But the movement leaves me open. I feel the familiar sting of a blade against my back and fall forward from the momentum of the attack. Hitting the ground in a roll, I come up with my back toward the soldiers. A woman who looks like she could be someone’s maid or cook smiles at me with blood-stained teeth. The hatchet she carries drips crimson, and I snarl at her.
Four left. I could walk away now, and the soldiers would finish them, but that isn’t the way I was trained. The woman with the hatchet runs toward me, weapon raised above her head, and suddenly, Thomas glides behind her, a short sword swinging smoothly enough to cut through the Mindless’s neck in a single strike. Her body keeps running while her head rolls cleanly offwith a soft thud. Only then does the body fall, the hatchet still gripped tightly.
He dances behind the last of the charging Mindless, his blades killing each of them in a single strike. As the last one falls, I gaze upon the destruction. Charred and broken bodies lay like a trail of death to the hill I walked over this afternoon. Around me, bloody silver-eyed faces are unmoving, yet so many are frozen into crimson smiles.
In just a few hours, what was once a beautiful sight reminding me of life had turned into something brutal and terrifying. It’s only then that I realize I’m having trouble raising my left arm. I wince as I try to look behind me.
“It didn’t cut a Mark,” Thomas says callously as he walks over to me. “The Boar probably protected you against most of it, but that was a risky move.”
I blink at the man who’d hidden behind his soldiers, something Priests aren’t supposed to do. We’re the ones who protect humans, not the other way around. “Risky? Why weren’t you standing beside me using your own Marks to protect your soldiers? You waited until the battle was nearly over before you even moved.”
His jaw tightens at my criticism, and he looks like he’s going to say something reflexively. Instead, he stops himself and stands a little taller. “A Priest is worth a hundred trained soldiers. Only a Priest can stop the nightmares that lay in wait on the darkest nights.”
It’s a commonly referenced passage from Book One of the Priests, the first book a Priest in training receives before they earn their first Mark. It’s true. I could have fought and killed all thirty ofthese Mindless without being hurt if I weren’t worried about them getting to the soldiers and villagers. The ten men in plate armor would have died along with every person in the village if Thomas and I hadn’t been here.
Instead of arguing with him, I quote an excerpt from the Third Book of the Priest, given to second Degree Priests. “Every soldier we protect is a soldier who will let us rest. Protect them so they can protect you.”I pause for a moment to let the words sink in.“We stand on the front lines, Thomas. We are the shelter from the storm. Soldiers are there to back us up or to fight when we cannot, when we have spent our resources. They are not a wall for you to hide behind.”
He huffs. “That’s what they tell you when you’re trained in Stormhaven with an unlimited supply of Infusions and no chance of needing your Marks tomorrow. Did I see you take two Infusions for this fight? And you spent your Spear? On fucking Mindless?” He spits on the ground between us. “They were nothing. What would happen if Azric brought an entire contingent of his Undying here? What if he himself showed up riding on Inni? I only have the Third Mark, and there are never enough Infusions even when I ration them far more than you probably ever have. No,princess, I will let every single soldier and every single villager die before I’m wasteful with the limited resources I have. I am the shelter from the storm forhumanity, not my soldiers.Their lives are as much of a resource as my Infusions and far easier to come by.”
I snarl as the cut across my back begins to truly throb with pain now that the adrenaline is fading. “Fine. I’m not your commander,and I don’t have to work with the resources you’re given. If you’re that short on Infusions, let me see your stockpile, and maybe I can add to it.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You’d give up your Infusions?”
I shrug. “As soon as I’m back in Stormhaven, I’ll refill my supplies.”
“I’ll take them if you’re offering. Let’s get that wound cleaned up, and you can get back to your bath.” He doesn’t offer an apology for his words, but then again, I certainly haven’t protected a tiny village on the border against the Undying and Mindless. I still think he’s wrong, but I can’t argue my point based on experience.
He leads me to his own cottage where I see the traditional workstation of a Priest. The small bookshelf which holds the Books of the Priest written in a language that is taught to Priests in training to hide our knowledge further from prying eyes. Beside it is the cabinet that holds the differently shaped vials full of colored liquids. A tiny alchemy table looks like it’s never been used, which probably isn’t far from the truth. Priests on the borders are rarely ever more than warriors who use the supplies they’re given.
His Infusion stockpile is surprisingly low. Even Infusions I used almost daily for training are nearly gone. He has but two Lizards, no Cats, three Bears. The list goes on, each of them less than the number I keep in my own chambers. I pull a Lizard out of my cloak and down it to heal my wound quickly, and his eyebrows rise in shock. Then I hand him three more, leaving me with a single reserve. One by one, I hand him whatever excess I have, leaving me with only the ones I consider necessary for traveling. When Ihand him a Vulture which will allow him to grow wings, he shakes his head. “No, I can’t take that. I know how rare those are.”
I push the vial into his hand. “You need it more than I do. As you said, what would happen if the Prince of Bones himself showed up?”
“I’d probably bend over and kiss my ass goodbye, to be completely honest.”
I chuckle, not mentioning that I thought the same thing when he found me in his chambers. “Hopefully, you’d die a glorious death and maybe give Inni another scar or two.”
He reaches his hand out, and I take it in mine, giving it a good shake. “I appreciate the help today. I didn’t say that earlier. Even discounting the Infusions, you were impressive, and all my men came away unscathed, something that doesn’t happen as often as it probably should.”
I nod to him. “I’m going to go climb back into my bath, which is almost certainly cold by now, to wash a bit of the gore off, and then I’m going to sleep. I’ll be gone before dawn. If I don’t see you again, may your Marks forever burn.”
“And may your blade never fail,” he responds.
Now that the expected words have been said, I leave him in his cottage. Without saying anything else, I return to the barracks and use the bathwater to clean up my healing wound before I crawl into bed.
I’d felt safe when I’d come here. I’d thought that just because I was in Sylvantia, there wouldn’t be any fights or any monsters, but I was wrong. With the way Thomas talked about the Mindless, I’mrealizing just how little I understand about the way the real world works outside of Stormhaven.
This isn’t my first foray to the border or beyond, but it’s my first time out without my father. Had he been here, Thomas would never have argued with him. He never would have claimed to be in the right. Rhaskar Thorne is infallible in the eyes of the Priesthood, but I wonder if that’s true. How long has it been since he lived the life of a man standing as the wall against the storm?
I’m a better warrior than Thomas, even without Marks or Infusions, but would I be a better leader here on the front? Would I be able to constantly fight back the threat of Averna with less than twenty men behind me? With so few Infusions I had to ration them?
I don’t know. It’s something I’m going to have to reconcile. I’ve spent twenty years in the safety and richness of Stormhaven. Once I convince my father to allow me into the Order, I’m going to request that I be sent to a border town. My inexperience is a weakness, and I refuse to allow any weakness to survive.
Interlude 1
Thegirlwasfiveyears old when they took her. Inside the Kingdom of Morvaine, every woman’s first child is born with a mark, a tiny sickle etched into the flesh of her cheek, pale and unmistakable. It is the sacrifice all human families must offer up to Ravess, the God of Rot and Carrion, and his followers, the Caretakers who protect them from the terrors of the other gods.
The girl knew what her destiny was when she was taken. She was to be brought to the Walled City, to live a life of luxury where her every whim and desire would be cared for, and then to offer her life and body as a sacrifice. She would bear no children. She would raise no crops, nor would she contribute to the world. The sickle on her cheek would be her only mark.
