The wagon sat by the entrance to the regiments camp. One of the wheels had near shook itself to pieces, the wrought iron bands were twisted and it lurched to one side. The carcass was only good for firewood now.

  “This is all they left,” Ruddle reported, handing Riot the Faelen cavalry horn.

  “Bastards have to pay, it ain’t right, Sarge,” another man spat.

  The others murmured their agreement and Riot knew there would be trouble if he did nothing. Bad blood festered like an old maggoty wound, and there would be thefts, perhaps assaults, and then some of these men would hang or be flogged—and they still wouldn’t see any of the loot.

  “What are we going to do?” Ruddle asked.

  “You’ll do nothing, you hear? Leave this to me,” Riot replied, stalking into the camp.

  On the parade ground, Mercer's company were at sword practice, stripped down to their shirts and attacking each other with wooden blades while Colonel Williams watched on.

  The colonel was a neckless man with a face made for scowling. What he lacked in height, he made up for in volume, barking out each word. Today he wore a Faelen cape draped around his shoulders that was so colorful it almost made Riot's eyes water.

  "Ah, Riot, what do you think of m’new long-ear garb? Gift from Captain Mercer here,” Williams snapped.

  Mercer halted his practice and strode over. He was whippet thin, with a sheen of sweat on his smooth brow and he moved with an easy swagger and a smug smile that Riot wanted to beat off his face. Riot was sure he could reach him and run him through. He’d hang for it, but right now, that seemed like a fair trade.

  “Captain Mercer’s very generous, all he got me were two of my men dead,” Riot replied.

  Mercer’s young face twisted in indignation, the thin pencil moustache pulled into a severe line. “They are not your men, Sergeant,” he said, stressing the rank. “If they died, it was through your incompetence.”

  There was a noise like a tin whistle in Riot's ears, and the next thing he knew, he was two steps forward from where he started, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Sergeant Riot,” Williams roared, his moustache bristling. “You will stand down!”

  For a split second Riot saw the flicker of fear in Mercer’s eyes and some primal part of him howled and bayed in satisfaction as he took a step back.

  Williams rounded on Mercer. “Two men dead, Jack? A jest is a jest, but we can’t be having men dying. Morale is low enough as it is. And you, Riot, really. You can’t come in here and reach for your blade like a bloody pirate, there are rules, damn it! Captain Mercer is an officer.”

  If Riot had gotten two of Mercer’s men killed, he’d be stripped of his rank and tied to the spars, waiting to be flogged. But Mercer was a damned officer, so all he got was the equivalent of a waggled finger.

  “I apologized to Sergeant Riot and explained that I was waylaid by a company of enemy cavalry, but he wouldn’t hear it,” Mercer said, lying smoothly.

  “Well now, Riot, you see? Captain Mercer’s had the good grace to apologize, and I would see that you accept it. I know you’re not a gentleman, but you can aspire to the station, can’t you?”

  “Sir,” Riot said, clenching his teeth so hard he thought he might shatter them.

  Williams seemed to realize that was all he was going to get out of his sergeant and waved a hand dismissively. “That's all sorted then. Jack, you’ll see that Sergeant Riot and his company get a share of the loot, won’t you?”

  “I would have given him my note, sir, but I do not expect he employs the services of a banker. Perhaps I could pay you in some other way Riot—an introduction to my tailor, perhaps.”

  His broken shoes were held together with twine and his ripped uniform still had the burn mark in it from a Faelen dart that had pierced his shoulder last year. The trousers were bought from a farm they passed during the retreat. Her husband and sons had gone to war, she said. They were woolen and itchy, and he’d paid more than she had asked.

  Williams barked a laugh, patting Riot good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Come now, Riot, it’s all in jest. You learn to have a thick skin around the officer's mess, I can tell you, and Jack has a sharper tongue than any of them!”

  “We just want our share, Sir, that’s all. If there's nothing else?” Riot asked.

  “Yes, there is, in fact. There’s a hunt afoot! The wikkan are hopping about and we’ve been called in to assist them.”

  “Deserters?” Riot guessed.

  “Not just any deserters, Leybound.”

  Any interest Riot had flickered out. Chasing real deserters was useful because you could hang them outside the camp as a warning. Catch a Leybound and they just throw them back in the cage with the others.

  “Sounds like a job for Captain Mercer, Sir,” Riot offered.

  “I’ll be leading the search, Riot, with you and your rabble in support. That is, unless the new lieutenant arrives in time.” Mercer wielded the offhand comment like a rapier, a smile playing on his lips.

