wait while Rezkin inspected the water.

Meanwhile, Kai motioned to Brandt. “Check the well,” he said. “Mal, watch the field by the house.” He switched to Leréshi when speaking to Yserria, instructing her to keep an eye on the road. He then followed Farson toward the other outbuildings while Orin and his men prepared to enter the house.

Rezkin drew Bladesunder and stepped into the barn. It was dark inside, and his eyes required a moment to adjust, but his nose had already told him what he wanted to know. Once he could see properly, he checked each stall for confirmation. Rats scattered upon his approach, screeching their displeasure with his arrival. Everything that had been kept in the barn at the time of the attack had been killed. The carcasses of the larger beasts remained, mutilated and divested of their flesh. One did not have to study the plethora of vaguely manlike tracks and deep gouges to know what had happened.

A pained shout sounded from the yard, and Rezkin rushed to meet the foe. When he arrived, though, he saw only his party rushing toward Brandt who was tugging something heavy from the well. Tears streamed down Brandt’s face as he gripped the pale, sodden lump in his arms. It was a small-man, a child, Rezkin reminded himself. The boy appeared to be around nine years old. He could not have been dead for more than a few hours, and he bore no visible injuries.

“He was tied to the rope,” Brandt said through choked sobs.

Rezkin scanned the grasses in the distance as he spoke. “This attack appears to have occurred a few days ago. His parents probably lowered him into the well for protection. The water is cold, though, and he likely lost consciousness before drowning.”

Malcius frowned down at Brandt, obviously disturbed by the sight of the boy but also concerned for his friend. “He is not Alon. Did you hear me, Brandt? He is not your brother.”

Brandt squeezed his eyes shut and took several deep breaths. He lowered the child to the ground and turned away as he regained his feet. “I know. I, ah, need a moment.”

“Do not go far,” Rezkin said. “We know not what dangers lie in wait.” He motioned to Wesson. “Cap the well and mark it. We should not drink the water. We can get what we need from the troughs for now.”

Malcius’s face screwed up in disgust. “You want us to drink from animal troughs?”

“The one by the barn looks clean enough, or would you prefer to drink from the well of the dead?”

“No, the trough will do,” Malcius said begrudgingly.

Orin came tromping from the house with a dagger in hand. “What’s all the fuss about out here?” Then he noticed the lifeless boy. “Ah, I see. We’ll get him buried. Yer priest can say a few words.” He cleared his throat and motioned back at the house. “It’s a bit of a wreck, but looks like most of the blood’s on the outside. It’d be better to take up in the house tonight than risk the fields. If we start early, we’ll be in Behrglyn before sundown.”

The mercenary was looking at him, but Rezkin glanced toward Kai. The striker jumped at the silent instruction. “A’right, sound like a plan. Let’s see what food stores they’ve got. Don’t think we’ll be huntin’ ’round here.”

Orin grumbled, “Like as not, we’ll be the ones is hunted.”

Hours later, the sun had not yet met the horizon and the group had already reinforced the doors and windows. They had just finished eating their meal when one of the mercenaries came rushing in to alert them of the new arrivals. A mounted Gendishen military patrol was moving up the road toward the house. Rezkin and Kai shifted to the nearest window, and Malcius and Brandt ducked in beneath them for a view. Dozens of soldiers rode Gendishen reds—at the front, a dergmyer, an army rank roughly equivalent to an Ashaiian major. Beside him was a myer, which was similar to a captain. Behind them were two older men and a young woman in brown robes. Each was adorned with a snakeskin baldric upon which glinted numerous small metals and talismans. The woman carried a wooden pole with two iron rings holding multiple sets of chained shackles dangling from the top.

“Who are they?” Brandt said.

 “Those in the brown robes are purifiers,” Rezkin replied.

As they filed into the yard, the mercenaries partially blocked their view of the approaching convoy.

Kai hummed under his breath. “It is unusual to see a dergmyer on patrol.”

Rezkin stepped away from the window and turned to see Wesson staring toward the blocked window. The young mage’s expressive face bore a mixture of fear and anger.

“You should stay as far from them as possible. We do not know how effective your amulet will be against whatever method they use to identify the talented.”

