A bugle call rouses us the next morning, though I suspect I was not the only one who stayed awake. The men break the camp with jerky, nervous motions, sending wary looks over their shoulders toward the forest. We are lucky to have suffered light casualties. Loen was the only soldier who was killed, along with four men from Norwikk. The Norwikkers in our quarter are subdued, and the soldiers clutch their weapons as we gather our bedrolls. When the order comes to move out, we all but jog down the road in relief.
An overcast sky threatens snow, and I wrap my borrowed cloak tighter around my shoulders. Thank Ieldran I wasn’t wearing it last night, so it was spared the staining the rest of my clothes got. I’m glad Mjera made me take it. It smells like her house, like smoke and the rosemary Sariruuse hangs in the rafters to keep bugs away.
The reminder of home is both welcome and discouraging. I keep picturing Edlan’s face every time he warned me about revealing my secret. I’ve finally done what I said I wanted to do—Wordweave to heal—but it doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. The only thing I feel is the relentless pounding of a headache behind my eyes. I think I could sleep for a week and it wouldn’t be enough.
If Aze notices my exhaustion, he doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t speak at all. Nobody does, except to murmur prayers that the Pathkeeper will watch over the rest of our journey.
Throughout the day I keep an eye out for Tenant Gryfalkr, but he stays near the front of the group. At any moment, he may decide he owes more to his army and his commanders than to me, and could I even blame him? After all, if I’m found out, he will be punished as well.
But the way he offered his nickname… he was so earnest and hesitant, like the time Tomsu brought me a rock and asked if it was a crystal. “Is it precious?” he’d said, but didn’t wait for my answer before running off to show Arun. It didn’t matter what I said; crystal or not, it was precious to him.
I want to believe him. It’s more than his mountain traits or the promise he made to protect the villagers—it’s the gratitude he showed to Mama, the way he listened to Papa’s stories and sparred with Aze.
I want to believe that he could be a friend.
The sun crawls higher toward its zenith, but there is no word of slowing for a midday meal. “We’re close to the fort,” Devlinn explains. “We’ll take our meal there. We should arrive within the hour.”
Hints of yesterday’s excitement return with every mile, though it is muted and controlled compared to the buzz from yesterday. The fear of wolves vanishes with the trees as the road slopes upward, into the rocky passes spread between the valleys. Kjerrin cajoles the soldiers into retelling last night’s favorite stories, which the men gladly agree to do.
“Look,” says Devlinn. I peer at the road ahead, through the last tall pines clinging to the rocky soil. A stand of trees rises between them—but no, not trees. A wall, built from tall timbers to form an impenetrable barrier. Atop the walls, tiny specks wander back and forth, no doubt armed with bows and who knows what else. The last traces of fear drain from the assembly. We are safe.
We slow as we near the gates, and from the front of the line I hear Chass’s voice lifting to the guards. “Detail from Norwikk and Vallegat, fifty-three men. Tenant Warchass Gryfalkr in command.”
A faint reply is shouted from the other side of the doors before a wooden clunking drowns it out. The soldiers within draw the gate open, revealing the inner courtyard beyond. Chass leads the way in, followed by each of the quarters. Ours is last.
A crawling itch spreads across the back of my neck as we pass through the gates, and I stop and turn back toward the last of the trees. I could swear that something was watching me, but nothing moves—not even a breath of wind.
“Brennr,” Aze says. I frown at the path before following him inside. Four men heave a solid wooden bar into metal brackets as the doors close behind us, locking us in.
Chass leads us to the center of the courtyard while I try to keep myself from gawking at the compound. Most of the area is encased in the thick timber walls, except for the northern end. There, the walls are built tight against the side of the mountain, where a wide cave gapes beneath an overhang of snow-covered rock. I can’t see inside from here, but torchlight flickers within as though beckoning us through.
A Norwikker points excitedly to the ramparts, wooden walkways encircling the tops of the walls and patrolled by soldiers bearing crossbows. Along the perimeter of the walls are dozens of buildings, surrounding a large yard filled with scores of soldiers, all wearing the same black and silver armbands, all carrying weapons.
The itch on the back of my neck has become a burn, pulsing as every heartbeat drives it further into my body. I rub at the skin, blinking around in confusion. This feels like the time my tongue swelled up after eating a crayfish as a child, except the sensation pounds through my blood instead of in my mouth. I shoot a panicked look at Aze, who only furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
“Welcome to Fort Foltepp,” Chass calls. “This will be your home for the next few weeks. During this time, you will be trained and equipped until you are ready to join Awnia’s main forces. This is a great honor.”
Am I imagining it, or does he sound sarcastic?
The men give an uncertain but willing cheer, and Chass lets it come to a natural end before speaking again. “The soldiers in your quarters will supply you with armor and explain your schedules. First and second quarters, you may begin in the barracks. Third and fourth, begin in the dining hall.”
“Follow us then,” Devlinn says, making his way across the yard toward a long building with smoke rising from the top. The smell of smoke and grease pours from a kitchen tucked behind a counter on the southern wall. Two boys scurry back and forth, cleaning and chopping ingredients for the cook, who calls out directions in a harsh voice. Before the counter, a man with a black and silver armband serves the meal to the third quarter recruits.
