Staffmaster Linden is handsome and famed,

every one of the Xobrites fears hearing his name.

He’s trusted by men and he’s good with the dames—

there’s no fighter or beast who his voice couldn’t tame.

“The Linguist,” an excerpt from “Killián’s Guard”

Sour, tangy bile shoots between my lips. There’s a bucket. My nerves send pulses through my body, my joints seize up—

###

Battle cries. Screams. Yells. The weight disappears from my hips.

###

Attack, someone says.

###

Thank Yosif, someone says.

###

He’s here, someone says. It’s him.

###

Hands stroke my hair, pinning it back into a knot. I inhale a woodsy scent that overpowers the sulfur in the air. There’s another, fruitier aroma—málé oil. Polished leathers.

“General Killián,” I murmur. “You’re here to save us.”

I try to open my eyes, but I can’t control my body. My only movements are wild, uncontrollable convulsions.

“I’m never wearing this cologne again,” someone whines. “I’ll pay to have my face disfigured. This tête de noeud mistook me for Killián. I’ve never been so insulted—”

“He’s not in his right mind.” That’s Bardic’s voice. Sharp. Angry…but why? “Give him the antivenin, Jebah!”

“Your words are orders,” the voice says. “Yet here I am, protecting you from certain death. I saved you, and I saved Killián’s pets.”

“I would be grateful.” There’s Bardic’s voice again. “But I know what you’re about to do. Untie me, denmaster.”

I grit my teeth, count to three, and open my eyes.

The first thing I see is Jude’s head. It isn’t attached to the rest of his body, and it’s two inches away from my face. The amber eyes are blank. Empty. His hair sticks up in tufts. Blood inches toward me from his severed neck…

Bile pushes its way between my lips.

Hands twist me up. Force me toward a bucket. I convulse over the metal, chest heaving, eyes watering, nose running. My mouth tastes like mutt piss. Am I dead? If dizziness and nausea doesn’t kill me, my headache certainly will.

Once again, my mouth fills with raw, acidic bile. Panic hits me, overwhelming my senses—

“Breathe, Swordsmaster Kolton.” The voice is gentle. “You’re convulsing, and I simply don’t have time for this.”

“Let me free.” That’s Bardic again. “Let me help him—”

“We need to remove his fingernails.”

“What are you talking about?” I never knew Bardic could sound so desperate. “The toxin has already entered his bloodstream, merde!”

“We’ll need to cut off all of them, just to be safe,” someone croons. “I have no idea which ones were affected. At ease, Ko—you’re safe.”

There’s no such thing as safety—not in this realm. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. My Leisure Street instincts go nuts, but I’m not sure why. My mind feels like I dipped my head in molten metallite, and there isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t hurt.

“Have one of your lancers untie Linden and me!”

I’m nauseous again. The ground flails beneath me. I’m going to vomit…

“Jebah, you aren’t a medic! You risk disfiguring his hand to indulge your own sadism!”

The blackness closes in. It presses against my nostrils and ears. It’s overwhelming. I want to give into it. I want to allow my mind to rest. But I can’t; my comrades are nearby, and Bardic’s voice is urgent.

I open my eyes and find myself staring at Jebah di Vivar. He’s cutting my hand with meticulous, smooth strokes. I jerk my arm away. He blanches. I choke down bile. My heart pulses, but why?

My voice comes out a wet murmur. “Are you going to eat my brain?”

Jebah’s expression twists.

“Toi enfant stupide,” he mutters. “I’m never going to live that down, am I? Thirteen years of service, countless victories, a den of fighters who love me unconditionally, and that’s what I’m known for. A one-time experience that occurred when I was young. I was barely a man!”

“Cannibal,” I manage to choke out.

“First of all, she tasted like a banana.” He slashes a vicious line down my index finger. “Men should not be judged for eating things that taste like fruit. I was caught up in the moment, swordsmaster! It was my first battle—the first time I bore witness to Lady Death’s courtship of Lady War. You’ve experienced the high, haven’t you? The breathlessness that consumes you when the air smells of blood? The way rationality gives way to delirium, and the only constant is the sword in your hand? When the dead rejoin the living to offer strength and comfort through the veil? You’ve felt that, no?”

“No.” I wheeze out a sigh. “Get. Off. Me.”

Jebah’s knife moves away from my hand, and he scratches his chin with the tip. For a second, I think he’s going to plunge the blade into my chest…

Instead, suddenly, I’m free. Slowly, carefully, Jebah gets off me. My eyes close. The blackness draws near.

