Riot took his time dressing. His knee felt like it had been cracked like a walnut, and his ribs brought a hissing stab of pain with every breath. Thankfully, the barrier was a silent edifice and the small trickle of leypower the leaked through was just enough to stop him scratching himself bloody.

  Outside, the wind brought a chill, and he found most of the Leybound huddled around a small fire where Rimmer was tending to a blackened cookpot. Someone told a muttered joke, and they all chuckled. Riot called Loic over and moved away so that their voices wouldn’t carry.

  “How are they?” Riot asked.

  “Cold, bored. It’s a lonely night to be had in these hills,” Loic said, studying the landscape around them absently. “Lonely for most anyway, that’s for sure.”

  Riot realized that the laughter from the men had been directed at him and wondered if he should have been more discreet. There were always women in the army camps, some ran business and brought in more money than the fighting men. As a sergeant, he had never minded any idle gossip about who he spent his time with. But he was more than a sergeant now, if not in rank.

  “A warm bed is a draft of health, they say, and you’re looking much better today, if you don’t mind me saying,” Loic said with a barely concealed smile.

  "Yes, I bloody mind you saying. Knock it off, or I’ll put you back under arrest. Where did you go with Moran?”

  “He took us out to the coast and made us keep watch while he went down to a fishing village with his priest.”

  “He’s no priest. He’s a damn arcanist.”

  “Really? He looks like a dirty gnome.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Haven’t seen hide nor hair. The Commanders keeping away from us, avoiding the men.”

  “Spit it out, will you,” Riot said, sensing that there was something the young northman wasn’t saying.

  “When you went for your swim in the river, Moran gave the order to leave. The lads wanted to look for us, but Moran wouldn’t let them. It seems they had words and he threatened to court-martial them.”

  “Who was it?”

  “All of them. Every man-jack of them.”

  Less than a week ago, they had circled around and cheered while Loic had tried to kill him, and now each of them had stood up to an officer for him, and Loic was here, joking about who he spent his nights with, talking to him like they were on the same side.

  “If they were told to get ready to leave,” Riot began, not finishing the thought.

  “If you were standing at the front, I think you could lead them into the Echo. They think you have the luck of the abyss.”

  “What about you, you think I’ve got the luck of the abyss?”

  Loic leaned against the stone wall, his broad face creased like he was trying to work out a complicated sum. “I was never taken in by a lot of that last man stuff, but if you want to leave, I’ll go with you. If it's a fight we're to be having, I’ll fight.”

  Quinn had been right at least about Loic, the northman had influence in the Leybound, and Riot was sure that it was him who held sway in who they followed. “Make sure they’re ready to move, but not so they look ready.”

  Crows fluttered and cawed in the high eaves of the priory. Their nests sat among the stone carvings of stoics figures suffering horrors with expressions of feverish intensity.

  Moran was at his little table pouring over a map. Beside him was the leather messenger pouch that Kerne had given to Riley, the one that Price and the Faelen had tracked them across the hills to recover.

  Whatever was inside was the key to the mission.

  “Ah, Sergeant Riot, good to see you on your feet. We have work to do, choose three men and wait for me at the gate.” After a moment, Moran seemed to have realized that Riot hadn’t moved. “Is there a problem?”

  Riot indicated to the leather pouch. “What’s in the bag?”

  “The contents of that pouch are none of your concern. Three men, and wait for me outside.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “We’ve come a long way and lost a lot of men. If you want us to go any further, we need to know why.”

  “This could be construed as a mutiny,” Moran muttered.

  “No mutiny, nor desertion. If you tell me what you want, then I’ll fight till I’m bloody to get it for you, and the men will come with me. But I won’t lead them to slaughter, you’re not a soldier, but I am, and I’m bloody good at it. So tell me what you want, and I’ll help you get it. That's my offer.”

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  “You seem sure they will follow you.”

  “I am.”

  Moran clicked his tongue before seizing the leather pouch and tossing it to Riot. It was filled with thick parchment pages—at least a dozen of them. Riot pulled one out and saw that it was filled with flowery script, stamps, and seals. At the bottom were signatures from high-ranking wikkan, Faelen, and arcanists, and at the bottom was the signature of Roveran Listor, the man who had saved him from being hanged.

  “What's all this?”

  “Deeds, titles, assurances, grants, bribes, promises of power,” Moran said, taking a seat. He looked older, the lines on his young face deep with exhaustion. “What I tell you cannot leave here, you will not discuss it with the men, and, should she return, you shall not discuss it with Natalia Quinn. Those are my terms; do you accept them?”

  “I do,” Riot said, sure that whatever he was about to hear was fully known by Quinn.

  Moran indicated to the map on the table. The citadel of Morbian was marked on the jagged coastline and out into the ocean were a series of jagged rocks. “The town of Morbian guards the ocean passage past the dragon's spine.”

  Riot knew it was the source of the town's wealth. All ships had to pass through the passage or risk a treacherous, month-long sail around the rocks that could break a ship down to kindling.

