Riot kept his sword drawn as they approached the group of horsemen.

He expected cavalry, but the twenty riders wore green and white jackets designed for standing guard in a palace and looked out of place in the wilds of the hills. Deep lines on their faces betrayed their exhaustion, telling of long days in the saddle.

Their leader kicked his mount forward. The good-quality waxed cloak he wore was pushed aside to reveal the gray robe and gold pin of an arcanist, and the heavy chain of a commander hung around his neck, the pennant glinting dully.

A bloody commander and an arcanist to boot.

“My name is Walden Moran. You look like a fine bunch of men, all leybound unless I miss my guess,” he said, sweeping off his helmet and flashing a confident smile. He was probably around five years Riot's junior, with long, sand-colored hair and a neatly cropped beard. Despite the military chain and the fine blade at his hip, he lounged in the saddle, as if more at home in a comfortable library than in the wilderness.

“What are you doing out here?” Riot asked.

“You must be Sergeant Riot. You can put your sword away, we’re all on the same side here. Is this all of your men?”

Moran dismounted, taking off his soft leather gloves and handing them to his footman, a silent man with graying hair and clever, clean hands.

“No,” Riot replied, slamming his sword into its sheath and standing to attention, staring directly over Morans shoulder, his face an impassive mask.

“It’s customary to salute a superior officer, sergeant. You might have been in the wilds, but I will not have you descend into savagery. You will address me according to the rank you see here on my chain. Now, I shall ask you again. Is this your full unit?”

Riot heard the muffled laughter from the leybound behind him.

“No sir. There’s three in the Priory, two of ours and a prisoner.”

“You captured a Faelen prisoner?”

“Why would you say that? Have you seen Faelen around here?” Riot asked.

“I believe I asked you a question, sergeant,” Moran said, stressing the rank as he tapped the commander's chain around his neck.

“The prisoner's one of ours; he’s under arrest.”

Moran gave orders to his footman and Crease to go and fetch Loic and Norton. The leybound saluted and hurried away. Riot kept his face blank, but inside he was seething. Two days of pissing and moaning and outright hostility, and now they trip over themselves to carry out orders?

“What are you doing out here, sir? Is there any news from Helgan’s Rest?” Riot asked.

“That will be made clear in good time, sergeant. Now fall in; let me take a look at you,” Moran said.

The leybound hurried into a perfect line, each of them standing to attention as if they were on a parade ground.

“You’re all far from home, my boys, and I’ve some bad news for you. Helgan’s Rest is besieged by land and sea. If you had a hope of returning there, I can tell you it won’t come till Bimil-pal gives up when half his army has starved, frozen, or in spring when the Erudorans arrive.” Moran walked along the line, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve had the good fortune to run into me and my unit here; these are my lands, and we fight the Covenant forces where we can. Now we are headed to the stronghold of Morbian on the coast. It’s my ancestral home, and we’ll be welcomed with roaring fires, fine wine, and comfort, such as I’ll bet you’ve wished for these last few days.”

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Broad smiles broke out on the faces of the leybound, and they started chattering excitedly to each other.

Crease arrived with Norton and Loic, and the northman took in the scene and looked directly at Riot, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“Stop your yapping,” Riot snapped.

"Oh, sergeant, let’s not be too hard on them; I can’t imagine it’s been easy to have come this far leaderless,” Moran said.

“Be nice to have a real officer in charge, sir,” Loic declared loudly.

Shame rose in Riot like bile, and he clamped his mouth shut and filtered the anger down into his gut, where it burned hotter than the ley power that surged inside him.

Loic wore an expression like all his birthdays had come at once, but that was at least something that could be controlled.

“Sir, this man is under arrest for assaulting me. As commanding officer, you can convene a field court martial now. I daresay there’s a study tree and a thick enough length of rope around here to hang him,” Riot said.

The excited chatter faded, and Nixton tapped his finger on his chin, his eyebrows furrowed. “A troubling accusation, sergeant, and one that I take seriously, of course. Mister Loic, do you give me your word that you will withhold from any more acts of aggression against Sergeant Riot while under my command? I need to have a man I can trust.”

“Oh yes, sir, of course. Just happy to have some direction, sir,” Loic said.

Riot gripped the hilt of his sword so hard that his knuckles cracked. The pain of the hedron scar flared white, and he drank it in.

“Capital, you’ll all be under my direct command; if you need anything at all, just come and see me or Martin.” Moran indicated this to the swarthy footman, who gave them a wan smile. “Now, we will lead the way, fall in lads, fall in behind my men; off you go!”

The leybound and the twenty riders filed past, leaving Moran and another rider who had remained at the back and now watched Riot from under the shadow of a deep hood.

“What’re you staring at?” Riot snarled, his anger bubbling under the surface.

The hood came down, and Natalia Quinn's dark eyes appraised him. She sat on the horse like she had been born in the saddle, and her studded leather armor, which had appeared ornamental, now seemed entirely fit for this rugged terrain.

“Sergeant Riot, you look a little sickly.” The noblewoman looked pointedly at Riot's hands, which were covered in black fouling marks. He knew his face and neck were also covered with the same dirty streaks, and he felt a mix of embarrassment and anger.

Moran looked from Natalia to Riot, and he smiled broadly. “You two know each other?”

“Sergeant Riot was recently made leybound.” Natalia didn’t call Moran "sir", and the commander didn’t seem to care; they spoke as equals of a monied class that considered itself above such petty designations.

“How fascinating. I imagine that the last few days have been difficult, sergeant. I am far from an expert in such matters, but I know the arcane ley power can be challenging. Without a spell, I suspect that there is a specific service I could render you?”

Moran held out a manicured hand. In an instant, he could drain the ley power and save Riot from the pounding headache and the pain in his joints every time he took a step.

“I don’t need anything,” Riot said, burying the pain along with his resentment for Moran and all the other untested and unbloodied fools he was forced to take orders from.

“Mister Crease has filled me in on your escapades since the death of Captain Riley. Rest assured that whatever force you encountered will not trouble you any longer. I understand that you saw them take the road east?”

Riot nodded, and Moran thumped his fist into his palm. “Then we will take the path through the hills. A hard, cold road, but we will find a warm welcome from the people who inhabit such places, I am sure.”

“You didn’t ask what happened here,” Riot said.

“Excuse me?” Moran replied.

“You said these were your lands, but you didn’t ask what had happened in this village. Did you sit up in the hills and watch them do it? They’re all dead, by the way, even the friar.”

Moran kept his face carefully blank. “I do not need to ask what happened here, sergeant, nor do I owe you any kind of explanation. We are at war; terrible things are happening everywhere.”

Moran remounted and, with Quinn, rode up to the head of the line, and Riot brought up the rear, limping, cold, and angry.