Linner, a man in his fifties with a wiry gray beard, wilted as Riot stalked over to the basement.

“Who’s down there?” Riot asked, his voice low.

“Emerson and Swan, Sarge.”

“And you’re keeping watch for them? Get back to your post.”

Riot made his way cautiously down into the dim basement. It smelled like the men had been using it as a latrine, and he could hear the murmur of voices and the soft thumps of someone receiving a professional beating.

The prisoner, Gerrard Price, spotted Riot first; his eyes glinting at the back of the dim chamber. He had been bound hand and foot, and Swan held him upright as Emerson gave him a rib-cracking blow to the kidneys.

“Where’s the money, you Leybound bastard?” Emerson hissed, grabbing a fistful of Price's hair and wrenching his head up.

Riot knew this was partially his fault. Beating Mercer publicly made the men in the company arrogant, they thought they could do no wrong, that they were a law unto themselves.

The Faelen weed was in his system, so Riot took care to move slowly so that his sluggish mind didn’t lose track of his limbs. In three short steps, he reached Emerson and hauled him backward. The middle-aged man was one of the company's whiners and complainers, and he withered under Riot's glare.

“Sarge, we were just—”

Riot buried his fist in Emerson’s gut and didn’t pull the punch, following through so that the man almost folded in half around his forearm before sliding to the floor, making soft gurgling noises.

“Beating a prisoner, Swan?” Riot said to the second man. “I should string you both up, or leave you here for the long ears.”

Swan released the prisoner and backed away, his hands raised above his head. "C'mon, Sarge, he’s an officer; the money’s just going to be left here.”

No pay for months, who could blame them? Riot might have done the same once. It would be a shame to be two men down, but this kind of thing was a disease and it was better to cut it off and stem the bleeding.

“Get out, both of you. Leave while it’s still dark and the long ears might not catch you. If you’re still here at first light, I’ll see that you get away with a flogging,” Riot said.

Swan carefully stepped around Riot and helped the gasping Emerson to his feet, hauling him up the stairs. He hoped they would stay and take their punishment. Swan, especially, was a steady man with a crossbow.

As Riot’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw two bodies heaped against the wall; one was a pale-faced youth with rolled-up sleeves and deep rutted scars on his forearms.

Riot pulled the filthy gag from Price’s mouth. “You kill both of them?” he asked.

“I did,” Price replied, his refined tone coming from the mouth of a vagrant.

Riot rolled over the second body that looked like he had been at least part troll. Someone had taken an axe to him—a huge wound on the shoulder that cut halfway down through the chest. There was no axe in the cellar, though, just a rusted short sword on the floor. Took a fair bit of strength to do something like that.

“I’ll cut you free, but I’ll want your word that you won’t escape.”

“Would you give it, if you were me?”

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Riot sighed. “No. How about you just agree not to kill anyone else, most importantly me.”

Price hesitated for a moment before nodding, and Riot took up the rusted blade and sawed through the dirty rope.

“Drink?” Riot asked.

Price took the flask and sniffed it warily before taking a deep draft. He started to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand but paused and used his dirty sleeve instead. “Thank you,” he said.

Price would have had the army wives clucking like hens. With deep-set eyes and a proud forehead, he looked like the kind of man they would have made king hundreds of years ago. Or at least he would have, if he weren’t dressed in ragged homespun with greasy hair half a foot long. He must have soiled himself when they beat him, the reek was almost unbearable.

“Your name's Price?” Riot asked.

“Captain Price.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Black Peaks Regiment, Lothrock Keep.”

Riot whistled softly. The black peaks were the high mountain range that separated the far-away eastern lands from the neighboring kingdom of Taria. If Price had been that close when Covenant raised their banners, that made him at least a five year veteran of the war. In that time, he’d been pushed all the way across the Tarian kingdom to here.

Riot had served almost three times as long as that, but only in the last year had he faced the Faelen ranks and their deadly red darts.

“Rotten luck that we stumbled onto you,” Riot commented.

“Don’t tell me; you’re just the friend I need.”

“I might be.” Riot sighed, sitting back against the damp wall. The Faelen weed was deep in his system, numbing his muscles and slowing his thoughts, but at least the pain was a distant memory.

“What do you want?” Price asked.

“A bit of quiet would be nice.”

“Not here for my coin?”

Riot shrugged. “Perhaps a farmer will find it in a few years when he’s knocking down a wall.”

Price was silent, his eyes boring into Riot’s. He was only a few years Riot's junior, but he already had the long, steady stare of a veteran.

“Why are you running?” Riot asked.

“What’s it matter?”

“We’re here till morning, might as well chat about something.”

“We’re losing this war, and I’m not waiting to get killed. You might be okay getting sent to Erudor, but not me.”

Despite Riot's light gray eyes and the long hair tied with a wooden ring that marked him as Erudoran, he’d never been to the island kingdom, and it was the last place he would want to go. “Never knew an officer that needed to run,” he said.

Price lifted his hands to display the half-dozen long scars that ran up his forearms. They looked like they had been scored down to the bone, and a dirty gray light wept from them, flowing down to fill the runes on his hands. As it faded, Riot saw that his skin was blackened and filthy, like he’d been pulling coal out of the ground with his bare hands. “I’m running because of this, what they did to me.”

When the bodies had piled up so high that the army couldn’t hide them and fear and suspicion swept through the ranks, they turned to the condemned, giving those who were headed for the gallows one last chance to save their skins.

“What did they get you for?” Riot asked.

Price grimaced at the memory, his teeth glinting in the dim light. “A Major called Baines ordered me and my men into the breach at Belleville. It was suicide, I refused, and he called me out.”

Riot had only stormed a breach once, but he recalled the maddening fear he had felt as he charged up the broken stones with Faelen darts hammering all around. Soon they were hauling themselves over the bodies of the dead, only to make it to the top of the wall just to fight their way through all over again. It had been the worst fight of his life.

“You killed him?” Riot was surprised; officers duelled all the time, calling each other out for perceived slights and petty disputes of honor, but it rarely led to a death.

“No. I won the duel, and he came for me a week later, and I killed him. Then it was Leybound or hang.”

“What’s it like?” Riot asked.

“Like you're thirsty, and the ley power is all you can drink, but you can never have enough. I’ve done my time; I’ve served. The Faelen can’t be beaten by the fools in charge of the regiments, and I’ve had enough of seeing good men led to their deaths.”

Sometimes a man wasn’t left with any choice. For what it was worth, Riot found himself liking Price. He was a hard man; perhaps he’d been an officer worthy of serving under at some point.

There was a scuffling of footsteps on the stone stairs, and Ruddle peered into the dark basement. “Long ears hopping about, Sarge.”

“Coming,” Riot replied. “Keep the water,” he added to Price as he left.