  Williams shot the young captain a frown before laying a hand companionably on Riots shoulder. “Not the way I wanted you to find out, Riot, and I know you’ll be disappointed, but those men need a real officer. We can’t have a sergeant lead a company, surely you know that? I’m sure that the new lieutenant will be grateful they have you to help them settle them in.”

  “Sir,” Riot responded, hearing his own voice sound hollow.

  “Now, Arcanist Riley has taken an interest in this leybound hunt,” Williams continued. “He’ll be arriving soon and you know he likes to see some swordplay, hence our little display here. I’ll need you here too Riot.”

  Riot was unable to prevent a groan.

  “Come now, Sergeant. Riley’s one of our biggest patrons. Who do you think pays for the rations and the boots on the mens’ feet?” Williams asked.

  Certainly, there were things that needed buying. Every day, a dozen bullocks were slaughtered just for this regiment, thousands of eggs, and hundreds of chickens. Grain by the wagonload for the officers' horses, flour to make the hard, dry biscuits the men ate when they marched, and tea leaves by the sackful.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Rich patrons gave money, that was true but Riot would bet his sword that not a single guilder was ever spent on boots.

  It was called snaffling. The quartermaster took a cut by getting discounts from the merchants who supplied the army. Then they would hold back certain things for the officers: the best cuts of meat, liquor, and wine. Then there were the things the quartermaster held back himself—uniforms, buttons, and blankets—that were sold to the very men he was supposed to be providing for. Of course, the quartermaster split the proceeds with whatever officer was overseeing him, which in the present case was Captain bloody Mercer.

  “The regiment’s broke, so we need to make Riley happy and show him our fighting spirit. Everyone in the regiment will attend,” Mercer said.

  Riot completely ignored the young captain and addressed Williams. “Sir, we just got back from a four-day patrol, they won’t be happy about heading out again as it is, and now they have to prance around like gleemen?”

  “Are you deaf, Sergeant? Did you not hear me just give you an order?” Mercer demanded.

  “Jack, give us a moment, would you?” Williams asked.

  Mercer wrestled his expression from indignation into superior sneer in the blink of an eye. “I believe I’ll join my men,” he said, taking up a practice sword as if the idea had been his all along.

  Williams watched Mercer leave with a thoughtful expression before turning to Riot. "Listen, you know Riley likes you and all of that last man nonsense. But we have to make him love the whole regiment. He’s influential with the Arcanum and the wikkan, and we’ll need his support if we’re going to be front and center in the spring when we head out against the Mazral army. You want that too, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” After a year of being beaten back through the Arcanum lands, if he was going to die it would be walking forward, not being pushed into the ocean.

  “Good. Now, tell me about this business with the ambush.”

  “Two men dead, sir, Stokes and Argus.”

  “Good men,” Williams announced, nodding soberly.

  Riot knew the colonel had no idea who they were. Argus and Stokes had been loafers and scoundrels but they deserved better than dying with empty bellies in the dust.

  “Bad for morale,” Williams went on. “It strikes me that you and the company are due some form of restitution and I have something appropriate in mind. Leave it with me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Jolly good. Ah, here’s Riley now!” Williams exclaimed.

  “And the wikkan,” Riot added, with a dark look at the approaching group.

  You never saw a lone wikkan, and here were three of them in dark robes. There was a rhyme about it, what were the words? Something about witches in threes. In the tales, they were tall and rail thin, with black eyes and straight black hair, and they didn’t walk, they floated, or something.

  These three didn’t float. In fact, the middle one fairly trudged along like a farmer's wife, all lumpy around the middle with flyaway, dirty blond hair. The two that flanked her were drab, simple-looking creatures who had the air of long-suffering daughters-in-law.

  Arcanist Riley strode before them, his large paunch like some great siege engine straining against his gray robe. A wide smile split his gammon-colored face where the patchy parts of his beard fought grimly for the remaining free areas of skin. He saluted Colonel Williams, his fat fingers bumping against his sweaty forehead. “Edgar, it's always a pleasure to be back with the rank and file,” he boomed.

  “Arcanist Riley.” Williams returned the salute. “And Wikkan Kerne,” he added, giving the dumpy witch a formal bow.

  The wikkan called Kerne stood with hands clasped behind her back, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet and looking over the men like she was examining a herd of cattle in a market. “This is what you spend all of your money on, is it Riley? Where is he then, this last man of yours?”