“I’m going to give you a choice.” The voice is familiar—it used to be closer. “I’m seizing Gidad, Bardic—there’s nothing you can do to stop me. You need to stay with this child—he’s incapacitated. I’ve cut off his fingernails. I’ve washed away the toxin. I’ve injected him with antivenin. But still, he thrashes before us…”

Is he talking about me? I can feel my body shifting. Transforming.

Running.

###

A pair of hands grab me. These ones are gentle. Dull, kind words are whispered into my ear…

“Jebah didn’t give him antivenin,” Bardic murmurs. “Ko’s been dosed with sophoria—Jebah mixed up the damn vials. Bâtard stupide.”

A sharp ping penetrates my arm.

“He did it on purpose,” Linden says. “I’ll bet you anything.”

“Go after him.” I’m not sure who I’m talking to. “Leave me.”

“That isn’t an option,” Bardic says. “Linden, hand me that bucket…”

I cackle. I vomit. All I feel are Linden’s hands. They stroke my hair—hold my head steady. He presses a kiss to my temple. It’s nice. I’ve never had a brother. I was raised by women, and that’s all well and good, but…

…but something.

I don’t remember how to think.

“He’s going to Gidad,” I hear myself say. “We have to stop him.”

I know what you’re about to do, Bardic said, and unfortunately, I have the mental cognition to understand what he meant. For a second, anyway.

“You’re barely conscious.” Bardic’s steady hands bandage my own. “And your symptoms will only get worse from here forward…”

Linden and Bardic are talking. Their words are slow. Murmured. No one is holding me now—for all intents and purposes, I’m alone. Then Linden hoists me into a seated position. His gray eyes swim before me. One moment I’m flopping around the tent, and the next, I’m drifting through blackness. Nothing makes sense, but at the same time, logic sways before me like a noose. I’m not thinking, but I’m talking. My mouth works independently from the swaying room.

What’s happening to me?

Three men draw close, all clad in gray leathers. Lancers. Bardic and Linden stay by my side. Bardic pushes the closest soldier away. Why? The man’s a medic—he’s in a cassock. There was a time when I thought I’d get certified as a medic…

I hope they don’t dump me at a prison in Cahuela. I’d make a terrible correctional officer. I don’t like hurting people.

The people who Jebah’s going after don’t deserve to be hurt.

“Where’s your medi-tent?” Bardic asks.

I only catch snippets of the answer.

“Northern…border…Gidad.”

The words are melodic. Smooth. I don’t know why Bardic looks so pissed; the lancer has a lovely voice. It sounds like music. I hum to myself.

Linden pulls me to my feet. His arm is around my shoulders. I’m outside—the sun is bright, so I squint. I lean against the person holding me. I trust him, I think—his hand rubs soothing circles on my back…

Visceral, callous vision slams against me.

I’m mounted on a steed. Not just any horse—Sinope.

How did Sinope get here?

“My lancers brought her to you.” Kempe’s voice is affectionate. “I have your sword, too—it was in the supply tent. I’ll give it back when you’re not throwing up on your mount. No offense, but you’re in no shape to be trusted with a pointy object.”

Kempe—what? I’m so damn confused.

“She sprinted up the Crête de Liluire,” Kempe says. “She was all over me as soon as I forced a retreat—that’s when I saw Jebah’s den heading northbound. I’m starting to think she might like you.”

Sinope jerks beneath me, but it’s not a mean movement. She’s concerned, I realize, and I sag against her mane…

I almost keel off the saddle. Hands reach out to grab me. I reach for the reins with my bandaged left hand and find they aren’t there. Kempe’s guiding Sinope with a lead rope. We break into a gallop. I lean forward and try not to fall off. The mountain terrain is ragged and bumpy. Bardic closes in on my left, and Linden to my right…

“With everything I’ve got,” I mumble.

“That’s a shitty battle cry,” Kempe says. “You’re a mess, Slutboy. I don’t understand why you’re so plucky all the time. It’s scary, and worse, it’s contagious. I like being depressed and moody.”

“Your battle cry is stab, stab, stab,” Linden says. “You can’t possibly think you have the intellectual high ground—"

I smile. I choke down a mouthful of tangy bile. I laugh. I squeeze with my thighs, lean into the hands that are holding me on Sinope, and try not to move.

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###

By the time we arrive at the border to Gidad, the ground squirms beneath Sinope with vicious, out-of-control carelessness. I’m overheated. I’m wet—Sinope and I are soaked in sweat. All I want to do is sleep. Swallowing is excruciating. My throat is dry and cracked.

