“What have they been doing?” Riot asked as he joined Cox by the empty window frame.

  “More of them turned up and made a fuss, but they’ve kept their distance,” Cox reported.

  In the enemy camp, shadowed figures sat around cook fires. At the edge of the flickering firelight, Riot saw the dark shapes of at least a dozen hobbled horses that hadn’t been there before.

  “Keep an eye on them, make sure everyone stays ready,” Riot ordered.

  “Sarge,” Cox replied.

  Darkness still stained the sky to the north but on the southern horizon, iron grey light worked its way into the heavy clouds. The rest of the regiment wouldn’t be far away. When they arrived, Riot hoped they would be enough to drive off a half-score of Long-ear cavalry and a ragged company of infantry.

  But before that, Riot had work to do.

  The prisoner, 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 before they’d disturbed him. In anycase, Riot knew where to start looking.

  An overgrown courtyard on the side of the farmhouse was bordered on two sides by low-slung outhouses that were crumbled ruins, overgrown with weeds and creeping vines. In the first building, he found only abandoned animal sheds, dirty floors strewn with rotting hay. He moved on and even before he reached the doorway of the second one, a foul reek of shit stung his nose and he knew he was in the right place.

  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 hacked into it. Flies buzzed out of the depths.

  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. He upended it, and as the small glass shape rolled onto his palm, a deadly fear seized him, and he stood stock still, taking short, ragged breaths.

  No wonder three wikkan had been sent with Riley to make sure that Price was found. Of all the gods forsaken things. A damn hedron.

  Riot made his way to the doorway where the weak light of the new day caught the delicately crafted gold bands that secured the twelve glass panels of the shape. Each panel had five sides and every surface of glass or gold was filled with carvings and runes. Inside was a web of silver strands. Linium, the rarest of metals.

  There was enough here 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.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Riot hurried down to the river and washed his hands, only able to take a steady breath when the hedron was back inside the leather pouch with the drawstring pulled tight.

  He paused on the river bank. What was he supposed to do now?

  The half light of dawn gave shape to the barren land and wind whipped patterns across the long grass. A long way back alone to be sure, but he might make it if he left now. Dodge the Faelen sentries, work his way back and hand the hedron to Riley or the wikkan.

  Hedrons were rare as hens teeth and turned the tide of battles. Was it too much to think they would let him keep the company as a reward? Rank and file had been made officers before, not often and usually for some battlefield bravery, but if walking twenty miles with death in his pocket 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.

  Leaving the company was a risk though. 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 was better off staying with the company. He’d 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 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 hard shape of the hedron pressed against his skin, and he wondered if perhaps they would have been better off running.

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

  Alar-dal led four Faelen officers forward, their red uniforms as immaculate as any Arcanum officer but a hundred times more gaudy. Behind them followed a column of two dozen ragged Faelen rank and file.

  Alar-dal swung off of his horse and made his way forward. “Sergeant Riot!” he called.

  Riot couldn’t give the hedron to Cox or any of the others. If they clapped their eyes on it, half would run for the hills while the others discussed ownership with blades drawn. Riot rubbed his eyes. 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-dal's 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 flooding through him. At any other time, he would have baulked at the offer, the shame impossible to wash off. But delivering the hedron and the Leybound prisoner, Gerrard Price would make up for it. They might actually promote him, Riley liked him well enough after all. He could practically feel the weight of the lieutenant's pendant hanging from a chain around his neck.

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

  “Nope, no spine. I’m a coward to my bones.” Riot bellowed the order, and the company filed warily out of the crumbling farmhouse and formed ranks. Ruddle staggered out with the support of two men and gave Riot a wave of his bloody stump that could have been a salute. “Leave all your weapons and get ready to march. Cox, take a few men, and bring up our friend.”

  Alar-dal looked uncertain before scurrying back to the three officers and bowing deeply as he rattled off an explanation. The lead rider inclined his head to listen, before throwing a dark look in Riot’s direction and kicking his horse forward.

  His short cape was trimmed in fur, and his uniform was crowded with gaudy medals. The leather boots were sturdy. The kind of boots you could march in all day without so much as a blister. The sword at his hip could bat aside a heavy pike and skewer a boar, much longer than the curved slashing sabres most cavalry riders preferred.

  To Riot, he was the kind of officer that every soldier dreamed of dragging from his horse in battle, killing, and looting.

  Alar-dal hurried over. “Sergeant Riot, I present High Faelen Tarir-del. My Lord, this is the man who stole your wagon,” Alar-dal proclaimed.

  Patreon