North would lead a majority of our forces, who would hide in the woods at the rear of camp and around the grass field, until Koerlyn’s men were close enough to ambush. Meanwhile, Harthon would lead our small group all the way behind Koerlyn’s forces, where the Princeps himself typically sat, coward that he was. We would stick to the tree line, slowly slinking forward until we surrounded our opponents. If all went to plan, we would hardly touch the major battle itself, but instead engage Koerlyn and his personal guards.
By “we,” I meant everyone but me, as I was under explicit orders to stay by Stefano’s side and remain as separated from the fighting as possible.
The plan itself was an impressively dangerous display of strategy and tact. I would admire it, if not for the part where I was a part of it. Getting close to Koerlyn once more—close enough for him to take me again, should Harthon’s men somehow fail—had dread clogging my throat.
I thought of the three people Koerlyn had slayed before me during my brief captivity. He’d thought to encourage me to reveal the path into the Domus. If he captured me again, that horror would be child’s play compared to what he would do.
Something nudged my shoulder, and I jumped to find Stefano, a belt with a sheathed dagger in hand. North had stopped speaking, and our groups were now moving into the tree line.
I raised a brow. “I’m allowed a weapon?”
Stefano roped the leather around my waist, cinching it tight. “You shouldn’t need it. But if something happens to me, you might have to use it.”
If something happened to Stefano, I might as well dig my own grave. The likelihood of death or capture was already high enoughwithhim there.
“I shouldn’t be doing this—going into battle,” I voiced for the fifth time since Harthon gave his orders in the tent.
Stefano stepped away and nodded toward the moving men. It went against every instinct, but I begrudgingly fell into step beside him.
“I don’t mean offense, Etarla,” he said as we entered the sparse cover of the barren trees, “but Harthon has far more experience than you—than any of us—when it comes to battle.” He lowered his voice. “And he may not have shared this with you, but even if he did send us away from the battle on horseback, Koerlyn could easily have soldiers slip through the chaos and pursue us. I’m good, but not good enough to fend off ten men. Harthon knows what he’s doing, and today, you just need to trust that.”
A few days ago, it would have been easy to trust Harthon with my life. But now…he needed me alive to bring him into the Domus, sure. But that didn’t necessarily mean unharmed.
Up ahead, Harthon ordered, “Silence from here on.”
Stefano leaned toward my ear. “And if you can’t trust him, then at least trust me.”
That request quieted my complaints. Protesting further would only make him think I doubted his ability to protect me, and I’d already hurt him enough by leaving for Koerlyn. I owed him this.
I turned my focus instead to getting through the day, whatever that meant. I would never fool myself into thinking I was an asset in battle, but I could at least trynotto make things worse.
Eventually, North’s men left us, melting into the trees and brush one by one, waiting to attack. We continued forward, a quiet, small unit moving swiftly through dirt straights and down short scrambles. Unlike my home in Second Territory, the woods here offered a more rugged, varied landscape, troughsand massive rocks providing cover where the barren trees failed to. Every one of Harthon’s men navigated the terrain with soundless, smooth efficiency, as if they’d grown up slinking through this very land. It was only my years of trapping in the woods that enabled me to do the same.
Ahead, Harthon came to an abrupt halt. Above the rustle of swaying branches came the bright trickle of water. It was a stream. Perhaps a tributary from the river that’d aided my escape from Third.
Harthon crouched before the water, his men lining the banks beside him. Stefano guided me into a gap only three men down from their leader. And then it was no longer just the stream and trees making noise, but a muted chorus of wet, dense slaps.
Around us, men were collecting mud from the banks and generously slopping it onto leathers, tunics, faces, beards—everything but the hilts of weapons. My hands were thrust into the freezing stream by Stefano, a silent signal to do the same. The mud was as frigid as the water, oozing between my fingers as I brought it to my chest.
Good, clean clothing was so rare. To ruin it intentionally was a sin.
Stefano widened his eyes in urgency. Most of the men were already covered, unrecognizable beneath thick layers of earth. I was taking too long.
Refusing to grimace, I smeared my chest, repeating the process until my front was covered and I was no longer warm. Stefano finished, hair caked, blue eyes glowing against the drying grayish-brown muck. With practical efficiency, he slung mud onto my back. The leather armor was a shield against it, but wherever it met my tunic, that frigid sludge seeped through the fabric and plastered it to my skin. Hiding my discomfort, I brought it to my face, carefully avoiding my eyes, nostrils, and mouth. At least it didn’t smell too foul.
With no warning, a massive pile of mud landed atop of my head with an unceremonious thump. But Stefano was at my right calf.
Every muscle locked as two large hands moved down my hair with efficiency, coating the straw-colored strands before I could do anything to stop it. I knew my hair needed to be covered, but I’d planned to do it carefully, lest the mud mat in any knots which would have to be cut away. The hands stilled for a moment, and then another heap landed, ratcheting my nerves higher.
But I would not react.
Not to him, and not in front of his men.
Finally, those brutal hands finished, then jerked me around, bringing me face to face with something just shy of a monster. A hulking mass of mud, dark eyes cool and objective, Harthon was a nightmarish creature of the woods. I’d deduced the mud was for visual camouflage, as well as scent, but on him, it was also an intimidation tactic. He examined my face, then glanced over the rest of me. He grunted, turning away to march us onward.
Before long, the light breeze carried the acrid stench of smoke. I glanced up. Beyond the spindly branches, wispy plumes of charcoal painted brushstrokes in the hazy sky.
My funeral pyre.
