Dane
The night hung dark and still over the dunes of Dry Reach. Quiet. Almost peaceful. Nothing stirred out there amongst the great ocean of Arathian tents dotting the desert. Nothing save for their campfires glittering like fireflies.
From his perch crouched atop the ramparts of what was now the outer wall, Dane narrowed his eyes.
Something felt…wrong.
The scuff of boots against stone was all the warning he received before a sour scent suddenly choked his senses. “Wilsham!” his bunkmate Thorley slurred, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing up here? We have third watch tonight.”
He shrugged off the other man’s hand. “It’s quiet out. I don’t like it.”
“Quiet?” Thorley tilted his head to the side, as if listening.
But there was nothing to listen to.
“Where are the drums?” Dane hissed. “And why is Arath not attacking tonight?”
Night and day, the walls of Fort Mysai had been under attack ever since Arath’s first midnight assault. For months, the witches had flung their unholy fire. For weeks, the enemy soldiers had employed their siege engines. Every day and every night, the ceaseless rhythm of their war drums had swelled to fill the desert.
And now that Elmoria’s reinforcements from Drakmor had finally arrived, now that there was even the smallest sliver of them actually surviving this siege…Arath was silent?
Thorley sucked on his teeth and took another swig from the green bottle he carried—vodka from Drakmor, brought by their allies. “They probably know they’ll have to retreat soon. They’re just resting up for their long march back across the desert.” Cracking a grin, he added, “Or maybe they’re hiding in their tents from the phantom of the dunes.”
Thorley waggled his fingers and laughed.
Dane huffed out a sigh through his nose. “Maybe,” he conceded without a lick of confidence. Maybe thatwasit. Maybe they were simply curled up in their tents, licking their wounded pride. Or hiding from the “phantom” the Arathians had grown to fear out there in the desert.
Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe it was something else entirely.
Something far worse.
Unease crawled its way up Dane’s spine, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. He wanted to believe that was it. He wanted to let his anxiety go, to give it all over to the Lord. That was what he was supposed to do, wasn’t it?
He remembered all those long summer afternoons spent sweating in the back pew of the Baron of Leinor’s private chapel with his ma and little brother, Hedley, listening to the Shepherd drone on about giving all one’s worries to the Lord and just letting Him take care of them.
But try as he might, he couldn’t quite let this one worry go.
Somehow, Dane knew he was supposed to take care of this one himself.
“I’m going to speak to Sir Conall,” he decided, easing around Thorley’s bulk so he could descend down the narrow flight of stairs leading into the guard tower. His commanding knight was a man he could trust. Surely, he’d know what to do.
Thorley shrugged, his rancid breath wafting over Dane’s face again when he slurred, “Whatever tickles your fancy, Wilsham.”
Dane dove down the stairs, his axe swinging within its holster and his shield thumping against his back with each step. He had abandoned his bow and quiver days ago. There was no point in carrying them anymore.
He was out of arrows.
Bursting out into the courtyard, he jogged straight for the commons—the squat building attached to the barracks where the soldiers not on watch ate and caught their breath. The cool night air curled around him like a living thing as he ran, heavy and strangely moist. A peal of what sounded like thunder rumbled in the distance.
Rain again? So soon after the last miraculous storm that swept that strange smoke from the sky so that the usuri could finally carry news to and from Elmoria?
Warmth washed over him when he wrenched open the double doors, revealing crowded tables filled with armored men eating and drinking together—Elmorian and Drakmori.
“Where’s Sir Conall?” he called out to no one in particular.
A big, bearded man from his unit named Elias—some bloke all the way from Varoa who liked to tell tall tales about bears as large as trees—shrugged. “He’s in his quarters, most likely.”
A swarthy Drakmori soldier sitting on a bench nearby flashed a friendly smile. “You look cold, friend. Why don’t you come get a swig?” He waved another of those green glass bottles at him. More vodka.
