Cold stalked them through the hills.

  It sapped heat from their bodies, leaving only a deep shiver that strained aching bones.

  It froze the muddy water in the churned hoof prints of the goat tracks, each icy puddle turning ankles and putting men on their asses amid storms of curses.

  It stole into their lungs and a chorus of rasping, hacking coughs arose all along the miserable file of shambling men.

  Still Riot marched on, leading them through a chill mist so wide and so deep that he wondered if he could just keep walking till he made it to whatever world waited beyond this one and just keep strolling on through.

  As the sun overhead battled to penetrate the fog, a copse of trees appeared like a spectre and they trudged into its embrace. Riot sat apart from the others. The battered barrier that held back the pressure of the leyline leaked through hundreds of cracks and he felt as if his skin was burning away even as he drew his knees to his chest and shivered. It seeped into his body with a searing sweetness on the back of his throat, covering his skin in sickly veins of the black residue as the ley power gradually leaked out.

  Many of the Leybound gazes were openly hostile, but none more than Loic. The northman moved between the others, holding muttered conversations and stealing dark glances at Riot. They might be the damned, but he was a condemned man walking among them.

  Twenty two against one, and he could barely stop his hands shaking. Riot stood and made his way a short distance into the trees as if to relieve himself. Instead, he unslung his pack and fixed a length of rope at chest height between two sturdy trees and another several paces further along the path at ankle height.

  He returned to find a small group waiting for him.

  Loic led them, sword held causally in his hand. “Gerrard Price,” the northman said, leveling the sword. “What happened to him?”

  “I told you, he was a traitor that went over to the Long-ears. Thirty good men died because of him.” Riot made sure to let his voice carry to the half dozen men behind Loic who shared uncertain glances. “Let me guess, Loic told you all you’re going to slip off somewhere nice and warm, with work for fighting men?” The men shifted their feet, clearly rattled. “But you can’t let me go, because I’ll report you, and they’ll send the witches after you.”

  Behind the men, the young boy, Norton stood and gripped the hilt of his sword, but Riot gave him the barest shake of his head.

  “Then you won’t make it back,” Loic growled, taking a step forward.

  Riot turned and ran into the trees and the group hollered and shouted as they stormed after him. He ducked the chest high rope strung and heard the jeers as his pursuers passed the poor trap. But they didn’t see the second rope at ankle height, and Riot heard the thuds and curses as they tripped over each other and their angry shouts faded as he hurried through the trees.

  ***

  The rain stopped, and as darkness fell, Riot sat hunched in a hollow, watching the distant flickering fire. The Leybound hadn't made it far before making camp, and the sound of their arguments reached him easily.

  He should just leave them. Riley was dead, and without the arcanist, Riot had no way to stop himself being burned away by the leyline. He needed to get back to Helgan’s Rest, but turning up alone would ruin any favor he held with Roveran. He knew it was more than that though, he’d lost enough men already.

  Riot slipped the Faelen cavalry horn from his pack, the same one Mercer had used to humiliate him. It was made from the horn of some beast from the Echo and the sharp curve gave it a high pitched whine. It was a risk, the cavalry that attacked them might be close enough to hear, but he didn’t have many other choices.

  Riot put the horn to his lips and blew a sharp note.

  The Leybound reacted with wild panic, huddling close to the fire. Some drew weapons, others let the dirty grey light flare on their arms.

  Riot hurried through the trees, and when he was far to the otherside of the camp, he blew another sharp report on the Faelen horn.

  The small camp was in chaos with half a dozen voices raised in argument and Riot stood and strode directly toward them, stopping just outside the circle of firelight.

  “Someone’s coming!” shouted a voice.

  “Show yourself,” Loic yelled.

  Riot tossed the Faelen horn onto the floor at their feet and stepped out. “You sorry excuse for soldiers,” he spat, pointing at Loic. “He’s led you half a day's march in the wrong direction.”

  “Don’t listen to him, lads. He killed Price, or sold him out to the witches to save his hide,” Loic said.

  I don’t give a shit about Gerrard Price, I just want to get home. Riley’s dead, and I’m in command. We’re going south, and we’re going to keep to the hills, away from the road. When we get to the coast, we’ll find a boat to take us back to Helgan’s Rest.”

  “We’re not going,” Loic said, spitting on the floor.

  Even if the others agreed, men like Loic challenged authority simply by existing. There was only one way to deal with men like that, and if he didn’t do it now, more of them would fall into his orbit, and he would have to fight them every step of the way.

