Overconfident, Frentis decided, noting the casual saunter of the guards between the wagons. Shouldn’t have ventured so far in.
He crept up behind the nearest guard, waited until his closest compatriot disappeared behind a wagon and slit his throat with a hunting knife. Free Sword mercenary, he judged from the man’s nonuniform gear.
He caught Davoka’s eye and pointed to the next guard, sitting on a wagon wheel with his back to the trees and guiding a whetstone over the blade of his short sword. Frentis didn’t wait for the spectacle and moved to the wagons, close enough to hear the slavers’ conversation.
“Raised ’em from pups,” the crying man was saying. “Trained ’em myself.”
“Cheer up,” one of the his companions said with a sympathetic smile. “Fuck one of the boys we found. Always perks me up.”
“When I find who did my pups,” the weeper went on. “I’ll do plenty of fuckin’ all right.” He brandished a long-bladed dagger. “With this.”
A shout came from the other side of the camp quickly followed by the din of an untidy scuffle; Ratter and Draker failing to remain hidden. Frentis drew his sword, keeping the hunting knife in his left hand, and stepped from behind the wagon. “In compensation for your loss,” he told the man with the long dagger, “I’ll kill you last.”
“No moving!” Davoka told Draker as she stitched the cut on his arm. The big man gritted his teeth with a whimper, arm trembling as the needle did its work.
“Serves you right, you clumsy bugger,” Ratter said. He sported a livid bruise on his cheek and badly scraped knuckles from beating one of the slavers half to death. The freed captives had gathered round to finish the job.
Altogether they had rescued some thirty-five people, none appearing to have passed their fortieth year, an even mix of men and women, plus a few barely in adolescence. There was also a decent haul of weapons and loot gathered by the slavers, some of which the captives had immediately begun to squabble over.
“This belonged to me old mum!” a young woman insisted as she hugged an antique vase in a tight grip.
“That belongs in the house of Lady Allin, as you well know,” Illian scolded. “Brother”-she tugged at Frentis’s sleeve as he passed-“this servant seeks to thieve from her employer.”
Frentis paused, staring hard at the young woman with the vase. After a moment she swallowed and handed it over. He turned it over in his hand, noting the artistry of the decoration, an exotic bird of some kind flying above a jungle, reminding him of the country south of Mirtesk. “Beautiful,” he said, and threw it against the nearest tree.
“Weapons, tools, clothing and food only,” he said, raising his voice, the squabblers falling silent. “That’s if you’re going to stay with us. This Realm is at war and any who stay are soldiers in that war. Or grab whatever loot you can carry and run, though I’d be surprised if you didn’t find yourself back in a slaver’s wagon within days. This is a free Realm, so I leave the choice to you.”
He moved on then paused at the sight of a man sifting through the pile of assembled weapons. He was thin with long hair veiling his face, but there was a familiarity to his movements, a noticeable limp as he sifted through the pile. He stopped, recognising something, his hair parting as he knelt down to retrieve it.
“Janril!” Frentis rushed over, extending a hand to the onetime bugler of the Wolfrunners. “Faith, it’s good to see you, Sergeant!”
Janril Norin didn’t look up from the assorted weaponry, lifting a sword from the pile. It was a Renfaelin blade, plain but serviceable. Janril sat back on his haunches, grasping the hilt, his fingers playing over the blade. Frentis took in the many bruises on his narrow face. They slit her throat . . . Her husband screamed until they beat him senseless . . .
“Janril,” he murmured, crouching at the minstrel’s side. “I . . .”
“We were sleeping when they came for us,” Janril said in a dull tone. “I hadn’t posted a guard, didn’t think we needed one so close to the capital. This”-he tapped the sword-“was under our bed, all cosy and tucked up in a blanket. I’d barely got a hand to it when they dragged us out. Sergeant Krelnik gave it to me the day I left the Wolfrunners. Said all men needed a sword, be they minstrel or soldier. Apparently he picked it up the night we stormed the High Keep. Don’t know why he kept it so long, not much to look at, is it?”
Janril’s gaze swivelled to Frentis, who knew he was looking into the eyes of a madman. “You kill them all?” the minstrel asked.
Frentis nodded.
“I want more.”
Frentis touched a hand to the sword blade. “You’ll have it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Reva
“The entire Realm Guard?” Uncle Sentes asked.
The cavalryman nodded, the brandy glass in his hand trembling. It was his third measure but seemed to have done little to calm his nerves. “Save those regiments not quartered on the coast or borders, my lord. Forty thousand men or more.”
Reva watched her uncle slump in his chair. Apart from Lady Veliss and the cavalryman, they were alone in the Lord’s chamber.
“How is this possible?” Veliss asked the man.
“They were so many, my lady. And the knights . . .” He shook his head, trailing off and choking down more brandy before continuing. “Smashed into our flank and cut down two full regiments before we knew what was happening. By then the Volarians were coming on in full strength.”
Uncle Sentes continued to sit silently in his chair and Lady Veliss seemed unable to formulate another question, tracing a less-than-steady hand over her forehead.
“Let me see if I have this right,” Reva said as the silence stretched. “The Realm Guard was two days out from Varinshold when word came of invasion. Correct?”
The cavalryman nodded.
“The Battle Lord turns you all around, a day later you’re drawn up against the Volarians then Fief Lord Darnel appears on the horizon with his knights.”
“We thought he’d come to aid us. Though the Departed know how he could’ve gotten there so quickly.”
“You are saying,” Veliss put in, “that Fief Lord Darnel is a traitor? That he led his men against the King’s host?”
“I am, my lady. And as for the King, I met some refugees from Varinshold on the road. Word is the King’s dead.”
Silence reigned and Reva wondered at her lack of exultation. The King of the Heretic Dominion lies slain and all I feel is dread.
“There were no survivors?” Veliss pressed. “The Battle Lord?”
“Last seen charging the Volarian line, alone,” the cavalryman replied. “As for survivors, Lord Marshal Caenis had rallied the Wolfrunners and a few other regiments for a rear guard, but they were sorely pressed last I saw. My own Lord Marshal sent me and four others to bring news to you here, I was the only one to make it.”
“Thank you,” Uncle Sentes said in a faint tone. “Please leave us to consider your tidings. Quarters will be provided.”
The cavalryman nodded, rising to his feet, then hesitating. “You should know, my lord. The tales I heard on the road leave little doubt as to the nature of our enemy. These Volarians do not come just for conquest, but for slaves and blood. They cannot be treated with.”
Lady Veliss gestured at the door with a polite smile, leading the man from the chamber. “Lord Darnel seems to have found grounds for treaty,” she commented when the door closed.
“Darnel is a self-glorying fool,” the Fief Lord replied with little emotion. “Though I never thought his vain ambition would lead him to this. One wonders what they promised him.”