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Snorting, Esthala drank.
From the camp outside, distant alarms rang out.
‘What now?’ Esthala asked, turning to set her cup down on the edge of the cot and reaching, at the same time, for her sword-belt.
‘Probably me,’ Sharenas replied, drawing her sword.
Esthala caught the faint rasp and whirled.
The sword’s blade sliced through the front half of her throat. Sharenas quickly stepped back to avoid most of the blood that sprayed out from the wound.
Esthala stumbled back, both hands grasping at her neck, and fell awkwardly across the cot, snapping one of its legs. As the cot sagged, the woman rolled off it to settle face-down on the tent floor. Her legs twitched for a few moments, and then fell still.
Sharenas quickly sheathed her weapon, cursing under her breath. She had been anticipating most of the night, for the work that needed doing. Instead, the Legion camp was now wide awake. And, in moments, one of Esthala’s lieutenants would come to the tent.
Still, there was time – at least for her to make her way to where the horses were kept. My apologies, Urusander. This hasn’t quite worked out as I had planned. And now I must ride away, with a bounty on my head.
Not all the nobles are hiding in their keeps, doing nothing. I will defend my blood first, Urusander. Surely you’ll understand that. Civil war is a messy business, isn’t it? Just ask Gripp Galas.
The rage within her remained bright and hot. It yielded a fierce, demanding thirst. She had wanted to stalk the night, moving through the camp, from one command tent to the next. For you, Vatha Urusander. And for Kurald Galain.
And another. But he rides far from here now, seeking the woman he would marry. I am relieved, Kagamandra, that you do not see me on this night, nor the trail of blood I have left behind me. And now, alas, I must flee, my work unfinished. And that, my friend, galls.
With her dagger, she cut through the back wall of the tent, and then slipped out into the night.
* * *
Humiliation bred a kind of hunger. Dreams of vengeance and acts of malice. Corporal Parlyn of the Ninth Company in the Silvers stood near the tavern door, leaning against the frame, and eyed Bortan and Skrael as they stood over the headless corpse of Captain Serap, their expressions difficult to read in the wavering light.
Neither man was displeased, she was certain, at Serap’s sudden demise. And if not for the beating they’d taken at her hands, incapacitating both of them for most of this night, they would have been among the first suspects in the murder.
The four brothers who had been sitting near the captain, however, were consistent in their retelling of events, and their tale matched that of the barkeep and his pale, shivering son. A travel-stained officer of the Legion had sat with Serap, engaging in quiet conversation that was brought to an abrupt end with the slash of a sword. Serap’s head was still lying on the table, stuck there, cheek and hair, by the thick pool of blood beneath it.
Serap’s lips were parted, caught in an instant of surprise. Her eyes, half-lidded, stared out with the chilling disinterest of the dead. Earlier that evening, Corporal Parlyn had stood opposite her, facing a sharp dressing down in front of her squad. The wake of that had curdled Parlyn’s insides, stung bitter and dark with vague hatred. But even that was not enough to leave her satisfied at the captain’s death.
Hunn Raal had come and gone. A few words ventured by the corporal, relating the story told by the witnesses, and then he was off, but not before countermanding his initial order to scour the town. It was, perhaps, the reason for her squad’s present disgruntlement. Bortan and Skrael had both drawn closer to the four brothers, who stood in a nervous clump behind their table. The stench of blood was heavy in the air, and, like wolves, her two soldiers were ready to bare fangs.
Humiliation. The denizens of the tavern had witnessed it, delivered by Serap herself, and Bortan and Skrael were hungry to pass it on.
Parlyn was tired. They’d been given the task of removing what was left of Serap, but it seemed that her energy – what little remained – was trickling away, drip by drip. Even her soldiers stood as if uncertain where to start.
But a vicious fight with the locals would answer their need quickly enough. Sighing, she stirred into motion, stepping into the room. ‘Skrael, find us a sack, for the head. Bortan, take Feled there and go hunt us down a stretcher.’ She paused, glancing across to the last three soldiers in the squad. ‘The rest of you, take station outside, eyes on the street.’
That last command was not well received. It was cold out there. Parlyn scowled until the three soldiers shuffled towards the door. She glanced back to see the barkeep appear from the kitchen with a burlap sack, which he pushed into Skrael’s hands.
Bortan, with a final glare back at the brothers, joined Feled at the door. They exited.
One of the brothers stepped forward, eyes on Parlyn, who raised her brows. The man hes
itated, and then said, ‘She did good by us, sir. We’d like to be the ones to carry that stretcher … to wherever it needs going.’
Parlyn frowned. She glanced across at Skrael, who stood near the table, staring down at the severed head. There was no question that he’d heard. The corporal moved close to the farmer and said in a low voice, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but by the time Bortan gets back, I expect you four to be gone. Our blood’s up, you see. Someone’s murdered a Legion officer. It’s our business now.’
The man looked back at his brothers, and then faced her again. ‘To show our respect, you see.’
‘I understand. If her ghost lingers, she’ll know how you feel. Go home, now.’
‘Well, I hope you catch that murderer, that’s all.’