“Then we should test it,” Wesson said.

Rezkin glimpsed the large patrol. “This is not the best time.”

Wesson said, “What? We should wait until we are confined to a city, surrounded by people?”

It was completely unlike Wesson to so openly express his disapproval of Rezkin’s decisions, but Rezkin knew the mage was sensitive about the issue. Rezkin glanced toward Minder Finwy who stood silently watching from the doorway that led to the next room and then looked back to Wesson. “If we test it, and it does not work, we will have to kill everyone out there—the purifiers, the soldiers, and the mercenaries. Can you live with that?”

Wesson turned away and huffed in frustration. “No, I do not want that.”

Kai said, “We have trouble.”

“What is it?” Rezkin said as he moved back toward the window.

“They are moving in to seize Orin and his men.”

“Do you see any of ours?” Rezkin said, since Farson, Jimson, and Yserria had been keeping watch outside when the patrol arrived.

“No.”

“I pulled them back,” Farson said as he suddenly appeared from behind.

Rezkin rested a hand on Brandt’s shoulder. “Keep an eye out the window.” He turned to Farson. “Why are they detaining the mercs?

“They think we had something to do with the destruction here. Orin has been trying to explain, but the dergmyer does not believe the drauglics exist.”

Brandt called out, “They are coming.”

Rezkin wrapped his worn brown cloak around him and pulled the hood over his head. To Farson, he said, “The others?”

“They are in position.”

“In position for what?” Malcius asked. As Rezkin moved away, Malcius called, “Wait, in position for what?”

“Be quiet,” Kai huffed. “They are in position to attack if need be. Come with me, and I will position the two of you as well.”

“We are going to attack a double army patrol?” Malcius exclaimed.

“If necessary,” Kai said. “Would you rather be executed for murders you did not commit?”

Rezkin stepped through the doorway onto the front porch but stopped when he noticed a small black and brown splotched cat lying in his path. He made to step around the cat, but it gained its feet quickly then wound itself in figure eights around and between his feet. He wondered if it was a sign that he should wait. He looked to the patrol that was gathered in the road and side yard. Since he stood in the shadow cast by the setting sunlight, they had not yet seen him. Orin’s men knelt in the dirt in a line, and a soldier was preparing to bind their arms.

“Get them,” the dergmyer said.

Orin got to his feet and then turned toward the house. He glanced up to see Rezkin as he stepped into the shade of the porch.

“I’m s’posed to bring y’all out. They think we attacked the plantation, and they won’t listen to reason.”

“Why are they here?” Rezkin said.

“They said they was sent to investigate reports of killings and people gone missin’. They ain’t seen the drauglics yet. They says if we give up without a fight, they’ll take us back to Fort Ulep for a trial.” He glanced back to see his men kneeling in the dirt. “Between us, I don’t think they plan to wait. Yers is in good shape, mostly. I wouldn’t blame you if you take yer men and run.”

Rezkin met the mercenary’s determined gaze. “Yer prepared to die with yer men.”

Orin looked at his men again. “I must.”

“They’re yer friends then?”

“As close as I got, I guess.”

“Are you prepared to fight fer ’em?” asked Rezkin. Orin looked at him in confusion. Rezkin said, “Yer not supposed to fight unless ya have to, but yer not supposed to get captured or die neither. You protect yerself first, except when it comes to yer friends. You gotta take care of them. Now, yer supposed to retreat when ya can’t win, but this ain’t one of those times.”

“What do you mean? There’s a double cavalry patrol out there. We got less than two dozen and most of ’em is injured or captured or both. We try to fight, and we’ll all get killed.”

“Some of ’em, maybe, but we can win. I know our abilities.”

“That’s ridiculous. Even if we did win, that’s the king’s army. We’ll be hunted fer treason and murder.”

“Drauglics’ll probably take care of the evidence,” Rezkin said. “Besides, we need horses, and they’ve got horses.”

“They’ve taken our weapons.”

Rezkin unstrapped the small crossbow he had hidden beneath his cloak. He handed it and a leather roll of bolts to the mercenary. “I expect these back when we’re done.”

Orin took the weapon, looking at Rezkin cautiously. “I don’t remember seein’ these on you.”