The sun ducks behind storm clouds. I can barely see the hilly terrain. Buildings stretch across the landscape, partially obscured by the dust swirling through the air. We pass a sign adorned with neat writing. There’s a maxim on it, just like we have in L’Anglimar. Gidad, it says—Prestige, Progress, Peace.

On the side of the beaten path, red stains the ground beneath a young girl. Her eyes are wide. Her stiff, motionless arms clutch a stuffed hound to her chest. One of its button eyes is missing.

“I need…rally…soldiers…eastern boarder,” Bardic says. He’s speaking clearly, but I only understand some of his words. “Get Ko…medical tent. I’ll meet you there. Understood?”

Bardic’s steed bucks right. Linden, Kempe, and I pass the city sign without breaking stride. Guardsmen are everywhere. They penetrate the sparse civilian housing units, encircling my pack. Linden screams something, and they withdraw, pulling toward us and spreading his word as gospel. He’s a higher authority. He’s wearing black leathers…

So am I.

It’s thrilling. It’s terrifying.

Where in Hel is Killián?

“Assembling the murder front,” Kempe says. “Someone needs to get him—”

I stare at two dismembered carcasses that line the path in front of me. A man and a woman, dressed in civvies. Their bodies are angled toward a homely looking structure, as if they’re searching for a child. Their necks are red with vicious slashes. Their eyes are as blank as my mind.

I reach out for Linden, but he’s gone. A streak of black leather heads northbound, flanked by a wall of lancers…

“Ko,” Kempe says. “Get off your horse.”

Her hands pull me down, and the sand turns to water beneath my feet. My broken, strapped arm gets tangled in the stirrup, and I start to fall. Kempe grabs me. She’s small, but damn is she strong…

“Listen to me.” She stands on her tiptoes to tap my cheek. “Jebah’s southern flank just penetrated. We needed the cavalry yesterday—I need to find Killián. I don’t have time to take you to the medi-tent. It’s over that hill. Can you make it there by yourself?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

She has three faces, and all of them are scowling at me.

“What did I tell you to do?” she asks.

“Find Killián,” I say confidently.

“No.” She taps my cheek again. “Go to the medi-tent.”

“Go to the medi-tent,” I echo.

“Say it one more time.”

“Go to the medi-tent.”

The snowy peaks of the Volterras spin around me. Circle me. Moving. Dancing. I dance with them. I fall to my knees. I reach out for Kempe, but she’s gone. She said something about a medi-tent. Is that where she’s heading? She gave me orders before she departed…

What did she say?

Find Killián, my mind supplies.

I eye a woman splayed out on the side of the path. Her body is naked. Her eyes are blank. Her hands cover her breasts. Every part of her is drenched in crimson…

I want to close her eyes.

I don’t. I stand up and lean against Sinope. We still, united by our exhaustion. I’ve never felt closer to death. At the same time, my body burns, my mind races, and I’ve never felt more alive. My chest heaves. I try to vomit, but my stomach is empty. White, sour froth gurgles between my lips.

“Killián!” The scream tears at my throat. “Killián—”

This is a stupid way of finding him. I need to move.

The cloth covering my left hand is bloody. Why? I try to wiggle my fingers, and tingles shoot up my spine. I bite off the crimson bandages and spit them on the ground. Cold, harsh air hits my grotesque hand…

I look up. The movement is sharp and jerky. A pack of armed swordsman dismount from a team of horses. A tall, slender man with a curved helm barks out orders. They race toward a housing unit in a quadrilateral formation…

“Don’t move,” I tell Sinope.

You’re doing a very stupid thing, her black eyes tell me—when did her eyes learn to talk? You’re going to mess things up!

“Maybe,” I say. “But wickedness exists, not because of wicked people, but because of the ones who do nothing to stop it. That’s what Pierre-Marie told me.”

I think that’s what I say, anyway. It’s what I’m thinking. Perhaps I don’t say anything at all. Perhaps I just say wicked a few times. Wicked, wicked, wicked.

I stumble toward the pack of lancers. The door to the two-story house is open. I barrel over the landing, trip over a mat, and steady myself on the frame. Footsteps pound up the stairs. Something smashes in the second-floor room above me.

A family cowers in the corner. A woman has her arms around a small boy. A man is in front of them, his arms outstretched.

The packmaster approaches them, brandishing his sword, screaming at them to stay put…

“Wicked!” I yell.

