Riot hissed as Loic wrenched the crossbow bolt out of his back and pushed in a rank smelling poultice.

  “Can’t do much till we get to the others, but it didn’t hit anything important,” Loic said.

  Riot gulped at the water in the flask, spilling most of it down his chin. The leypower pressure was reduced now, leaking out painfully slowly, leaving black stains on his skin.

  The sun rose sluggishly into the sky, and Natalia Quinn took the first watch, but Riot still kept his voice down. He didn’t know how she did it, but she could move like a ghost when she wanted to.

  “Price?” he asked Loic.

  “He fell in, same as you. If he survived he’ll be looking for us. Folk from the Black Peaks ain’t the type to forget. Worse than the long ears when it comes to honor and revenge,” Loic murmured, looking around at the trees as if Price were about to stride out, sword in hand.

  He’ll be in the city, waiting for us,” Riot said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know what he wants.”

  Price had hunted Riley down and checked the arcanist’s saddlebags before he killed him, then trailed them through the hills to get Moran and whatever was in the pouch that he carried.

  “He wants to settle scores, and now we’re at the top of his list,” Loic said.

  Could he trust the northman? He’d fought against Price with him. Fought him with something powerful enough to knock himself out and still looked like he was feeling it, his skin slack and breathing like a blown horse.

  “I saw the charge up the ridge. You’re a mad bastard, they should have killed you,” Loic conceded.

  “What would you have done?”

  “Nothing wrong with it. I’m saying I’m sorry I missed out. The lads will be talking about that one for a long time.”

  Loic gave a sheepish kind of smile. Perhaps he was trying to be friendly, trading war stories, but too much bad blood had passed between them for that. But he had come back for him. So, that was something.

  “I think Price is after Moran. That arcanist is shifty if you ask me,” Loic went on in a more conspiratorial tone.

  “He didn’t tell you? I thought you two were close. What was it, three cheers for the commander?”

  Loic looked like he’d swallowed sour milk. “We didn’t know you then. But now we know you’re a tough bastard. I can still feel my liver bruised from where you hit me.”

  Riot could still feel the sharp pain in his knee, like a rusty nail had been driven into it. “I should have hit you harder and put you down for good.”

  “Perhaps you should have, but you didn't, and we’re here now, so what are we doing next?”

  “Tell me what happened on the road with Riley, where was he going?”

  Loic shrugged. “He left me in the damn dark on my own, next thing I know he’s pounding back down the road with two score of long ears behind him.”

  “You think he was meeting with Moran?” Riot asked.

  “As good a question as any.” Quinn materialized out of the bushes. If her wounded shoulder troubled her, she didn’t show it.

  “How do you do that?” Riot asked.

  “Hard work and training. How do you think Loic can break walls down? Even though he apparently knocks himself out in the process.”

  “Only some of the time,” Loic muttered.

  “Price is after you and Moran. Don’t deny it. He told me I could leave if I let him take you,” Riot said.

  “And you refused? How very gallant of you.”

  The northman finished with the fire and stood, picking up his pack. “I’m taking watch, but I’ll say this. You stood toe to toe with Gerrard Price and lived, so if we're seeing this through, I’ll follow you.”

  Loic loped off, leaving a silence that held only the soft crackling of flames.

  “He doesn’t know you saved me from Price, does he?” Riot said.

  “Not a clue. The legend of the last man grows. He wanted to respect you, you just had to give him a reason.”

  “If this is another speech about leadership,” Riot began.

  Natalia smiled and moved closer to the fire. “You don’t need any speeches. I know that you’ll want to go and find Price, and if you want to beat him, you won’t be able to do it alone. Now you have the support of Loic, and through him, the support of the Leybound. So I rather think that my work here is done.”

  “Tell me about Price.”

  “He is the son of a general from the Black Peaks who made his name in the last Orc war.”

  Riot stared at the flames. The Orc wars are generally mentioned in hushed tones. Everyone was friendly now, allies now against the Faelen, but even ten years ago, it wasn’t that way.

  “Price is a student of war,” Natalia continued. “When he was faced with the possibility of defeat to the Orcs, he did what he needed to do to win. Terrible things, mostly.”

  “I saw some of his handy work in the ravine. He sliced a High Faelen to ribbons.”