Rezkin shook his head. “That’s the point.”

Intentionally scuffing his feet in the dirt, Rezkin strode across the road with an indolent swagger, his cloak slapping against his legs. “A’right, I’m here. What do you want?”

The dergmyer ignored him completely as he supervised the delivery of the horses to the vacant animal pens.

“Take him into custody,” said the myer.

Rezkin pushed his cloak back to reveal the sword hilts at his hips. “I’ll warn ya, I don’t intend to go peaceably.”

The myer huffed. “If you cause trouble, we will not hesitate to kill these men.”

With a lazy sweep of his gaze over the haggard faces of the kneeling men, Rezkin shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. Ain’t my men.”

“You are not with them?” said the myer. When Rezkin gave no answer, he pointed to Orin and said, “Well, I know them to be his men, and he might not appreciate your causing their deaths.”

Rezkin said, “Way I see it, you kill them, it’s you is causing their deaths. Don’t matter no how. He’s already decided his men are as good as dead. He don’t plan to go peaceably neither.”

Orin raised the crossbow with his good hand to aim at the myer from where he stood a few paces to Rezkin’s right.

The myer gave Rezkin a look that thoroughly expressed his dismay. He waved to the several dozen armed men behind him and said, “Do you not see that the two of you are outnumbered nearly forty to one? There is no need for you to go down fighting. If you surrender, we will take you to Ulep for a trial.”

“Why would you do that? You ain’t even investigated yet, and you’ve already decided we’re guilty.”

“It’s obvious what happened here,” the myer huffed.

“It is,” Rezkin agreed, “if you care to look. It was drauglics.”

The dergmyer walked up behind the myer who respectfully ceded the position. “Why have you not captured this man?”

“He says he intends to fight,” said the myer.

The officers’ attention was diverted when Minder Finwy approached from Rezkin’s other side. Finwy said, “Sir—”

“Dergmyer.”

Finwy tilted his head. “Dergmyer, I am Minder Finwy, assistant to Minder Barkal of the Temple of the Maker in Serret. I have been traveling with these men, and I assure you, they had nothing to do with the deaths on this plantation. None were living when we arrived.”

The dergmyer glanced from the minder to Rezkin to Orin and back to Rezkin. The dergmyer raised a hand and flicked a finger. “Shoot them.”

The lead archer raised his bow, and seven others followed. Before the first arrow was released, Orin had already shot off a bolt and Rezkin had drawn his swords. The silver blades flashed in the waning light as each arrow was knocked aside or cleaved in two. The minder and Orin, for all his bluster, both dove behind Rezkin for cover, but the mercenary was not fast enough to avoid an arrow through the leg.

As soon as the commotion started, Kai and Farson began picking off troops from the rear. The shouts initially went unnoticed, since Rezkin was keeping the closest troops and most of the officers busy. The unbound mercenaries responded quickly to fight for their lives. They attacked the nearest soldiers, collecting weapons as soon as they became available. One of the mercenaries was rendered unconscious before he even gained his feet but was saved from a killing strike by his comrade.

From the field on the right, Yserria danced into the fray, each of her graceful movements ending in a bloody swath. Jimson was at her side, and Malcius and Brandt were farther down the line. Most of the horses were gathered in the yard or were already in pens, but those still in the road were spooked. Some of them trampled the soldiers in their escape to the fields, likely to be eaten by drauglics if they did not return quickly.

While the soldiers, mercenaries, and Rekzin’s friends were fighting, the purifiers huddled around their pole of shackles. As Rezkin waded closer, he began to feel the tingle of mage power, and he realized that it was emanating from all three of them. Heavily engaged with a practiced opponent, Malcius was suddenly smashed against an invisible barrier, as if a wall stood between him and the purifiers. The female purifier reached into her robe and withdrew a long dagger. With a hateful glare, she lunged for him. Although Malcius was unaware of the attempted assault, he rolled out of the way just in time to avoid both the dagger and the sword strike aimed at his head. His opponent’s blade collided with the ward, deflected unexpectedly, and he stumbled. Malcius took advantage of the error and plunged his sword into the man’s exposed back.

