Blades Of Magic: Crown Service #1 (18 page)

Shame began to curdle in her breast. Sara felt a pain so strong that she almost winced as the realization struck her. Ezekiel clearly led a threadbare life with nothing but the most basic necessities. And yet without hesitation he given away his coin purse to that mercenary for her.

“I should have tortured the man instead,” Sara said with regret. In her mind, if she had, the money would still be in Ezekiel’s hands.

Then the door creaked and she turned quickly to face the threat.

Ezekiel’s head poked in, the bucket held in front of him. “It’s just me.”

He stumbled in with the heavy bucket and a bar of soap in his other hand. “I hope this is okay.”

“It’s fine,” she quickly said.

He stepped back. “Well, I’ll just go to the tavern for a bite to eat. I’ll go for twenty minutes and bring you something when you’re through.”

Before he could leave she called out his name. “Ezekiel.”

He turned around. He heard the heady mixture of emotions in her voice. “Yes?”

“I
promise
you—I will pay you back for every coin you’ve given me, every kind word, and every assistance.”

He looked at her with a small smile. “No need.”

She shook her head fiercely. “There is every need. You’ve sacrificed so much for me. Your time, your money, and even your safety. I am in your debt.”

Ezekiel opened the door and prepared to leave. As he did, he said, “Sara Fairchild, you’ve saved my life twice over. The debt is already paid.”

With that he slipped into the night and Sara stared at the door with wonder on her face. She couldn’t imagine what she had done to deserve such kindness in so short a period of time. Shaking her head to clear the thoughts, she unfastened the sword sheath from her back and put the weapon on the ground. She felt automatically for the dagger on her thigh, but it seemed that she’d lost it somewhere along the way. The band that held it place was gone. But her knife at her waist still remained. She unbuckled the combination belt and holster that held it and unsheathed the knife.

Putting the smaller weapon right at her feet, Sara carefully slipped the shirt over her head. She winced at the cut that burned on her back. It had probably been there for half the day without her noticing. Then she slipped off her bloodied pants. Undergarments came next, and with the deliberate slowness of a woman dealing with the after effects of a stressful day she washed every instance of blood from her body and then scrubbed her skin raw. In particular she scrubbed to remove the memory of her mother’s dead flesh clawing her own.

When she was done, she rooted around in Ezekiel’s cupboard until she found a patched but clean shirt and some pants. Putting them on, she set to work cleaning her weapons by turning her old shirt inside out and wiping it down with the used bath water. By the time she was finished and they were shining, Ezekiel had returned. Holding a candle, he held out a piece of bread with dark brown stew in it.

“Fish and mutton stew,” he said.

Gratefully she took it from his hands as she sat cross-legged on the floor. “You are a gift from the gods.”

He sat cross-legged across from her. “So my mother told me.”

They spent the rest of the night, which wasn’t more than three more hours, talking and scheming. Sara didn’t want to admit she couldn’t sleep because she feared more attackers coming. She knew Ezekiel was exhausted and humoring her. The one time she had insisted he had to go to work on the morning he’d brushed it off and said, “I’ll be fine.”

When the hour struck five in the morning, Sara rose with a tired shrug of her shoulders and fastened her weapons to her waist and back.

“It’s time for me to get to my new job,” she said teasingly.

“And it’s time for me to go to mine’s,” he said.

Standing at the door they shared a hug and Ezekiel whispered into her hair, “Good luck, Sara Fairchild.”

She squeezed his waist and left without a word. Afraid that if she turned back she might do something quite uncharacteristic of herself—like cry.

S
ara hurried to the meeting point for the Corcoran guard. She didn’t deviate from her path or go by her burned out home even though she wanted to. She knew that the easiest way for the Red Lion guard traitors in the city to capture her was for her to return to her normal hunting grounds. They had probably put watchers on her home just in case she returned. It was what she had been trained to do, after all.

As the sun rose Sara peered out of an alley while standing in the shadows. She was assessing the situation. Even though she had already decided to join the guard, there was no reason to walk into the situation blind. It could be a trap with the captain of the Corcoran guard in league with the Red Lions. She wouldn’t know unless she saw enemy troops amongst the rank-and-file of the Corcorans.

Her breath caught in her throat she eyed the huge group of men and women that composed the Corcoran guard as they lined up to leave through the city gates. Most were mounted on warhorses. Some looked like they would walk though. Most of those walkers were very tall with long legs. The kind of legs that looked like wood splints and told her that they weren’t human. The thin legs that she suspected were thin tree roots, told her that she was looking at the fabled tree folk of old.