He turns toward me and takes me in—my broken right arm. My bloody left claw. The laurels pinned to my chest. The black leathers. He looks at my face. He’s trying to identify me.

I try to draw my blade, but my right arm doesn’t move. I reach with my left hand and find my sword is gone.

“Wicked,” I say again. “Orders that come from…from someone. Killián himself…”

He sheathes his cutlass and studies me.

“Pridemaster Maxx, at your service, sir,” he says slowly. “You’re not making much sense. Are you all right?”

I take a step forward and almost fall. Somehow, I manage to stay on my feet.

“I outrank Denmaster Jebah, apparently,” I say. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. That’s what Killián said. Unless you want me to…”

Write you up? Slit your forearms? What am I supposed to say?

“…do something, I suggest you withdraw your men,” I say.

I have no idea where the words come from. My voice sounds unfamiliar and harsh. I wince. I need to be political. I can almost hear Taylen’s voice in my mind. Learn quickly.

“With all due respect,” I add.

I twist my lips into a smile.

Maxx is staring at me like I’m a loupwolf. He jerks his head at the swordsman ransacking the chest of drawers by the settee. The man screams out orders. Above me, on the second floor, the crashes cease.

“Please inform me of your name and credentials,” Maxx says. “I don’t recognize you, and I’ve met most of the elites.”

“I’m not an elite.” I stare at him, and his face blurs. “Am I?”

He squints at me.

“Not yet,” I decide. “I’ll probably end up one eventually. Isn’t that funny? Funny like Lady Life is a bitch, not funny like haha. I have no idea what I’m doing…don’t eat the lamb stew, Maxx. Ásca has a heavy hand, and we have to be political about this.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I misspoke,” I say. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m chastising you. Consider yourself chastised. Have you heard the song ‘The Seven Titans?’ It’s controversial. Repopulate. Atone. Repent. That’s what the God King told us to do…now that I think about it, that’s pretty effed advice. I’m not sure it applies here…withdraw! Withdraw! That applies. That’s what we’re doing.”

His pack gathers at the foot of the stairs. I count them silently. Eight…nine…ten…that’s all the fighters I watched penetrate this housing unit. The family’s still cowering in the corner. I want to reach out to them. I want to assure them they’ll be all right…

“You’re incoherent, sir,” Maxx says. “Please give me your name and credentials.”

I straighten my posture. The ground sways beneath my feet, and my stomach churns. For one awful second, I think I’m going to throw up again. I take a deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—clench my gut, and tough up.

“My name is Ko,” I snap. “Spread the word—that’s an order.”

“Spread the word that your name is Ko?” Maxx says hesitantly.

He’s not listening, damn it. I’ve told him to withdraw half a dozen times. Right? Right.

Someone else says something—from the doorway, I think, but my head is spinning too badly to look in that direction. At once, the guardsmen react. Jump to attention. Pridemaster Maxx looks at his men. He says something. He dips his head toward the family—it’s a brief, unspoken acknowledgement, but at least it’s something—and his pack beelines for the door. By the time they exit, they’re back in formation. The man is still standing in front of his family. His gaze is fixed on something behind me. I turn to exit…

General Killián himself watches me from the landing.

I’m not sure if it’s a hallucination. He’s flanked by a handful of swordsmen. Kempe is at his right-hand side, arms crossed over her chest, sword sheathed.

“What did I tell you to do?” she snaps.

“Find Killián.” I point. “Found him.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose.

I take in Killián’s image. He’s tall. Broad. Menacing. His bistaff rises above his head, as hostile as a voiced threat. His clean-shaven face emphasizes his harsh features, and his long hair is braided beneath his helm. I walk toward him, dipping my head in greeting. His men part as I pass—a moveable ocean of gray. Kempe grabs my shoulders. Tries to get me to sit down.

“I need to check on Sinope,” I inform her. “Her eyes are talking.”

I pull away from her grasp. Killián follows me as I stagger off the porch. I glance toward his fighters. They’re mounting their horses. Flanking the city. He must have given them orders. I think I heard him say something…

Killián doesn’t touch me; not until I’m about to mount. He pulls my nail-less hand away from the bridle buckles and draws me toward him, peering into my eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say.

He gives me the look that statement deserves.

“Right—no lying.” I pause. “I can’t feel my face. We don’t have time to talk about it. Your brother is a cannibal. There are lots of civilians around. Lots of brains.”