Rezkin realized the barrier only blocked objects from passing in one direction when the woman suddenly charged through to attack Malcius from behind. Rezkin grabbed for a dagger, but before he could release it, an arrow sailed into the woman’s heart. Malcius and Rezkin both glanced to see that Yserria had liberated a bow and arrows from one of the dead archers, and she was apparently an excellent shot. Yserria lowered the bow just as Kai crashed into a man who was approaching her from behind. Farson swept across the road, making quick work of the remaining soldiers in the surrounding cluster. The surprise attack on the troops had been swift and efficient. Before long, soldiers began throwing their weapons aside and laying prostrate on the ground as a sign of surrender. Those that remained lost morale when they realized their officers had been the first to fall. The mercenary company lost another member and a second was severely wounded, but they had killed all but ten soldiers and two purifiers who were taken prisoner. They had also gained a little over sixty Gendishen red cavalry horses.

Orin groaned as he hobbled over to Rezkin. “What’ve we done?”

“Saved our lives,” Rezkin said.

“We’ll be lucky to be hung for this,” the mercenary mumbled.

“They were going to kill us anyway.”

Orin nodded. “No way to win.”

“We did win. The problem is them,” Rezkin said, pointing to the prisoners. Jimson and Kai were binding the soldiers’ hands while the others searched bodies and gathered horses.

Orin limped up to the prisoners, a broken arrow protruding from his calf. He leaned toward them and yelled, “I told yer commander we had nothin’ to do with it! They was gone or dead when we got here. But he had to blame me and my men! Now these’re all dead”—he waved toward the bodies scattered over the ground—“and we’re stuck with you lot! What do you expect us to do now?”

The prisoners glanced at each other, and one of the younger soldiers said, “You could let us go?”

Orin frowned at him. “Let you go? So you can get another patrol—or a battalion—and come after us?” He limped and huffed and growled and then kicked a rock in frustration. It thudded off the temple of a fresh corpse, which sent him into another juvenile tirade.

Yserria watched the rugged mercenary with fascination and muttered to Rezkin in Leréshi, “Men are too emotional.”

 Orin stopped in his tracks and said, “What did she say?” He took a few steps forward and raised a finger along with his voice. “What did she say?”

“You should not let down your guard.”

“Ah,” Orin said as he released a breath. “Well, the Leréshi’s right. Enemies are all around.” He narrowed his eyes at the prisoners and motioned for Rezkin to step aside. “We’ve got drauglics—drauglics! And now our own army. But you, you could’ve left. You don’t know us. Why’d you stay and get yerself into this mess?”

Rezkin shrugged. “We needed the horses.”

“Bah, Behrglyn’s a day away. You coulda gotten horses there without makin’ an enemy of the king. Why’d you help us?”

Rezkin glanced at Kai who was selecting the best horses. “Boss says we fight, we fight.” Orin gave him a dubious look. Rezkin grinned. “We coulda killed you and taken yer horses when we first met.” With a nod toward the house, he said, “My friend in there don’t like senseless killin’.”

“The pretty one? I noticed he weren’t out here fightin’. So he’s the conscience and yer the sword?”

Rezkin tilted his head. It was an idea he would have to consider later. He shrugged and said, “Somethin’ like that. Besides, it woulda been a waste of resources. Yer men came in handy durin’ the battle with the drauglics. No tellin’ how many more we’ll meet.”

“Maybe, but now we’ve got them to worry about. Once they blab, the king’ll have an army after us.”

“Dead men can’t talk,” Rezkin said. Finwy looked up, obviously paying attention despite his preoccupied appearance, and Rezkin’s friends shared an uncomfortable glance.

The young soldier scrambled forward on his knees and exclaimed, “But we surrendered.”

Rezkin looked at the man with an icy gaze. “The mercs surrendered earlier, and your dergmyer woulda had them killed anyway. You’d’ve done the killin’ when he’d ordered it.”

Tears welled in the young man’s eyes as he shook his head. “No! I mean, I have to follow orders, but I wouldn’t want to.”

“Well, I don’t want to have to kill you,” Rezkin replied, “but yer a threat.”

The older purifier interrupted. “We are servants of the Maker. We do his bidding. You cannot kill us.”