We join the line, picking up trays at the end of the counter and waiting for our serving of whatever the man is ladling from his pot. Oats, I think, with some sort of meat mixed in. I accept my glop of oat mush and move down the line, taking a cup of amber liquid from a row at the end of the counter before I follow Aze to a seat in the center of the room. The tables are long, with benches built in to eliminate the need for chairs. I take the seat beside my brother and steel myself for my first bite.
The itchy crayfish feeling stirs up again, shooting down my spine and driving my head up. I glance at Aze, but he doesn’t seem to be having the same reaction. No one else does. Rows of men eat with their heads together, chewing and talking and—
No, not everyone. A man near the entrance has his head up too, searching the room as I do. His eyes sweep over the new recruits, and I turn away before he can catch me looking.
“Don’t you think, Brennr?” Aze asks in a tone that suggests he’s repeating himself.
“What?”
“That the oats aren’t bad.”
I nod absently. “Do you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
That’s a no, then. Maybe there’s crayfish in the oats. Maybe there are crayfish in the cave and their proximity is enough to make my skin tingle before having eaten them.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
I don’t want to wonder what else it might be.
When we finish our meal, Devlinn directs us to leave our trays in a cart near the door and leads us to a row of buildings along the western wall. “Anything you need is right here,” he says. “Armor, weapons, and just about anything else you might require. If you need a replacement for anything, you will have to pay for it, but some of it will be issued as a part of your wages.”
“This building is for clothing,” explains another of the soldiers, Rogerts. “That over there is for weapons, and that one is for everything else.”
Devlinn points to two of the Norwikkers. “You three go with Roskinn to get the armor for everyone. Rogerts will take you two to get the weapons—” He points at Aze and another villager, “—and I’ll take you two for the rest.” He gestures toward me and the last Norwikker. “We’ll meet back up in bunk four.”
I follow Devlinn into one of the supply buildings, trying not to gape at the shelves of items. The room is filled with everything I could imagine a fort needing, with barrels to crates to bags stuffed with supplies. Hammers, nails, and other tools line one shelf, while another has extra blankets and thin pillows. Shovels and picks lean against a line of boxes in the back.
“Take these,” Devlinn instructs, pulling a pile of blankets from one shelf and dropping them into the Norwikker’s arms before turning to me. “You can bring two lanterns and an extra flask of oil.”
I locate the lanterns on a low shelf near the back of the room and crouch to take two of them, reaching for an oil flask nearby. A glint of light on the floor draws my eye. Something metallic gleams under the shelf, half-buried in the dirt, and I reach to pick it up and hold it in my open palm.
It’s a ring. The band is made of silver, shining as though it’s been freshly polished. A sleek green gemstone is set into its face, held in place by two sets of tiny silver wings.
“Got them?” Devlinn asks. I jump, clenching the ring in my fist.
“Coming.” I snatch up the oil flask, slipping the ring into my pocket as soon as Devlinn turns away. I follow him and the Norwikker from the storage room to the barracks, my heart pounding. I’ve never stolen anything before, other than a few of the tiny cakes Herre Innre used to leave to cool on his windowsill. And Edlan’s herbs. And Aze’s clothes and Mjera’s papa’s name.
Ieldran forgive me. I’ll turn the ring in to Chass when I see him next.
“The officers have their own rooms,” Rogerts is explaining to the others when we arrive. “But we all share the barracks with the men in our quarters.”
Aze sneaks a glance at me, which I try to meet bravely. We’ll figure something out.
Devlinn leads the way through the barrack doors, which open into a long, plain room lit only by the light from the doorway. Rows of bunk beds crowd along each wall. Many spots are already made up, but others bear only plain straw mattresses.
“It may not look like much,” Devlinn says. “But you won’t be spending much time here, anyway. We train in shifts, but whenever you’re not training you’ll either be working, eating, or sleeping. New recruits don’t get much free time until their training is over.”
“You’ll start your duties this afternoon,” Rogerts puts in, gesturing toward the beds. “Pick a bunk. It will be yours until you finish your training.”
We deposit our supplies and choose our bunks, spreading blankets over them and leaving any bags we’ve brought from home. Aze picks a bunk near the door, and I take the one above it.
“Each man must wear an armband at all times,” Devlinn goes on, distributing the cloths while we make our beds. “One padded shirt per man. You are also allowed one tunic, one pair of trousers, and one set of boots. Any other armor you want to wear, you will have to buy on your own when you are assigned to your permanent units.”
Rogerts gestures to a stack of wooden poles his group brought in. “And each man will have a spear during training,” he adds. “If you show the skill for it, you may also be trained to use a sword or a bow, but each man starts with this. During battle, you’ll be given shields as well.”
Devlinn folds his arms. “Then all that’s left is the division of chores. Duties rotate weekly between the quarters. For this first week, your quarter will be responsible digging.”
“Digging?” Aze asks.
“The tunnel,” Devlinn answers. “You must have noticed it when we entered the fort.”
A Norwikker tilts his head. “A tunnel to what?”
