Riot tripped on a body and fell through the open door of the farmhouse onto the dirty floor, the stink of mold and decay filling his nostrils. How was he still alive? A tender search of his skull found no obvious damage, but he felt like someone had buried a hatchet in his head.

A barrage of screaming Faelen darts peppered the farmhouse wall, chipping the stone. A handful found their way through the open windows and hit the far wall, and someone cursed loudly, the smell of burned uniform and flesh filling the dirty space.

Battles were mostly periods of quiet boredom, followed by frenzied moments of madness. Normally, Riot wanted the madness to come so that he could get it over with, but right now, he needed the quiet, at least until his head stopped thumping.

“Stop firing, back from the windows,” he croaked.

Perhaps there was a god that looked kindly on soldiers, because the Faelen darts slowed and stopped, and the all clear was called, and a tense silence stole through the farmhouse, punctuated only by the whimpering of the wounded.

“Sarge, the long ears are backing off, but there's a hell of a to-do down in the basement.” That was Ruddle, by the open window, winding the crossbow string back.

Riot spat a glob of blood on the floor. “Perks?”

“We got him in, alright; hard to say if he’ll make it; nary a drop of blood left in him. That dead’un was here already; it weren't us that killed him.”

The body Riot had tripped over was a boy wearing a ragged homespun shirt and pants. Black Wikkan poison veins crept across his pale skin, and the back of his hands were marred by ugly lumped scars.

“Who is he?” Riot asked.

“Dunno Sarge, fella downstairs might know, but he’s not happy,” Ruddle replied.

Riot moved at a crouch, avoiding the open windows, to where ten men of the company huddled over a dark hole in the floor. Stone steps led down, and the smell of blood and wood smoke came up from the gloom.

Several of the men sported slices and cuts, and one of them looked like he’d run into a wall, his nose a smashed ruin on his face.

“We caught the Leybound, Sarge,” one said.

“Doesn’t look to me like you caught him,” Riot replied, wincing as he settled himself against the wall.

“He’s a nasty bastard,” confirmed another.

“You down there,” Riot paused, trying to recall the name the Wikkan had told them. “Are you Gerrard Price?”

“I’ll talk with your commanding officer,” came the reply.

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Riot sighed. The man spoke like a noble, his words clipped and precise with that built-in air of superiority. You could put an officer in a ten-foot hole full of shit, and he would still think he was above the muck raker up top shoveling more in.

“I’m Sergeant Riot, and I’m all you're going to get. Who’s the dead boy up here?” Riot asked.

“Rhodes.”

“You kill him?”

“Do I sound like a Wikkan?”

Riot guessed not. “If you come up, you’ll be bound, but we have water and something to eat. Make us come get you, and we won’t be kind about it.”

“Rider approaching!” Ruddle called.

Riot cursed softly. “I’ll give you some time to think about it.”

Outside, a Faelen officer reined in his horse a dozen yards away and leaned on the saddle, a wide smile on his face. Riot tried to walk normally, but the ground didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

“Sergeant Riot, I thought that was you.”

“Alar-something?” Riot said, struggling to recall the officer from the ravine.

“Alar-tal.”

“What do you want?” Riot said.

“Eloquent as ever, Sergeant. One of my officers is dead; I wish to retrieve him.”

“I didn’t kill this one,” Riot said defensively.

“Do not be hard on yourself, Sergeant; perhaps you are having an off-day. There is a stream at the bottom of the hill; I would like to fetch water for my horses unhindered, and in return, I propose that your men can do the same, agreed?”

Riot looked to the far hills, where the light was slowly fading. Riley was likely well on his way back to the camp by now, which meant in the morning he could expect Williams and the regiment to come and get them. If Riley had been captured or was lost, then Williams would still come to look for the Arcanist, so all Riot had to do was wait. “Why don’t you just sod off? It’ll be dark soon; we can all go home.”

Alar-tal looked amused. "Oh, I believe we will stay for a little longer. If there is nothing else?”

“Got any of that Faelen weed you drink? My head’s killing me.”

Alar-tal fished the small vial from a pouch on his hip and tossed it to Riot. The bitter liquid stung his mouth, but moments later, he could already feel its numbing effects.

“Thank you,” Riot said.

“You might not be thanking me soon, Sergeant,” the Faelen replied, turning his horse and leaving.

Riot took half the men to the small river to get water. The Faelen riders were already on the far bank, letting their horses drink, and they gave him a friendly wave as he dunked his head in the fast-flowing water, gasping from the cold.

Back at the farmhouse, they buried the dead boy, Rhodes, in a shallow grave in the courtyard of the farmhouse, and as darkness fell, they lit small fires to make a thin soup. Riot set sentries, found a patch of floor that seemed less damp than the rest, and fell into a grateful sleep.

He felt as though he had barely closed his eyes before Ruddle was nudging him awake. It was black as pitch outside, and the low flicker of a small fire burned at the back of the farmhouse, throwing shadows on the walls.

“What is it?”

“The long ears still haven’t left, Sarge,” Ruddle said, his voice low.

“So?” Riot said, keeping his eyes closed. He didn’t care if half of the Faelen army were outside; if they weren’t walking towards him with swords drawn or glowing darts in their palms, then he needed to sleep.

“Some of the lads got to thinking all logic-like and got it into their heads that no officer is going to desert without a decent bit of coin in his purse. They had a good look around but didn’t find anything, so they went down to have a chat with him.”