Orin limped over to the man. He pointed back at Minder Finwy and said, “That’s a servant of the Maker, and yer troops tried to put an arrow through him. Damned purifiers—think they can go around takin’ and killin’ anyone they please who ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

The purifiers both looked at the mercenary with fury in their dark gazes. The eldest said, “The afflicted have made pacts with demons. What could be worse?”

“Says you!” Orin said. “I don’t trust the scourge no more than you, but the rest of the world is sayin’ they’re blessed of the Maker.” He waved at the minder who was wandering about mouthing silent words over the dead. Finwy looked up and nodded then went back to his ministrations. “It always felt kinda wrong, but truth is, I didn’t care much before. I ain’t sayin’ I want anythin’ to do with the scourge. I don’t like no one havin’ that kind of power so as I can’t fight against it; but now I know what it’s like being accused of something I didn’t do and havin’ people gonna kill you fer it. That’s wrong!”

The sun had finally descended below the horizon, and Kai and Farson delivered a lamp and a few hastily made torches. Farson came to stand at Rezkin’s side.

“What do you intend to do now?” he asked in Pruari, since it was unlikely anyone present would speak the language. “We cannot keep prisoners. Will you kill them?”

“It is what you taught, yet I feel it is not what you want,” Rezkin replied.

Farson was silent for too long, but Rezkin waited. Finally, the striker said, “It would be a mistake to let them go.”

“If I kill them, I will lose the respect, and possibly the loyalty, of my people.”

“You are at war. They will have to learn that there are difficult choices to be made.”

“We are not at war with Gendishen,” Rezkin said.

“We could take the horses we need and run off the rest. It will take them some time to report and without the use of a mage relay, they may be unable to get word ahead of us.”

Rezkin shook his head. “That may not be true. The purifiers are mages.”

“You are certain?” Farson said with genuine surprise, “Mages are killing their own?”

“I am surprised the strikers were not aware of it,” Rezkin said.

“We have never been able to infiltrate the purifiers, and I am not sure Privoth even knows how they do what they do. It makes sense, though. Only one with the talent can sense them, and they would sense someone with the talent who is not of their order.”

Rezkin’s intense gaze was dark in the flickering shadows of the torch light. “Only those with talent?”

Farson looked away, but, for once, he did not avoid the question. “I have no answer for that. I know not how you do it. Your masters said you are not a mage, and all the talented strikers confirmed it. Somehow Peider and Jaiardun trained you to fend off mage attacks and walk through wards, and I never knew what to believe. I truly thought you had the answer, but I am no longer certain.”

Rezkin could appreciate the sentiment. The only thing he could be certain about with Farson was that he could never trust the man, and his former trainer would be disappointed in him if he did. He put those thoughts aside and said, “We need to consult with Wesson, but we will have to separate the purifiers from the others. I still do not want his abilities exposed to Orin and his men. Place the purifiers in their own shackles. They are enchanted with runes to prevent mages from using their powers.”

“So what do we do with the others?”

Everyone waited in silence during their exchange. Rezkin could feel his friends’ eyes on him. He needed more time to come up with a plan that could protect his friends and preserve their honor. “Move them to the courtyard for now.”

The purifiers were placed under guard in the outbuilding that had once housed the ranch hands. It was safest to keep everyone together in case the drauglics returned. The scent of the carnage in the yard would surely attract their attention if they were near. For this task, though, they had to maintain secrecy.

Wesson stepped through the doorway into the small front room of the lodging. A table was pushed up against the far wall, and each of the purifiers sat on the floor tied to a table leg. Dressed as he was, Wesson was not the most convincing mercenary, but no one would have guessed he was a powerful mage. The purifiers barely gave him a glance. Wesson noticed a small furry animal dart into the building behind him. It strutted into the corner and then sprawled lazily on the ground, blinking large yellow eyes and flicking its tail.

Wesson glanced at Rezkin. “Is that your—”

“Get on with it,” Rezkin said.

Wesson glanced at the cat one more time and then slowly approached the purifiers. They did not react until he was within six feet of them. At that point, both of their heads came up, each bearing an expression of contempt.

“Afflicted,” growled the eldest.