  Riley spotted Riot and beckoned him forward. “Come sergeant, no need to be shy. This is him. You’ll remember the siege at Ivansrook, of course. Eight weeks long and they crack open the gates to find poor Alric Rook and all the others dead as door mice. All that’s left is young Riot, the last man.”

  One thing the stories agreed on was that all wikkan had black eyes, ink stained from corner to corner and right now Kerne’s were pinned to Riot, a faint smile playing on her lips. She might have looked like a hen with ruffled feathers, but there was something about her that suggested that if a fox ever got into the chicken house, it would be a very sorry animal indeed.

  “Quite the reputation, sergeant. I can’t imagine it’s easy being a stone-eye in the Arcanum regiments.” She spoke like one of the women who came from the dales to sell their produce in the harvest markets in Fallow, her accent slightly lilting, the slow words all running together.

  “I was born and bred in Fallow, ma’am,” Riot replied.

  “He might have been sired by one of those primped-up Erudoran ninnies, but Sergeant Riot is one of us, aren’t you Sergeant? He’ll be the one to catch your missing Leybound,” Riley said, beaming proudly.

  “I will be leading the party, of course,” Mercer interjected, cutting in front of Riot and giving a gentile bow. “Sergeant Riot merely sees to the day-to-day operations of the regiment: rations, sentry duty, digging latrines. I would be happy to discuss the finer details of the search with you.”

  Riley waved a hand dismissively. “You don’t know these Leybound, Captain Mercer. They’re criminals, base despicable cretins. They’d sell their own grandmothers, and worse.”

  “Arcanist Riley is correct. The men we are looking for are led by Gerrard Price, he used to be a captain of some renown, and capturing him will be difficult.” Kerne added.

  “That’s why I brought Wikkan Kerne here. We need a proper bastard to catch Price,” Riley said.

  “Are you a proper bastard, Sergeant Riot?” Kerne asked mildly.

  Mercer looked like he had chewed on a rotten lemon, and Riot took a moment to enjoy his discomfort.

  “Can’t speak for myself, ma’am, but the company are bastards to a man. We’ll catch your Leybound.”

  “If this Leybound in question was formerly an officer, we can’t expect a mere sergeant to apprehend him,” Mercer protested stiffly.

  “I don’t see that makes much difference,” Riot said evenly.

  “Sergeant Riot, do you mean to say that you believe that officers are no more challenging opponents than common criminals?” Williams asked with mock surprise.

  The colonel wore an expression of polite expectation, the twitch of his bushy moustache hinting at a broad smile underneath. Twenty years in the ranks had honed Riot’s soldier instincts, and right now they screamed at him. Williams was setting him up and he couldn’t see how. But the long years of blood, sweat, marching and fighting had also taught him that when you’re in the mouth of a beast, the only way out was to break the jaws off.

  “Out there, away from the duels and the rules, an officer’s just a man with an expensive sword,” Riot said.

  “How dare you?” Mercer said, his chin thrust forward.

  “Well, you wanted to see some action Arcanist Riley, and I smell a wager.” Colonel Williams clapped his hands together and rubbed them enthusiastically. “How about it, Captain Mercer? Care to fight for the honor of your fellow officers against the famous last man?”

  So this was Williams' method of repayment? The opportunity to fight Mercer in front of the men. It would certainly do the trick, but Riot might get his head cracked open in the process.

  Mercer’s sneer of distaste twisted his fair complexion. “Duel with a sergeant? Surely you can’t be serious Edgar.”

  “Not a duel, call it an exhibition. Practice blades only. First to three strikes? What do you say, Arcanist Riley?”

  Riley looked like all of his birthdays had come at once. “A test of mettle, one warrior to another! I was a fair duelist in my time, don’t you know. If I were a younger man, I would take up a blade myself! But let us see if the next generation has what it takes, eh? Fine fun, fine entertainment!” he cried.

  “Jack?” Williams asked.

  Mercer untied his sword belt and tossed it to one of the other officers. “Sergeant Riot has questioned the honor of all officers, and I feel I must answer him. So I accept.”

  Williams turned to Riot. “Sergeant?”

  This wasn't about Argus or Stokes, or the wagonload of Faelen loot. Williams had engineered the whole thing knowing that it didn’t matter if Riot or Mercer won, as long as Riley got a good show and kept filling the regiment's coffers.

  But two men were dead, and he was their sergeant, so Mercer would have to pay.

  “I’ll fight,” Riot said.