  “Loic, you’re on report.”

  “No.” Big men like Loic didn’t need to raise their voices.

  “Get in line, that’s an order.”

  “I don’t take orders from you, you’re not an officer, you’re not even a real Leybound.”

  Riot let the tension rise. This was a delicate lesson for all of them, and when he was done, he wanted to make sure he didn’t have to come back and teach it again.

  “Your orders are to fall into line and march to the coast. If you fail to obey, I’ll bury you right here. There’s plenty of stones around even for a fat bastard like you.”

  The pitch-perfect sound of twenty-two men holding their breath resounded from the group, and Loic broke the silence first.

  “We’re heading east, into Taria. It's sunny down there, good wine, women and work for fighting men.”

  A chorus of mumbling agreement followed these words, and Loic sensed he had the upper hand as he swaggered over. Riot had never met a small northman, gods knew what they ate up there in their frozen homeland. In a fair fight, Riot wouldn’t have stood a chance, but he wasn’t an officer, and this wasn’t a duel.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Riot’s fist caught Loic in the gut, and he buried it as deep as he could, winding the big man, who collapsed on one knee, his face beet red and his eyes streaming as he desperately tried to draw breath.

  “We’re taking the goat tracks around the hills and down to the coast,” Riot said, addressing the men as though nothing had happened. “Anyone who can’t keep up gets left behind.”

  The eyes of the old boatman, Fletcherm widened and Riot ducked instinctively, feeling Loic’s wild swing pass over his head. The northman was thrown off balance, and as he spun around, Riot followed up with a straight punch that snapped his head backwards.

  Loic spat a bloody lump onto the floor and smiled with blood-stained teeth. “It’ll be nice for Riley and Fitz to have some company.”

  He moved with a speed that belied his size, tackling Riot in the stomach and smashing him to the ground. The impact rocked the fragile barrier that held back the tide of ley power, and the part he had desperately repaired cracked open, letting in a flood that burned like boiling honey in his veins.

  The men gathered around, calling out encouragement and advice to Loic, who began to rain down blows of his fists and elbows. Riot desperately tried to block the northman’s barrage as he raged against the tide, trying to shut off the ley line. His defenses eased closed, but there was nothing he could do about the leypower that had already leaked in, pulsing against his skin. He blocked Loic’s arm, giving him a vicious jab to the throat with the flat of his palm that made the big man gasp and keel over sideways.

  Both men scrambled to their feet at the same time, and Loic pulled out a short blade, swiping it through the air as Riot jumped backwards out of the way.

  “You stupid bastard, they’ll hang you for this,” Riot yelled, his muscles spasming from the torrent that flooded within him.

  “I’ll tell them you died yesterday, running like a stone-eyed coward while Riley fought and died,” Loic crowed, his bloodied face wearing a savage smile of triumph.

  Riot stumbled, and Loic cackled with glee and lunged, only realizing at the last moment that it had been a feint. Riot pushed up from firm footing and seized Loic’s knife hand, pulling him off balance, and as the big man staggered forward, Riot grabbed his greasy hair and pulled down as he raised his leg. The big man's nose snapped with an audible crack, and Riot cursed as he felt something break deep inside his knee.

  Loic flopped onto the floor, gasping for breath, his nose a smashed mess, streaming blood onto his face. The others shouted for him to get back up and fight, but their cries were silenced when Riot drew his sword and pointed it at the Northman’s neck, trying not to scream at the white, hot pain that lanced through his knee.

  “You’re under arrest, Loic. Norton, tie this bastard up and bring him with us. Make sure you gag him so I don’t have to listen to his shit. If he won’t walk, leave him here for the wolves.”

  The young man snapped into action, binding Loic’s wrists with rope and hauling him to his feet, where he swayed slightly.

  “Fall in, line up for company inspection,” Riot shouted.

  Norton practically ran into line and a few others followed him into a ragged file, though about half remained by the fire, weapons drawn.

  “The last one in line will be court marshalled by me right now. Test me, and I’ll drag you back down the hill and lay you next to Riley.”

  For some of them, the uniform and the sergeant's stripes still counted for something. For the others, they’d seen him put down the huge northman, so one by one they rose and formed a line of the most sorry bunch of miscreants he had ever seen.

  The army wasn’t totally made up of the scum of the continent, many were just poor or hungry and looking for paid work, while others might have found trouble at home and needed a place to run to. But the Leybound were criminals—looting, drunkenness, debauchery among the least of their crimes—who had agreed to be mutilated to avoid punishment. Riot knew them, each and every one of them down to their bootstraps, and though they didn’t know him, they would respect him.

