Graeme Davis
Blood and Honor
To the two most important people in my life:
My father, David Davis, who has always supported me despite not being entirely sure what it is I do; and my wife, Gina Laurin, who knows, but supports me anyway.
Chapter 1
The Company of the Skull
“Lieutenant Mordan?”
The officer paused in saddling his horse and shot a glance over one shoulder. Lank blond hair framed a tanned face, its fine features concealed by a growth of stubble. His eyes seemed to make the newcomer uncomfortable. Narrowed almost to slits by years of scanning the Talenta Plains for enemies, they were a pale blue-gray like chips of ice.
Their gaze took in a short, slightly overweight young man standing in the stable doorway. His face was red and sheened with sweat. Mordan suppressed a groan as he looked the newcomer up and down—wide eyes, fresh uniform, no scars. Dol Arrah, he prayed, please don’t let this be Tarmun’s replacement.
“What?” said Mordan.
“Uh, the adjutant said I should report to you, Lieutenant,” said the newcomer. “I’ve been assigned to your squad. Brager, Trooper Edvan Brager.” He tried to force a smile.
“Well, hooray for you, Brager,” said Mordan. “Ever ride an undead horse before?”
The new recruit brightened. “Not in combat, but I used to work at the Ministry for the Dead. In supply. I tested undead horses before they were shipped here and to Fort Zombie.”
Mordan grunted. At least he was used to the beasts. That had to count for something.
“So who did you cross at the Ministry?”
“Lieutenant?”
“I assume you’re here because you got kicked out and had nowhere else to go?”
“Oh, no, Lieutenant. I got tired of counting their legs and riding ’em across the warehouse, and—”
“And you decided to see if life in the Company of the Skull’s as glamorous as it is in the stories?”
Brager’s smile faded a little. “Uh, yes.”
Mordan finished cinching his saddle and turned to face him for the first time. “Well, it’s not. But you’ll have plenty of time to find that out for yourself. Take your gear over to barracks block C and report to Sergeant Grasht. He’ll show you your bunk—and if he talks about eating you, he’s just being friendly. Be ready to ride out in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”
Brager saluted, turned crisply, and left. Mordan started to speculate on how long he would last. A bet on the life expectancy of a new recruit was a cherished tradition in the Company of the Skull.
Fifteen minutes later, a half-dozen riders stood in a rough line in the courtyard of Fort Bones. The summer sun beat down on them, turning the famous bone walls blinding white and glinting off the masterwork breastplates of the skeleton troopers who stood on the parapet.
Mordan glanced along the line. Brager was at the far left-hand end, with a crossbow on his back and a longsword at his side. He was still red-faced and sweating, but at least he didn’t look so nervous. Next to him was Garn, a female dwarf, astride her skeletal pony. He’d had to call in a few favors to get it, but she was just too short for a full-sized horse.
At the middle of the line was Grasht, the massive half-orc, with his greatsword on his back. His stirrups almost reached the ground. Beside him, Cardel the half-elf wore his usual smirk. Sharp-faced Kalla sat ignoring him, and Mordan decided he didn’t want to know what Cardel had just said to her. At the end of the line, and a little way off from the skeletal horses, a wiry halfling in the dyed and painted skins of a plains hunter stood beside a reddish-brown glidewing. A leather-bound saddle adorned with silver studs was strapped to its back, and its long face was painted with markings that echoed the wooden hunting-mask that hung round the halfling’s neck. Though he was not an official member of the Company of the Skull, Dern’s knowledge of the plains and his skill with Redwind, his glidewing, made him invaluable.
“Attention!” snapped Mordan. “It seems one of the advance posts on the Plains has lost a patrol. Our orders are to get it back or find out what happened to it.”
A cynical murmur ran down the line. The improved Karrnathi skeletons were useful enough in battle, but their sense of direction was notoriously bad. If something had happened to their living officer, they could have wandered all over the place. Mordan tossed a leather scroll-case to Garn and another to Dern.
“Here’s their route,” he said. “We’ll start at the outpost. Let’s go.”
“Hey, lieutenant?” Grasht was already looking unhappy.
Mordan anticipated his question. “Yes, Grasht, we will be riding through the night.” A loud groan issued from the troops. “There have been reports of Valenar activity in the area, and if they’re behind this the Captain needs to know right away.” He paused, struck by a sudden thought.
“Brager,” he said, “did you ever sleep in the saddle back at the Ministry?”
Brager shook his head. “No, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Endurance testing was done with sandbags.”
Cardel muttered something, and Grasht stifled a chuckle.
“Well, now’s your chance to learn,” Mordan said. “Get sleep whenever you can. You’ll need it. Just take care you don’t roll over.”
As the rest of the troop laughed, Mordan signaled them to move out.
The Talenta Plains stretched away to a curtain of heat haze. Mordan signaled the squad to halt, took off his broad-brimmed hat, and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Squinting in the harsh light, he scanned the horizon.
“Kalla!” he called, pulling out his flask. “Are you sure we’re on the right trail?”
The trooper slid from her horse, trotted a little way in front of the line, and dropped to a crouch. She stared at the ground for a few seconds, then looked up.
“They’ve been this way,” she said. “Here’s one hoofprint split almost in half, and this other one looks like a bone-end where the hoof must have come off. If they were living horses, they wouldn’t still be moving.”
Mordan wiped his mouth and stowed his flask again. “Garn, where’s their next stop?”
The dwarf fished the map out of a saddlebag. “They were supposed to head east another fifty miles or so, to a rise with small rock spire on the top. Then back north till they hit the lightning rail, and west back to the fort.”
Mordan nodded and turned back to Kalla. “Were they headed the right way?”
The shifter nodded, raising one arm to indicate where the tracks led.
“Why don’t we just say the Valenar got them and go home?” grumbled the half-orc.
“You know why,” said Mordan. “There’s valuable military property to be recovered.” The skeleton troopers of Fort Bones were equipped with masterwork armor.
Grasht snorted. “The Valenar got their armor. We all know it.”
Behind him, Cardel snickered. “Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t,” he said. “You may be too rich to care, but I could use the bounty. Or could it be you’re afraid of running into the Valenar yourself?”
Grasht spat something in his own language and half-drew his massive sword. Mordan rode between the two as fast as his lurching undead mount would move.
“That’s enough!” His voice was more tired than angry. “Grasht, move up to the head of the column. Cardel, you’re the back. Move out!”
The sun was low in the sky when a batlike silhouette appeared above the horizon, drawing closer through the diminishing heat-haze. Within a few minutes, the reddish-brown glidewing was circling above the patrol. His face hidden behind a snarling beast-mask of painted wood, the rider gestured back the way he had come and made a chopping gesture across his own throat, indicating death—or the dead. Mordan waved an acknowledgment, and the column of riders changed their course to follow the flying scout.