First at the frontline, first to the scene.
He’s led Death’s army since age seventeen.
No lie gets past him, his plans are pristine—
General Killián watches and schemes.
“The Killer,” an excerpt from “Killián’s Guard”
Linden shakes me awake at 0600. I jolt upright, and his face swims into focus above my bleary gaze.
“Are we leaving?” My voice is slurred with sleep.
He nods.
I squirm out of the bedroll—my right arm throbs—and realize I’m still wearing Linden’s jacket. Should I give it back? Maybe one of the lancers has an extra pair of grays I can borrow. I turn to ask, but Linden’s already ducked through the flap. I guess I have three titles now. That’s enough to apply for elite status.
Yeah. Something tells me that’s not happening.
It’s hard to pack my bedroll with only one arm. It feels like daggers are plunging into my strapped limb, but the pain is bearable. It’ll set and heal. Worse is the throbbing in my head—I wonder if I can get a sophoria prescription the next time I’m in civilization. I doubt the medics have any to spare up here.
I start to break down the tent one-handed, but lancers stop me. I guess pridemasters don’t do menial tasks, but that seems dumb. For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t be an officer.
I make my way to the center of camp, and there I find Killián. He looks like Yosif incarnate—tall and inhumanly broad, with a clean-shaven face and oiled black leathers. His scythe rises above his head like an executioner’s axe, and his shoulder-length hair is braided beneath his helm. He nods in greeting when he sees me approach.
“Feeling better?” he asks.
“A little.”
“Good,” he says. “You’ll be riding Sinope. I trust you remember her?”
My stomach lurches.
“The lancers are readying her for the trek.” Killián glances at the rising sun. “You’ve never been mounted for this long of a trip, correct?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ll be sore,” he says. “And with that arm…”
My body already aches in countless ways. What’s a few more days of travel?
“I’ll tough up.” It’s hard to swallow. “Whatever you need from me, general.”
His brown eyes are the same tawny shade as Brid’s. I recoil at the memory of my last conversation with her, and a shudder runs down my spine.
“I believe in second chances,” he says. “Only fools have faith in someone who needs more than that. You’ve proven yourself to me henceforth, but you lied last night.”
I nod, unable to speak.
His gaze is grim. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”
A decent night’s sleep has hardened my mind. Future-reading is lore. The ability to see through time is great for church propaganda, but illogical when you sit back and think about it. I don’t judge people for their beliefs, but I’ve never witnessed anything that’s caused me to believe in divine power. Royals are religious politicians. That means Ila is being apprenticed by a man who’s a liar or psychotic.
What comes out of my mouth is, “You don’t actually think you can talk to dead people, do you, sir?”
Killián looks amused instead of offended.
“A nonbeliever,” he says. “Linden’s one too, although he’s starting to come around. I kept him by my side during our last rotation in the First Circuit, and he saw more than he bargained for. Yes, Ko—I actually think I can talk to dead people. I prefer to think of it as consulting spirits who have yet to ascend.”
“Killián, this is all…” Crazy. Unbelievable. Delusional. “…hard to process.”
“Find Linden,” he says. “He’ll help you mount.”
“I don’t need assistance, sir.”
He glances at my arm, then raises his gaze to my face.
“No,” he says. “I suppose you don’t.”
###
We depart for the entry passage to the Crête des Colonnois flanked by a hive—almost one thousand troops. The masses of leather-clad soldiers leech into every passageway below the valley. My thighs are screaming by 0900, and we’ve only been riding for a few hours. We move at a slow walk; our POWs are on foot.
We ride behind the general, giving his steed plenty of space. Sinope doesn’t like me any more than she did the first time I rode her. She bucks when I order her to stop, nearly sending me flying over the open-faced cliff. Linden reaches out to pet Sinope’s mane, and she leans into his touch.
Along the crest, riders stretch out before and behind us. It’s not the entire murder front; Lefe, Péri, and Torrense stayed behind in case the Xobrites return for another stab at the mines. Belén pulled her troops back to Bathune.
“How many prisoners are we escorting?” I ask.
“Fifty, give or take,” Linden says. “They’ll be interviewed and processed.”
“Processed?”
“The specialists in Cahuela will extract pertinent information from them.” His smile is wan. “It’s not our business how they do that.”
“It’ll be my business soon enough.”
“I doubt you’ll make it as a counterintelligence specialist. You’re too…”
“Soft?”
“I was going to say humane.”
He glances down the cliff face. Frégueux stretches out below us, a solid wall of military complexes nestled against the lower foothills of the Second Circuit. If Sinope bucks me, there’s no way I’d survive the fall, but she seems happy enough trotting beside Linden.