  Riot had known officers who held the respect of rank and file. Men like the old Duke of Fallow who would walk the line, talking genially to the men. He would ask them about themselves, and they would laugh at his jokes. Then they would salute, bursting with pride to know that he knew their names, cared about them.

  But the Duke had a title and the easy confidence of the monied class, and all Riot had was a battered blue uniform, a cheap sword, and broken shoes tied together with twine and strips of leather.

  Still, an inspection was routine, and there was a feeling of control in the procedure that he grasped at, like a drowning man clutching a log.

  Norton was first in line, visibly quivering. A boy stuck in enemy territory. “We gonna head back to the city, Sarge? Perhaps they beat them back and cleared the gate? Or we can sneak in,” he asked.

  “No, we’ll have to go around,” Riot replied.

  There was a chorus of mumbling from the Leybound, and many of them shook their heads.

  “Shut it. This isn’t a bloody knitting circle,” Riot snapped.

  Lehan was one of the men who had joined Riot on the road when they found Norton. A tall, bespectacled man with a pinched, clever face who looked like a school teacher. What crime might he have committed that made him choose to be leybound?

  “Salute,” Riot snapped.

  Lehan saluted, showing the lumpen scars on the back of his hand that looked like they had been carved by a blind butcher. The scars that Price, Quinn, and Roveran had were fine, delicate work, and he wondered what the difference might be? He had dozens of questions about the buildup of ley power and the barrier that seemed to be constantly failing, but asking would look weak, and he couldn’t afford that right now.

  Lehan carried a small knapsack, and Riot had seen him earlier, wrapping a small book carefully in a strip of waxed leather and stowing it away.

  “What are you, some kind of clerk?” Riot asked.

  “I was a book binder.”

  Riot glared at the man.

  “Sarge,” Lehan added.

  “Why in the hells were you made leybound, Lehan?”

  “I seduced a magistrate's wife.”

  The others chuckled lightly.

  “Next time we see the long-ears, you can go out first, see if they take a liking to you.”

  Some laughed at that, and there was a flash of anger in Lehan's pinched face. That was good. Lehan looked like a stiff wind would blow him over, but he had survived the assault well enough and Riot needed survivors.

  The next man was the oldest of the group by some margin, with a weatherbeaten face and a litany of blue tattoos on his neck that marked him as a sailor. Judging by the thick scar that ran around his neck, someone had tried to hang him, but somehow he must have slipped the noose. The leybound scars on his hands said that he had not waited for them to try a second time.

  “Name?” Riot asked.

  “Fletcher, Sarge.”

  “What did you do before this, Fletcher?”

  “Boatman, Sarge,”

  “A bloody smuggler, you mean?”

  He was old, with a bloodshot, rummy eye and saluted with the wrong hand that shook something terrible. A drinker then. While Riot was drowning in leypower, Fletcher was drying out. A liability perhaps, but he’d been sharp enough to scramble up the hill when forty others died in the damp valley.

  Rimmer was next. He had rounded shoulders, in fact, everything about him seemed hunched over, with only his rat-like face peering out. His leybound scars were significantly neater than the others, the detailed runes flashing silver as if they had been painted by an artist.

  “Why did they make you leybound, Rimmer?”

  “Killed a sergeant,” he replied.

  More laughter. Rimmer was a troublemaker, and he needed a beating, but the Rimmer’s of this world knew just how to toe the line to stay on the right side of a thumping. He was so good, he could step right up to it and peer over with his little rat face.

  Riot moved on.

  “Crease, Sarge,” the next man said before Riot could ask.

  Crease had the look of a man who was always looking for the exit because they were guilty of something and weren’t going to wait to be caught. He was the shadowy figure you saw in a back alley before you got a knife in your kidneys.

  “You’re a cutthroat, Crease,” Riot stated.

  “Leybound now, Sarge. That’s all now, just leybound.”

  Just leybound. Crease had the scars, neat and delicate, and Riot recalled that he had killed the Faelen who had tried to loot Fitz’s body at sixty paces, just forty less than the Faelen darts.

  Larkin, Rife, Brigs, and Loe were next, and then Riot lost track of the names. Each of them had lumpen scars on the back of their hands, and each of them gave surly replies and lazy salutes.

  He could feel their hatred, but they would follow him now. Being kind only worked for the officers who came from money and privilege, and if Riot had to beat them all the way to the coast, then that’s what he would do.