“Ieli,” answers a new voice. Chass enters the dim room, and the soldiers with us snap to attention. The tenant nods to them and looks back to the Norwikker. “This is the weakest spot in the border between Awnia and Ieli, which is why we built our outpost here. The mountain range is expansive on either side of Hollow Peak—this very mountain—but here there is only one mountain between our countries. Grand General Ambritten wants to ensure protection for our lands from an Ielic invasion, so he began work on a tunnel through this mountain.”
“They’ve been hollowing out the mountain?” I breathe.
Chass hears me when no one else seems to. “The mountain was rather hollow to begin with,” he says. “Hence its name. It was once a volcano, though its fires went out centuries ago. All we must do is follow the ancient paths left by the lava and break through the final wall. We’ve been working for almost a year, but the tunnel is nearly completed. Your quarter may be the lucky ones to break through.”
A cold feeling settles into my chest. “And then we will invade?”
The tenant hesitates. “The tunnel is a precaution. We will only use it if we are attacked first.”
His voice has the same flat tone it had when he spoke to the fryrs—as if he doesn’t believe his own words. I frown at him, but he just looks over the quarter and announces, “Put on your padded shirts. You can wear them over your clothes for the added warmth. Then take a spear and report to the field to swear your oath.”
Aze shoots me a relieved look while I watch Chass leave. His comment about wearing the shirts over our clothes had been for me, I’m sure of it—a way to protect my identity without calling attention to me. Maybe I’ve made a friend after all.
Chass is waiting in the field when we finish dressing, standing beside a black banner and two other men. One, a middle-aged man in an impeccable, grand uniform, stares over the group with his arms behind his back, chin tilted up and eyes set in a hooded glare. The other wears a shirt of chainmail and the same black cloak Chass wears. Both have pale skin, the kind you can only get by staying out of the sun. When Chass stands beside them, his wind-burned face is like a red maple against a field of snow.
When we are settled into rows, the man in the middle lifts his hand for silence. “I am Captain Oristel,” he calls. His voice doesn’t carry as well as Chass’s, but the quarters still to listen. “During your time here, you will report to either Tenant Gryfalkr or to Tenant Tyrr, who will in turn report to me.” He gestures to the two men as he speaks, and I study the other tenant curiously. Tenant Tyrr is a few years older than Chass, with pale hair and small eyes that dart between the ranks of villagers as if searching for prey. “Tenant Gryfalkr will direct your training,” Oristel goes on. “And Tenant Tyrr will oversee your chores. Any disobedience will be swiftly and harshly punished.” He punctuates this threat with another glare, lingering distastefully on a group of young men who had been whispering in the front row.
“Gryfalkr,” he grunts, and Chass steps forward.
“This banner is the standard of our unit,” he says, nodding at the heavy cloth draped over a wooden frame. A single white triangle stands point-up on a field of black, edged in silver trim. Beneath the triangle, the words First North Infantry are embroidered in white thread. “When we go into battle, this is the banner you will follow. It represents Captain Oristel’s command, and, by extension, the Grand General’s. It is never to touch the ground, never to suffer misuse. Look to it for strength and inspiration in difficulty.”
Glancing at Aze, I open my mouth to make a joke about a piece of cloth providing strength, but his eyes are bright with enthusiasm.
“Repeat the words of your oath and swear your fealty,” Chass goes on. He pauses for effect, and then shifts to face the banner. “I pledge my arm to Grand General Ambritten, in the defense and strength of Awnia.”
The assembly echoes Chass’s words, but I only stare at him. This is a pledge to serve the Grand General, not Awnia. Chass sweeps his gaze over us and settles on me as if sensing my thoughts. His stare urges me to speak.
“Never make promises,” Edlan said.
With his eyes still on me, Chass goes on. “I pledge my obedience to Grand General Ambritten, for the expansion and preservation of Awnia.”
A chill crawls down my spine, like spiders on my skin.
“I pledge my life to Grand General Ambritten, to the service and glory of Awnia,” Chass says.
I open my mouth, but don’t echo the words shouted around me. It feels like there should be more of a celebration, something to mark the oath, but Captain Oristel just motions for Chass to step back and continues his address.
“Here you will be trained to fulfill the roles most conductive to your skills,” he says. “First spears, then perhaps more if you show the aptitude for it. But the most coveted soldier in battle is not a swordsman or an archer or even an officer. It is a Wordweaver.”
My breath hitches. Aze goes still beside me.
“This soldier is crucial for the defense of our great country,” the captain goes on. “Wordweavers are rare, but their service is essential to our cause. We are fortunate to have had a Wordweaver posted to this fort two years ago.” He nods to the right, and I turn to see a gray-haired man at the front of the other soldiers—the one who had been looking over our quarter during the meal, while I was searching for others who might have felt the crayfish feeling. Once again, his eyes scan the crowd, searching, and I hide shamelessly in Aze’s shadow.
“Ieldran blesses us,” Oristel goes on in a dull voice. “And has seen fit to send us another Wordweaver.”
Nausea spikes through my stomach and threatens to crawl up my throat.
Chass betrayed me.