Wesson spoke in Gendishen so the purifiers would not know they were Ashaiian—just in case Rezkin decided to let them live. For once, Wesson thought he would not mind if Rezkin chose death. “They are still bound by the shackles?”

“Shackles and mage rope,” Rezkin replied.

“Interesting. What kind of mages are you?” Wesson asked.

“We are not mages,” the eldest said. “We purge the scourge from this realm, back to H’khajnak where it belongs.”

 “How do you know I am a mage?” Wesson asked.

“We can see and feel your filth. It spreads from your core to infest every inch of your being. By now it has surely suffused your mind. Let us rid you of its taint so that it does not consume your soul as well.”

Wesson squatted in front of them. “How do you propose to do that?”

The purifier stared at Wesson intently, appearing as though truly concerned. “We take what is pure for preservation. We would rescue your soul from its afflicted vessel.”

“I see. In other words, you would kill me.”

“It is the only way. Any death will do, but purification by fire will surely cleanse the deepest desecration.”

“You want me to volunteer to be burned at the stake?”

“Many of the afflicted understand the terrible curse they bear. They choose to sacrifice their plagued corporeal vessels and preserve their family names. A true self-sacrifice is the only way to ensure the curse is not carried on in the blood.”

“If they do not?” Wesson asked.

“They are burned anyway, and their families with them, along with anyone else believed to be aiding them.” The man turned his attention toward Rezkin and said, “Anyone who turns in an afflicted may be granted a stay of execution in exchange for a penance.”

“You should not bother with him,” Wesson said. “He has extreme methods of negotiating. I do not think you would like them.” The purifiers looked at Rezkin uncertainly, and Wesson changed the subject. “What do you see when you look at me?”

The one who had been speaking snapped his mouth shut and looked away. The younger one stared at the elder, silently urging him to answer. He glanced anxiously at Rezkin and then looked back to Wesson. “We cannot see the scourge while wearing the shackles.”

“If we remove the shackles, you can actually see it?” Wesson said.

The younger nodded vigorously. “Yes, I can tell you what it looks like. If you could see it, you would understand how it infests the body. It is everywhere. It seeps out and stretches to touch others. Those of us blessed by the Maker to be able to see it can feel it as well. I can feel it in you now, but it is muted.”

Wesson said, “They are readers. The purifiers are readers.” He looked to Farson who stood beside the table behind the purifiers. “Would you please unshackle him?”

“Are you sure? He could use his powers to attack or escape.”

“I can handle him,” Wesson said.

Farson did as asked while Wesson stepped across the room and removed the stone amulet, surreptitiously handing it to Rezkin outside the purifiers’ view. The older purifier watched Wesson intently, his expression becoming furious once the amulet was removed. Wesson returned to stand before the prisoners. The younger purifier was still tied to the table, but the shackles were removed.

“What do you see?” he asked.

The young man glanced at his companion, who was still scowling. “He should be told,” he said. “He must be given the opportunity to make the right choice. If he knows, perhaps he will choose the right path.” The tingle of vimara filled the space, and the young man stared into Wesson. “I see the normal colors. Strands, some of them thick, others thin. But, there is so much of the other. The darkness overwhelms. I have never seen so much darkness.”

Wesson frowned. “You can see the vimara, but you do not know how to interpret it.”

The young man frowned. “There is nothing to interpret. It is all evil. You are beyond redemption.”

“When you look at each other, do you not see the power?”

“Ours is special,” the young purifier said. “The Maker has twisted it for his own use. We are blessed with the ability to identify the accursed bearers of the scourge.”

“So you claim to serve the Maker with your power, but everyone else must be evil? Why are you so different? You can perform spells, same as anyone else.”

“No! We cannot, we do not.”

“I saw your ward,” Wesson said.

The young man frowned and glanced at his companion, who now appeared to be sulking. “Yes, some Purifiers have sacrificed a small piece of themselves in service to the Maker. It is a foul taint, to learn the art of demons, but they do so to protect the rest of us. They, too, become afflicted, and each of them will be burned before it fully infects them. It is a foul practice. I would never sully my soul in such a way.”

Wesson turned to the older man. The man would not meet his gaze. “It was you, then? You learned the spell for the ward?”

His voice was gruff as he said, “Yes, I made the deal with the demon inside me.”