  Natalia gave a grim smile. “They call it The Weeping Peak. A thousand Orcs chased two hundred men of the Lothrok Keep into the mountains. Fifty men were led out by Price, and only three of the Orcs managed to crawl out. Blinded and crippled. He gave the mountains such a black reputation that even the Faelen didn’t bother to try to go through them when they attacked Taria.”

  “He told me he’d been betrayed by his own officers.”

  “To make peace with the Orcs, Price was banished. In truth he was feared by his own people and most were relieved to see him go. This was around the time the Faelen broke out of the Echo, and so he fought the Faelen with the Erudorans, then with the Tarians, until he joined the Arcanum regiments. The officers were jealous of his skill, his leadership, and how the rank and file loved him. They set him up to kill another officer, and when he was court-martialed, he chose to be made leybound.”

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  “You sound like you admire him,” Riot said.

  “He’s a brilliant commander, and his control of the leypower is unparalleled. But he’s bitter.”

  There was certainly a bitterness to Price, and Riot knew that a man like that wouldn't have drowned in the river. But Price would have to wait for now. The men were with Moran, and unless he found them, the arcanist would get them all killed.

  “What about you and Moran? What are you working on?”

  “Moran and I have our own objectives and both will help fight the Mazral. Just know this, Moran will stop at nothing to accomplish his goals, he doesn’t care how many lives it costs, including the Leybound.”

  “You're saying you would choose my life or Loic’s or any of the others before getting what you want?”

  Natalia’s face was carved in stone. “No, I would also let you all die to achieve my ends.”

  “Then how are you different from Moran?”

  “Because I don’t need you, dead or alive, to achieve my goals.” It wasn’t a boast, simply a certainty. “You should sleep, we’ll move as soon as night falls.”

  Natalia moved slightly further away and settled down on her own bedroll, turning her back to him. Riot knew he wouldn’t find any sleep, so he sat and forced himself to cycle the leypower. It felt like an almost solid substance in his veins, but he cycled anyway, using the burning sensation to restock his anger and rage as the sun set.

  ***

  The priory sat on the route of an ancient pilgrimage, offering shelter and sustenance to those who journeyed from the heathen lands of Taria through the Halfstone Ranges to Helgan’s Rest, the holy seat of the Prior in Parthenea.

  Now it sat in ruin, sacked by foraging parties on both sides like so much of the continent, anything useful stripped away, and its guardians fled for the safety of the nearest castle or stronghold.

  The new moon was a blessing that filled the landscape with deep shadows and Riot, Loic and Quinn journeyed in silence without seeing another living soul. The blue hour arrived, the stars to the north hanging in a deep blue sky that brought the promise of the morning. The seventh since they had left Helgan’s Rest.

  Riot could hardly believe it had been seven days. Seven days of marching with the ache of hunger like an axe wound in his belly. Seven days of fighting with the leyline, feeling it stalking the barrier waiting for a weakness. He didn’t even recognize himself any more, a lean creature raised back to life by the arcane.

  An overgrown road that was little more than two rutted wagon tracks led up to the priory. Crease was on sentry duty, and at the sight of them, he hurried back up the track.

  Riot walked slowly sparing no thought for looking weak. The only part of him that remained free from aching pain was the hedron scar on his hand, and he was desperate to rip down the fragile barrier that had been placed there and let the pressure out.

  Fletcher led the group of leybound that hurried over to meet them. “Good to have you back, Sarge,” the old boatman said, handing Riot a small flask. “For your rehabilitation.”

  “You drink on duty, Fletcher?” Riot asked.

  Fletcher looked nervous, but gave a relieved smile as Riot unscrewed the flask and took a deep draft before handing it back.

  “I’ve left some. Be careful, if you sober up too fast, it might kill you,” Riot said, and Fletcher grinned and touched his forelock.

  Norton unbuckled the Faelen sword he had taken from the ridge. “It’s for you, sir. On account you look like you lost yours.”

  The rest of the leybound greeted them warmly. Riot was thumped on the back, and he winced at the pain from the crossbow bolt that had struck his shoulder as his hands were wrung by each of them.

  Of the sixty that had left the camp under the command of Captain Riley, only fourteen Leybound still lived. Of the twenty guardsmen that had traveled with Walden Moran in their pristine tabards, only six remained, now battle-hardened and filthy, their stares as hard as any veteran.

