I cupped the lad’s elbow and urged him aside, silencing the hoots of our audience. My sword flashed from its scabbard once more. The flock of raptor tattoos inking my arm rippled, oscillating as I pierced the wooden neck with a clean backhanded force that beheaded the figure.
Swift. Done. Over.
“Like that,” I panted between my teeth.
Cheers erupted. Afterward, our troop burned the pieces. Flames licked the air, smoke chased away the morning mist, and poisonous apples gleamed from endless rows of trees flanking this setting. Propping one booted foot atop a log, I fastened mygaze to the mannequin’s remains, wood chunks crumbling to ash. With this victim, someone needed to make sure the figure stayed dead.
A meaty palm clapped my shoulder. “Well met.”
The source’s opposite hand extended a tankard of ale in my periphery. Without turning from the pyre, I accepted the vessel. “The trainees require sterner training.”
“Agreed.” The warrior’s voice slid beneath my flesh like a splinter. “Pity you won’t be around to ensure it happens.”
Directness. Not entirely unusual in Autumn. Yet something about his frank observation nicked at my consciousness, his intonation gritty, as though shards of glass plugged his throat. Perhaps the result of an old battle wound, an injury that warranted respect.
Even so, I was scarcely an extrovert known for my charming disposition. Living up to that reputation proved more reliable than acting out of character.
Demonstrating my customary lack of humor, I tossed the man a severe, sidelong glance. Dark waves avalanched around his gaunt countenance, the pale ramps of his cheekbones uncommonly steep, and small scars pitted one side of his profile as if needles had once jabbed the flesh.
Despite tens of thousands in the head count, I never forgot an Autumn warrior’s face. Yet I neglected to place this one. Be that as it may, he seemed vaguely familiar, confirming his roots in this nation.
Not for the first time, I threw a cursory glance over the plain woolen surcoat, brown mantle with a small metal pin on the collar, and steel spurs lining his boot heels. No heraldry or trim. No rich textile dyes. And while the ensemble drew little notice, his sword proved itself to be a well-forged blade, despite lacking gemstones.
A lieutenant.
According to his records, which appeared to be in order, Queen Avalea had appointed and dispatched this field officer. Upon first infiltrating the troop, I’d trained my eyes on this man, tested his responses, checked his actions. Amid these righteous defenders, he hadn’t so much as whispered the lines of a pornographic poem, much less hinted at rebellion. Thus, I found no treasonous link between him and Rhys.
No. This warrior was merely nosy, envious, and insolent. His only wrong move involved judging the First Knight for having a packed schedule and endless priorities. A patently unwise course of action.
Removing my boot from the log, I twisted and drew up to my full height, gaining four solid inches on this blabbermouth. With a subtle punch of my tankard against his, I lifted one eyebrow.
“Training squires,” I reflected. “The last time I checked, that was why efficient armies had ranks. Among other reasons such as discipline.”
The honed edge of my voice whittled down his bravado to a twig. The man stepped back, taking the hint for what it was: Any dutiful soldier worth their weight in steel didn’t question the First Knight, nor expect him to baby them by doing a job they should be classified—and competent enough—to do on their own. Not unless they were lazy.
Denying my remark would appear impertinent. Accepting it would acknowledge the man’s shortcomings. Negligent at best, inadequate to the task at worst.
Yes, I held a rapport with my troops. No, I did not tolerate discourtesy.
Clamping his trap shut, the warrior bowed. “Sir.”
“Off you go,” I stated, auditing his stiff back as he left, then transferring my attention to the rest of the troop.
Compunction prodded me like the tip of a knife. I respected my brethren, held them in the highest regard. Yet for seven years, I had stashed myself in plain sight among each distributed legion in Autumn, oftentimes for months on end, in addition to hunting every groove, hollow, and hamlet for traitors amid my kin.
That the First Knight made customary on-and-off trips from the fortress was commonplace. Though, keeping the troops and general public unaware of this mission required meticulous plotting among our clan. Armed forces expecting me to be stationed in the castle were shipped out far and wide at the right times. And when the rest anticipated me in the outlying regions, they were assigned back to the stronghold. Owing to Queen Avalea and the rest of our fellowship, we had outlined a detailed rotation to cover my absences and appearances. Blessedly, the artifice had worked.
I clenched the tankard’s handle. The ale’s yeasty scent flooded my lungs as I pretended to sip the contents, liquid sloshing against my closed lips. If I did not serve it myself or witness others partaking from the same source, I would not ingest the contents. No matter how harmless my brethren appeared, I kept to this rule.
Dawn crested the horizon, a luminous corona of sun lifting into view. Fog rose like steam from the grass, then wove through the towering apple trees, their duplicitous scent perfuming the air, the green leaf stems indicating poisonous substances. Sagely, none of the soldiers went near those pomes, some of them leaking juice like blood.
The Shadow Orchard.
Memories of this place assaulted me, dredging up the vision of a soldier’s severed head tumbling across the lawn. Sir Merit had died here, an innocent victim in Rhys’s game to targetBriar. Moreover, the king had compromised a child, exploiting her axe-wielding skills to get the deed accomplished.
My nostrils flared. On Aspen’s behalf, a hot blast of rancor coiled through me.
Meanwhile, the soldiers rewarded themselves with pints while circling around the bonfire, sharing tidings of the week. Stories of magical lore, desirable bed partners, debates about which mill produced the finest grain, which tavern served the finest froth, and which establishment employed the finest looking barmaids or barmen. A female knight jostled another, and everything was normal. Too normal to trifle with any longer.