“Now that you have felt it, you must know that is not true. The sensation—it is not one of evil.”

The man scowled. “I know nothing of the sort.”

Wesson looked at the younger man. “You could perform the spell, as well, if you learned.”

The younger man lifted his chin defiantly. “No, I cannot. My power is blessed of the Maker. I will not let the demons in.”

“How many have you helped to kill?”

The young man’s eyes shimmered with pride. “I have participated in twelve purifications. We cleansed the afflicted and their families. All of those communities are now safe from the putridity of the scourge.”

Wesson felt anger and sorrow welling within him in equal amounts. “The talented are not born evil. Learning spells does not make us evil. How we choose to use the talent is what makes us heroes or monsters. You choose to use yours to hunt down and kill innocent people. You cannot blame your actions on demons. You are humans, humans choosing to do evil.”

His senses overwhelmed, Wesson turned away. Rezkin stepped forward and started to speak, but the mage whipped around and shouted, “Have you ever even seen the power in use? I mean, more than your meager ward? Have you seen someone use it to create a beautiful statue, construct a building, draw water from the earth, or to make a plant grow? How about healing? Have you ever watched someone returned from the edge of death?”

“All tricks of the demons to entice you into giving over your soul,” said the younger man. He glanced at his partner and said, “Even the enticement of protecting your brethren.”

The old man pursed his lips then spat with ferocity. “It is true, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make to continue the Maker’s work and to protect others who do so. I hate myself a little more each time I feel the filth spread through my body, but I would do it again.”

Wesson’s face heated, and he spun on his heal. “They are a lost cause.”

“What do you wish to do with them?” said Rezkin.

Startled, Wesson said, “What? You are asking me?”

Rezkin tilted his head. “You are my mage. They are your responsibility.”

“I am your mage? You mean I am the—”

“Of course.”

Wesson glanced at the two interested purifiers. “May we speak elsewhere?”

Rezkin nodded to Farson to replace the shackles, and he waved Wesson through the door.

Once they were outside, Wesson hissed, “I am only a journeyman. I cannot be the king’s mage.”

“According to whom?” Rezkin said.

“The king’s mage should be an archmage. I am not even a full mage, much less a master mage, and I will probably never reach the level of power and skill required to be an archmage.”

“I am the king, and I decide who is the king’s mage. It is you.” Rezkin tilted his head and said, “Unless you are tendering your resignation?”

“What? No, but I have not even sworn fealty to you.”

“I do not require it. If you are not resigning, then you are the king’s mage. What do you wish to do with the prisoners?”

Tears welled in Wesson’s eyes. “I am not cut out for this kind of position.”

Rezkin’s cool blue gaze seemed to glow in the moonlight. “You are exactly the kind of person the king’s mage should be.”

Wesson blinked away the moisture. He choked down the tightness in his throat and said, “They have confessed to their crimes. They have hunted, tortured, and murdered, but we are not in Ashai or Cael. In Gendishen, these are not crimes.”

“So long as they are committed against the talented,” said Rezkin. “Should their actions perpetuate just because it is accepted in their culture?”

“Of course not, but you are trying to create a kingdom that depends on being in Privoth’s good graces. If we start making trouble, at best, he will call us murderers. At worst, he will consider it an act of war.”

“Actually, the second scenario would be better,” Rezkin mused.

“How is declaring war better?”

“Because that would mean he recognizes us as an independent kingdom.” Wesson scowled at him, and he said, “As far as making trouble, we have already done that. We killed fifty soldiers, including several officers who are probably members of noble houses and will suddenly become valued once they hear the men are dead and that we killed them. It would be easy to cover this up. We could kill the survivors and mercenaries and then travel cross-country to avoid encountering anyone on the roads who might make the connection. Or, we could kill everyone we encounter, but I think that would be counterproductive.”

The light of the moon and the few torches still scattered around the yard was enough to expose Wesson’s horrified expression.

“Be calm, Journeyman. I have no intention of doing those things. I know you and the others would be uncomfortable with such actions.”

“Uncomfortable is an understatement,” Wesson said, “and I have concerns that it seems to be the only thing holding you back.”

Rezkin shrugged. “What do you want to do with them?”