“Jebah hasn’t practiced necromancy since he was a teenager.” He clears his throat. “The murder front has arrived at Gidad’s border. A retreat will be forced. Let’s get you to the medi-tent.”

“I’m not a medic,” I say apologetically. “Healer Arely taught me to scrub bedpans and bandage minor wounds, but I don’t think I’ll be of much use to Bardic.”

“That’s not…” Killián pauses. “No. Just…no. List your injuries for me as we walk.”

He pulls me against him—I feel the thrum of his heartbeat through his leathers. He guides me toward a steep, sloping hill that rises toward the Volterras. Crazed, hysterical laughter bubbles between my lips.

“Sorry,” I say, grinning. “My guard is…not up. Down.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Killián says flatly. “List your injuries, Ko.”

Orders. Injuries. List. I can do that.

“The Xobrites shot me up with biter toxin.” My legs are moving of their own accord—Killián’s half carrying me. “Then Jebah shot me up with sophoria. Then Bardic shot me up with antivenin. I’m concussed. My ribs hurt. My right arm won’t move. Am I missing fingernails?”

I yank away from Killián so I can look at my left hand. I can’t see anything except for red. Red, maimed, twisted digits.

“I think Jebah did that, too,” I say musingly. “I told him to work on his weird, creepy energy when we had dinner. He didn’t follow my advice.”

Killián sighs and pulls my arm back around him. We continue our walk.

“Anyway,” I say. “Back to the battle, no?”

“No,” Killián says. “We’re going to the medi-tent.”

“With all due respect, sir.” I stumble over my own feet. “Innocents are being hurt. I don’t want to retreat.”

“You don’t have a sword.”

“That’s Kempe’s fault,” I say. “She said I couldn’t be trusted with pointy objects.”

“She was right.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I can fight with my hands. I won my fisticuffs bout.”

“Which hand, Ko?” Killián sounds exasperated, but why? “The one on the end of your broken arm, or the one that’s missing fingernails?”

“Missing fingernails,” I decide. “The other one won’t move.”

“While I admire your grit, you’re not in your right mind.” He huffs out a sigh. “In any case, the battle is done. Part of being a leader is knowing when it’s time to walk away, and having the moral courage to do so.”

I shake my head. “I won’t stop fighting.”

“Pierre-Marie owes me a franc,” he murmurs. “She was certain you would crack under the pressure that comes with our legacy. Bardic owes me money as well—”

“Have you heard the song ‘The Seven Titans?’” I ask. “Did Leclère really eat her brother? Maybe that’s where Jebah got it from. It runs in the family. I’d be worried if I were you.”

“Please stop talking,” Killián says delicately. “We’re getting off topic. I need to warn you—this will never be over, Ko. My brother has followers in the Septemvirate. He wields our family name like a blade, and he excels at finding ways to gain influence. After this battle, there will be another, and another. Perhaps against the Xobrites, perhaps against our own fighters. That’s the beauty of a never-ending war. No matter how much you give, it won’t be enough.”

His inspirational speeches are very inspiring. I should take notes. I pause, wondering if there’s a pen in my kit bag. Then I wonder where my kit bag went.

“Keep walking,” he says. “Don’t stop. There—that’s better. You remind me of my younger self, you know. When I inherited the army, I swore I would find a way to end the war, a vow each of my ancestors took in turn. Yet here we are.”

I glance down at my body. My armor is torn and bloodstained despite the black leather. My hand is a grotesque painting of crimson and tremors. I guess war really does turn men into monsters.

“I’m nothing like you,” I hear myself saying. “You…you know stuff. You talk to your dead sister. How exactly does that work?”

Killián’s body shakes. I think he’s laughing. I don’t know why.

“I’ve already lost two prides,” I tell him. “I can’t stand politics. I don’t know how to lead. I don’t even know how to shave—”

“Wash your face,” he says. “Make sure the steel is sharp. Hold the blade at an angle and move it in short, controlled strokes.”

He has the most twisted sense of humor I’ve ever encountered. Here we are, surrounded by carnage, and he has the audacity to give me shite…

Once again, the waves of blackness descend. Ebb and flow. Hit my mind like a punch. I can’t feel myself move. I can’t even open my eyes. Killián leads me forward.

“You’re thrashing,” he says. “You can rest, Ko. You’re safe.”

No such thing, I try to say—I’m not sure if the words come out. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

“I am a man of many faults,” Killián says. “But I am not a liar. Make no mistake, son—you’re under Death’s protection. Right here, right now, you will not be harmed.”

I sag against him.

At last, I relax.