I wonder if she misses her fallen rider. I wonder if horses are capable of feeling loss. Then again, despite all that’s happened in the past few days, I don’t feel much loss either. If it weren’t for the pounding in my head and the dull ache in my neck, I wouldn’t feel anything at all.
That’s a lie. I glance down at my laurels. My eyes burn.
“I said some shitty things to Brid before I left the academy.” I keep my gaze on Sinope’s mane. “Will you check in with her the next time you’re in the First Circuit?”
“Sure.” He pauses. “What did you say?”
I don’t respond. Linden reaches out and strokes Sinope again.
“Briddy has an interesting personality,” he says. “Talking to her is never boring. That being said, if you told her off, I’m sure she had it coming.”
Stolen story; please report.
“I was needlessly cruel, and I made her cry.”
He thinks that over.
“Everything makes Brid cry,” he says. “For all her bravado—not to mention all the slurs Segolé taught her—she’s super insecure. Her future was set the second she was born, because the di Vivar bloodline is sparse. She’s Yosif’s last female heir—as awful as it sounds, she’s the final babymaker in the family tree. Add in the fact that her lineage is uncertain…well. Whatever you said to her, she’s heard it before.”
“I said the sort of stuff that’ll stick with someone forever.” I stare straight ahead. “There’s no excuse. Tell her I’m sorry, okay?”
He offers me a sad smile.
“Brid will be all right, Ko,” he says. “If the odds are stacked against her, she’ll rig the game to her advantage. That’s what makes her such a special kid.”
I’d chug a gallon of biter toxin for him to be right.
“Promise you’ll talk to her?”
“I said I would.”
Silence falls between us.
###
We make camp at the Rivière Rugueuse, where the snow melts into a clear, open lake. The lancers pitch Linden’s tent on the bank, and Killián and Bardic position their kip to our left. Lancers encircle our camp. I feel guilty that I’m not on call to stand watch, but Linden tells me not to worry about it.
“You’re coming into the force with three titles on your chest,” he says as he unpacks his bedroll. “Get used to soldiers taking care of you. Do you mind if I practice?”
“Go ahead,” I say, and he unwraps his lyre.
He leans against the far post and tunes the instrument, then works his way through warm-up melodies. He’s better than the troubadour I watched in Bathune—he barely has to look at the strings of his instrument, and the notes ring clear.
“Are you going to serenade me too?” I tease.
“Got any requests?”
“The Seven Titans.”
“Ha. No. I’m not singing that.”
“Know any Valenèsian folk?”
“I might remember ‘Ballad of the Seven-Fold.’”
He pauses for a moment, then his fingers pick up a new playing pattern in the string. It’s haunting—slow and mournful, with a desolate undertone that hangs in the air as notes fill the tent.
“Come hither to Patmos and pen down our warnings;
this song that we’re singing may well be your last.
The Ladies in power can stray you to Sin so
read tales of your future by writing the past.”
“You’ve got pipes,” I say.
“Thanks.”
“Where’s Patmos?”
His fingers stop. The music dies. “As a general rule of thumb, musicians don’t like to be interrupted.”
“Sorry.”
“Church one owes dues to the Lady of Love—
Love conquers darkness, or so her church trusts.
Believers believe they alone own the tree but
desiring virtue leads lovers to Lust.
Trials are coming to church number two!
Do you believe you’ve earned Lady Death’s praise?
If you can’t learn to let go of your Pride
your church will be tested for ten foreseen days.
To traitorous sinners who fail Lady War
(who pillage and plunder and ravage and maim):
You all fell to Greed and your rapture is coming.
War fights for peace. You dishonor her name.
To the fifth Lady’s church (though she goes by two names):
your anger and hate will ensure earthly reign.
You paint her as Wrath in your red, screaming sermon—
called Time or called Fate, she will end yours the same.
Sixth church: you’re true to your patron of choice;
not even Covet has longed for Life’s crown.
but the eighth sin—yes, eighth—is Conquering Death,
and War-crimes by hanging are hard to Live down so
write to church seven. Dear Lady Loss:
Your church Fought for Love, Hoped for Time but got Fate.
Slothing through Life was just Living to Die so
he found the gold key by the end of days date.”
“Are you sure that was Valenèsian folk?” I ask. “Sounded more like religious propaganda.”
“It’s the opposite—a protest song against the theocracy,” he says. “It was written fifty years ago and prophesized the end of the dark ages. Scholars have dedicated entire assemblies to discussing the double-meanings—not all the future-readings have come to pass.”