  “The town has its own ships and a small garrison, but its true defense is the arcane tower. The Sun Tower is capable of destroying any ship that passes through the channel. If it were used to aid the Arcanum, it would ensure that the Erudoran fleet can sail freely to Helgan’s Rest in the spring, without it, the Mazral blockade continues and the regiments will likely perish.”

  Riot had heard of the Sun Tower before, weeks ago, when Price begged Myam-tal to protect him. He told this to Moran, who nodded, his expression sombre.

  “So you see, the Mazral have an interest in ensuring that the Sun Tower is not activated. Its master is a powerful arcanist and, at present, is allied with the Mazral Emperor. I hope to change his mind.”

  “These bits of paper will persuade him?” Riot asked.

  “This is what we must hope. If we fail, the Erudorans will not come, and the Arcanum forces will be destroyed. So, can I count on you?”

  The truth was that Riot wanted more than ever to complete this mission. If the Erudoran fleet arrived in Helgan’s Rest, then it was likely that Roveran would be its general. This is what Kerne meant when she told him a change was coming. Would this victory be enough to turn them into a respected company?

  There was also Gerrard Price. If he survived, he’d be in the citadel, and he had to pay for Riley, Fitz, and the villagers in the Halfstone Ranges.

  “I’ll help you.”

  Moran stood and rolled up the map. “Good, let’s go and formulate our plan of attack.”

  The march to the coast took half a day, and as the sun reached its zenith, Moran, Odred, Riot, and Loic crept up to the summit of a small hill and looked down on Morbian.

  The town was built on a small, flat island that was attached to the mainland by a narrow land bridge. The harbor was carved into its southern end, and Mazral flags fluttered from the masts of two warships docked at the stone quayside.

  The town's only gate had been ruined and a crude barricade had erected in its place. Even from this distance, they could see the yellow uniformed figures patrolling the walls and as they watched, a file of horsemen thundered out, likely looking for them.

  Riot knew well enough that taking a citadel was grim work. The only way was to choose a steady battalion and aim it right straight at the gate, bloody but brief. The biggest problems came after. This town had rolled over for the enemy and an assault like that left a pile of corpses. Those that survived would want revenge and the looting and worse would start quickly. The wikkan would get in after a time and hang enough of them for the others to get the message, but it would be too late for most of the poor bastards who lived there.

  But Riot didn’t have a steady battalion. He had thirty shaky men.

  Moran peered through a telescope and outlined his plan. “I propose a distraction at the gate. You lead the Leybound and my guardsmen close to the walls to tempt a sortie from the gate. While the eyes of the occupiers are turned toward you, I shall enter the city covertly from the harbor.”

  “We might as well just walk up to the gate and stab ourselves to save them the trouble,” Loic murmured quietly.

  His words drew a wet cackle from the small friar, Odred.

  Moran continued. “If we time the activity correctly, when my work is done, the citizens will see that the tower stands with the Arcanum. They’ll rise up, and push the occupiers from the city.”

  “They’ll be pushed right into us, on horseback, at speed,” Riot stated.

  “A desperate plan indeed, but there is glory to be won for those who are daring. What do you think?”

  The young Arcanist had the fervent eyed stare Riot had seen on Riley and other fools who chased glory.

  “I think that if I lead someone into a fight, I want to give them better than even odds that they are going to walk away from it,” Riot said.

  “Begging your pardon, sir. But why would they leave the city?” Loic asked, his eyebrows furrowed. “The long ears, I mean?”

  “Because the citizens will rise up,” Moran explained calmly.

  “I’ve seen a fair number of rising ups in my time, and your average ironmonger doesn’t last long against trained infantry,” Loic continued.

  Next to him, Fra Odred chuckled. “You are correct, barbarian, they’ll be massacred, Myam-tal is very angry with Waldy already.”

  “Silence, Odred,” Moran snapped.

  “Who’s Myam-tal?” Riot asked, keeping his eyes locked on Moran, who kept his face carefully blank.

  Odred held a hand to his mouth but didn’t trouble himself to whisper. “He’s in Waldy’s house, wearing his clothes and eating his fancy food. He is very jealous of Waldy. It’s so sad when family fall out.”

  “Odred,” Moran warned.

  “Family?” Riot said, his voice hard.

  “Half-brothers, actually,” Odred continued, blithely ignoring Moran's murderous glare. “But they hate each other. Even if you could get them in a room together, there would likely be bloodshed.”

  Loic gave a low whistle, then spoke so that only Riot could hear. “An arcanist dueling a High Faelen would be a sure way to empty a city.”

  “You want our help?” Riot said, addressing Moran. “Then you go down there and call out your brother, and we’ll take Odred to the tower to make your delivery. What was it you said? Glory to be won, for those who are daring?”

  He expected him to wilt, gibber some excuse, or perhaps take a superior tone and explain the concept of chain of command, but instead the young Arcanist set his jaw, his eyes locked on the high walls of the citadel.

  “Glory indeed," he murmured. "You have a deal, Sergeant.”

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