“More of them turned up, the lads didn’t want to get too close,” Ruddle explained as they peered out of the empty window frame.

There were more fires out there now and more lamps. In their flickering light, Riot saw figures moving to and fro and the dark shapes of hobbled horses. The sky to the south was beginning to lighten, so the rest of the regiment wouldn’t be far away. When they arrived, he hoped they would be enough to drive off a half-score of cavalry.

“Keep an eye on them; make sure everyone stays ready.”

“Sarge,” Ruddle replied.

An overgrown courtyard on the side of the farmhouse was bordered on two sides by low-slung outhouses that were mostly crumbled ruins, overgrown with weeds and creeping vines. Riot saw the muddy footsteps that indicated where the men had trampled in and out, and in the first building, he found only abandoned animal sheds. Poking his head into the second one, a foul smell reached his nose, and he knew he was in the right place.

Price had been close-lipped about his stash of coin, but he couldn’t do anything to disguise the fetid smell that came from his reeking shoes and filthy hands. Perhaps he had planned to go to the stream and wash the mess off, but they had disturbed him.

At the back of the building, a rough wooden door hung off its hinges, and beyond that, a small chamber had a crude wooden bench with a hole in it. Flies buzzed out of the depths, and the foul smell invaded his senses.

Taking a deep breath, Riot leaned over and plunged his hand into the thick sludge at the bottom, retching as he searched frantically but found nothing.

He tried again, digging down to his shoulder, his face inches from the filth, and his fingertips brushed against something hard. Straining, he just managed to claw the drawstring of a leather purse and pull it out of the mess.

The purse didn’t rattle with coin as Riot had hoped, but as the small glass shape rolled onto his palm, a deadly fear seized him, and he stood stock still, taking short, ragged breaths.

The silence became so absolute that it pressed down on his ears, and he felt his blood pumping heavily. Of all the forsaken things to find he got a damn hedron! No wonder three Wikkan had been sent with Riley to make sure that Price was found.

Riot made his way to the doorway where the soft light of the new day caught the delicately crafted gold bands that secured the twelve glass panels of the shape. Each glass panel had five sides and every surface of glass or gold was filled with minute carvings and runes, and inside was a web of intricate and finely woven silver strands of linium, rarest of the metals on the continent.

There was enough there for Riot to buy a castle in the west, grow fat, and pay for guards to protect him for the rest of his days. Or, the damned thing could go off now, kill him, and destroy the whole farmhouse and probably the courtyard, leaving only a smoking hole in the ground. They transported them on separate carts for a reason; the arcanists fussing over them like brooding hens.

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Riot hurried down to the river and washed his hands. Only when he carefully placed the hedron back in the leather pouch and pulled the drawstring tight did he feel like he could take a steady breath. What was he supposed to do now?

Weak light gave shape to the barren land. He might make it if he left now. Dodge the Faelen sentries, make it back to the camp alone and hand the hedron to Riley or the Wikkan. It was too much to think they would let him keep the company as a reward, but why not? Rank and file had been made officers before; it was rare as hen’s teeth, but if delivering a hedron back to the arcanists didn’t count as a reason to promote him, he didn’t know what did. He could be a lieutenant, leading the company in the spring.

But leaving the men was a risk; they would squabble and bicker, and half of them would likely desert and be picked up by the faelen. Then there was the prisoner, Price, with his eyes that watched everything. No, he would hide the hedron and hope that the damned thing didn’t go off and blow them all to pieces.

Riot scrambled back up the short rise and back into the farmhouse. Emerson and Swan were still there, stood at one of the windows with crossbows at the ready and Riot nodded to them. He was glad they had decided to stay and take their punishment, but the sharp edges of the hedron pressed against his skin, and he wondered if perhaps they would have been better off running.

“Riders,” declared the lookout from up in the broken rafters.

Alar-tal led two dozen faelen forward, their uniforms as immaculate as any guild army officer but a hundred times more gaudy. The sleeves and collars dripped with lace and delicate embroidery of flowers, and strange animals not seen on the continent for hundreds of years adorned their jackets. On their heads, they wore curious hats, tall and cylindrical, with great plumes of feathers arching off and slots for their elongated ears.

“What do they want now?” Ruddle asked, peering out the window, loaded crossbow in hand.

“Sergeant Riot!” Alar-tal called.

Riot couldn’t give the hedron to Ruddle; even if he told him not to open it, the old fool was a snooping bastard, and if he clapped his eyes on it, his heart might give out. Riot rubbed his temples. The regiment would be here soon, and even if they took their time, there was no way the faelen could drive them out of the farmhouse. It was practically a fortress, with thick stone walls and only a handful of skinny windows. No, they were fine in here, apart from the hedron that could burn them all in gray fire.

“I’m coming out!” he called.

Alar-tals expression was smug, his wide mouth practically splitting his face. “Greetings, Sergeant. It is honorable that I present an offer; you may surrender to us, give us your weapons, and march back to your own forces.”

“Done,” Riot snapped, relief sweeping through him. At any other time, he would have baulked at the offer, the shame impossible to wash off. But delivering the hedron and Price would make up for it. They might actually promote him; Riley liked him well enough. He could feel the weight of the officer's chain around his neck and the lieutenant's pennant on his chest.

Alar-tal blinked, the surprise clear on his face. “I will admit, I had expected you to show more spine, sergeant.”

“Nope, no spine. I am a coward to my bones.” Riot bellowed the order, and the company filed warily out of the crumbling farmhouse and formed ranks. “Leave all your weapons and be ready to march. Ruddle, take a few men, and bring up our friend.”

Four more Faelen riders approached, and Alar-tal's expression turned uncertain before he hurried back to greet them. Their leader practically ignored Alar-tal and rode on. His uniform was decorated with precious stones that picked out the pattern of exotic birds, and his fine leather riding boots were sewn with gold thread. His gaze was glacial, and he stared down his long nose at everything around him, his thin lips twisted in a sneer..

“Sergeant Riot, I present High Faelen Myam-tal. My Lord, this is the man who stole your personal effects,” Alar-tal proclaimed.