I’m done with people speaking cryptically and expecting me to magically keep up with what they’re talking about.
“Don’t tell me you actually believe that stuff.”
“I’m in over my head with the Septemverate.” His fingers haven’t stopped moving over the strings. “Something strange is going on in the First Circuit—something I don’t pretend to understand. The realm is taking her final stand.”
He plays a couple other songs and then puts his instrument away. It’s freezing. Shivers rack my body, and Linden jerks his bedroll directly beside mine. It’s my impulse to move away, but I let him push up against me.
“Do you think we’ll encounter enemy brigades?” I whisper after he blows out the oil lamp.
“Inevitably,” he says. “We’re in Xobrite territory, and they keep a close eye on the Crête des Colonnois. That’s why Killián’s taking us through the pass. He wants to show we’re not afraid.”
“I know they have more troops, but it’ll take ages to assemble their murder front.”
“That helps.” He shifts in his bedroll.
“Even so, we’re outnumbered.”
He laughs. “That’s an understatement.”
“What happens if they seize the farmlands?” I close my eyes and go over basic warfare tactics in my head. “What happens if they seize the First Circuit?”
I hear him roll over.
“People will die.” His voice is level. “That always happens during subjugation. They’ll take the farmlands and reap the rewards—that always happens too. Our royals will be executed, and there’ll be a religious reform. They’ll kill as many of us as they can, and the others will adapt to the political overturn. Maybe they won’t. You and I will be dead by then.”
We talk for a few minutes—about battle strategy, the mines, the coldness, things that don’t matter—and he drifts off. Despite the fatigue that embeds itself in my trembling limbs, it takes me a while to fall asleep.
###
Enemy troops attack the next afternoon. We’re halfway through the Crête des Colonnois when the charge comes. The battle is over by the time I arrive. There’re thirty casualties, all on our side; their bowman retreated when they saw the reinforcements flanking the front of our hive.
I dismount and tether Sinope to a tree. Under the curious gaze of the lancers, I take a shovel and begin to dig. It’s hard to do with one hand. The blisters on my left palm tear open. My movements are jerky, but the methodical tug and pull of my shovel is steadying. Linden hands his reins to a lancer and drifts over.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I don’t respond.
“You’re an officer. No one expects you to—”
“Grab a shovel or go away,” I say. “Don’t just watch.”
He breathes out a sigh and snatches a spade from the nearest lancer. Killián and Bardic debrief with a denmaster and deploy a pride to track the retreating bowmen. The terrain is rough, uneven, and slanted at a downward angle, but the lancers begin to make camp anyway. I don’t look up from my trowel as Killián and Bardic drift by, but I can feel their eyes on me.
Once the mound of open earth cuts a jagged slash through the mountain face, Linden and I help lancers move the bodies. Most are pierced with direct head shots that must have killed them instantly. The corpses that make me flinch are those the medics couldn’t save. A man with pierced lungs who drowned in his own blood. A woman whose leathers went up in flames after she was struck with a firearrow—her breasts and face are marred with third-degree burns. A man who was pierced seven times, who died from a mixture of shock, blood loss, and the forearm amputation that followed.
After we’ve lowered the last of the dead into the common grave, I insist on helping the lancers pitch the tent. I’m not much use one-armed and staggering, but I do the best I can.
Killián approaches as I hammer a stake into the ground with a rock. I look up at him, my eyes burning and my mind dead.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
I’m exhausted, but… “Do you want me to stand watch?”
“The lancers have that handled,” he says. “Did you bring your textbooks with you?”
The only things I carry are Linden’s jacket and the borrowed sleeping roll. I’m still wearing the trousers that were in crude shape when I left Valenès. One of the legs is missing from the knee down, and the cold stings my bare flesh.
“I didn’t bring any books,” I say. “Sorry, sir.”
He extracts Training the Untrainable from the kit bag strapped beneath his bistaff.
“Study with Bardic tonight.” He nods toward the chirping fire at the center of camp. “When you’re finished, sleep until sunrise. Make sure you get five hours of rest. Understood?”
“Sir?” My throat is tight.
“You’re a three-titled swordsmaster, son,” he says. “Wherever you end up, you need to handle the responsibilities that entails.”
My gaze drops to the ground. He lays a hand on my shoulder.
“Honorable men don’t covet responsibility,” he says. “It’s not handed to us—it’s thrust upon our shoulders. Whether you’re monitoring POWs in Cahuela or stationed on the frontline, I expect great things from you.”
That isn’t fair, I want to say, but I hold my tongue.