  Many of them spoke excitedly of the mission of madness that Riot had led them on up the side of the ravine to clear the ridge. Even Rimmer, who had complained at each step of the journey and questioned each of Riot's orders, saluted him and proudly proclaimed that he had been right behind Riot in the charge and retold the story of how he had personally killed a Faelen who would have claimed Riot's life.

  “We heard about Price too, sir, the bastard,” Rimmer said.

  “All those poor people in that village,” Fletcher said.

  “We’ll get him, right Sarge?” Lehan asked.

  “We’ll get him, I promise you that,” Riot replied.

  He’d thought them lower than rank and file, reviled, ridiculed, and feared, but they had fought like wild animals. What could be if they had the chance? The crack of leybound charges, turning the tide of a real battle.

  “Where’s Moran?” Riot asked.

  The mention of the commander drew dark looks and muttering from the Leybound.

  “What’s happened?” Loic asked.

  “He’s in there, with some friar,” Lehan said.

  “That man’s no friar.” The usually stoic Crease wore a scowl.

  As if summoned, the doors of the priory swung open, and Moran strode out, a wizened little man in a brown cassock trailing behind him. At least he supposed it was a man. He had a face like a back of walnuts, gross and lumpy. He could be a gnome, though Riot had never seen one outside the far west, and certainly not one wearing a cassock.

  “Loic, go with this lot and find out what’s been happening while we were away,” Riot murmured.

  “What are you going to do?” Loic asked.

  “I’m going to get some answers,” Riot replied.

  Loic called to the men to follow him, and the small group made their way back over to a campfire. Natalia Quinn remained close, but she wasn’t looking at Moran, her eyes were locked on the smaller figure.

  “Who’s that?” Riot asked under his breath.

  “It looks to be a holy man,” she replied, her tone as unreadable as ever.

  “Sergeant Riot, I must say your penchant for survival borders on the divine, though you look to have tested the very limits of their faith this time,” Moran declared as he approached. “Miss Quinn, I am grateful to see that you too have returned unharmed, though I expect we will not have the pleasure of your company for much longer. Unless you wish to involve us in your little enterprise, I feel it would be best if we parted ways,” Moran gave a small bow in her direction.

  As Moran spoke, the smaller man glanced up rapidly at Natalia, and the look she shot him was glacial enough that he immediately resumed his close study of the moss-covered stones.

  “I will leave before first light tomorrow morning. I thank you for allowing me to travel with you this far,” Quinn said.

  With that, she turned and strode off in the direction of a trail that led between the tumbles of buildings.

  Moran treated Riot to a dashing smile. “Well, that’s taken care of. Perhaps the first order of business is to make you more comfortable, Sergeant.” The Archaist led the way to the crumbled Priory, where a small desk had been set up amidst the half-collapsed ceiling. “The leypower you are holding must be exceptionally uncomfortable. It would be better to be extracted piecemeal, otherwise I fear the shock would be quite alarming.” Moran peered at Riot and held out a slender hand.

  Riot kept his arms by his sides. “Who’s this?” He asked, nodding to the short, lumpy figure.

  “This is Fra Odred,” Moran supplied.

  The wizened figure remained silent, and Moran gave him a perplexed glance. “What is the matter with you, Odred? No snide remarks for Sergeant Riot? No lightly veiled insults or sudden spasms of phlegmy hacking to revolt us?”

  The smaller man's gaze flickered to the doorway, and Moran shrugged before continuing. “At any rate, Fra Odred has agreed to let us use the priory as a staging area from which to launch our assault on the citadel. If you feel you are ready to resume your duties, Sergeant, then I would appreciate your help. I will admit that the men have been difficult since you left us.”

  “They finally figured you out, then? It’s about time,” Riot said.

  “I am pleased that you have returned. But nothing has changed since you left. I am still in command, and you will obey my orders.”

  Riot felt his anger rising, and his hands balled into fists. “Listen–” Riot began.

  Riot felt a small hand like a leathery glove clutch his own, and the words died in his throat as all of the leypower was torn from him in a pain-filled second, leaving him an empty husk. He tried to speak, but didn’t even have the strength to form the words and instead fell to the floor in a heap.

  “Odred, what has gotten into you? That was certainly uncalled for,” Moran said.

  “I done him a favor; he was 'bout to melt,” came the grated response, accompanied by a phlegmy cough.

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