Then her body tensed at the sound of a massive trumpet coming closer. Minutes went by as she waited for the Corcoran guard to start to move out. She thought it had been a signal but not one person made the effort to pack their things and hurry along. Then she realized why. The ground began to thump with the sound of something massive moving closer. She looked down and saw the tiny pebbles around her feet thumping in alongside the sound. Then her eyes truly widened in amazement—atop massive beasts of gray skin rode more guards. The beasts had sinuous trunks and were hairless from their noses almost to the tips of their tails. Taking them in she knew they were animal and not
kith
, inhuman creatures with mage powers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t just as rare as the sentient tree folk that lumbered alongside them. Her father had called them elephants. Sara looked at them and named them machines of war. They lifted their long trunks and loudly trumpeted in the wind, as if announcing their dominion over the earth that trembled beneath their feet. The sound didn’t so much as startle her. But what it
did
do was block the sound of feet approaching behind her.

Before she knew it the tip of a sword was at the back of her neck and the blade was forcing her to walk into the sunlight.

“Easy does it now, lass,” said a man with a deep voice.

She tried to halt their forward movement but he only pressed the blade harder into the soft skin just below her hairline. She was practiced in numerous ways to kill a man. With the stern grip on the weapon behind her, she feared he knew the easiest way to kill a soldier from behind as well. All he had to do was push his blade forward sharply and it would sever her spinal cord from her brain. Giving her an instantaneous but merciful death. The trouble was that she didn’t
want
to die. She had so much to live for. So much to fight for. Dying at the hands of the Red Lions was not at the top of her list.

“Who are you?” she asked insistently. “Did the Red Lion guard send you?”

A sharp laugh came from behind her. “Now why would those red pissers do that?”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Only the Corcoran mercenaries call the reddies that.”

“Well, you did happen to find the whole of Corcoran guard. Would you expect a watcher for our troops to be anyone else?” said the gruff voice in slight amusement.

Sara took that as a sign that he might not want to kill her. But when she tried to step cautiously to the side, he corrected her just as quickly.

“Be a good girl,” he said. “No tricks now.”

Back stiff, Sara walked into the open area.

When she had walked ten steps and a group of Corcoran mercenaries twenty feet away turned to eye her curiously, the man behind her said, “Now spin around slowly, girl, hands out from your sides.” 

She did as he asked and heard him comment, “That’s a nice set of blades you got there.”

She smiled. She liked a person who could appreciate a fine weapon. She’d known when she’d first eyed the scimitar that it would be worth the trouble of keeping it.

“Thank you. You worried I might use them on you?”

She heard his grunt before he said, “When a girl carries a steel-forged blade and a knife of a well-known trainer, I would fear that indeed.” 

She bit her lip to halt a retort, somewhat impressed that he recognized the marksmanship of both her blade and her knife.

“Now,” he said cautiously, “why don’t you tell me why you’re spying on my crew? No tall tales now. I can sniff them out.” 

She couldn’t tell if he was lying or telling the truth. She’d met mages with weirder powers.

Before she could speak another voice rang out, and it was one she recognized. Captain Simon said, “This is Sara Fairchild, and she’s here to join your crew.”

Sara spun to see the captain walking up to them both. She knew that she had to make this act good. She wanted into the guard, but she didn’t want on the front lines. She needed to find Hillan, not make a target of herself. There was only one to make a mercenary despise you on the first day: act like a brat. An entitled brat would never been accepted as one of their own. She was sure of it.

“Is she, now?” said the man with an assessing eye.

At the same time Sara spluttered, “I am
not
here to join his unit. I will test for my position in the first division.”

Squaring her shoulders, she continued, “I know the mercenary code. Everyone who enters faces a test. A test of skill to determine where they shall rank and what unit they shall serve in. I do not belong in this man’s unit. I belong with the first division.”

Turning to the now silent gentleman in front of her, she said, “No offense.”

He gave her an amused look. “I’m not sure you could handle being in my crew even
if
I allowed it.”

Sara stiffened. “I have no doubt I could beat every man and woman that serves under you with my eyes closed.”

“I could,” confirmed Sara, patting her knife handle confidently.

Then his eyes dulled as if that simple gesture had disappointed him. “Blades don’t make a warrior girl. Seems you’ve yet to learn that.”

Before she could respond, laughter exploded all around her from the mercenaries loitering nearby. Sara gave them an angry look. 

Then the captain interjected while waving a fist for silence. Everyone shut up.

To Sara, he said in a measured tone, “If you won’t take my commands, then why are you here?”

Unease filtered through Sara. For the first time she wondered if her plan to find Mercenary Hillan was in jeopardy. She was on a mission to find her father’s last exploits, but she also refused to sacrifice her pride in her family and the training she had studied since childhood. There was a reason her father had been commander of the entire military operation and not just a cog in the wheel, as Captain Simon was. Her father had been equal to the mages and sat on the military advisory panel that had decided tactics for the mercenaries, imperial soldiers, and mages as a whole.

But she also was aware that to save her father’s place in history, she needed to do more than fight well. She needed to solve his mystery. So she didn’t back down. Instead she blustered her way through like a headstrong woman with too much pride. She acted like a real mercenary would, or least how a prideful young warrior
should
—confident in their prowess and assertive of their place.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Sara said. “I
am
here to join the Corcoran guard, but more than that, I want to be assigned to the first division. The first division are the fiercest and proudest of your men. They are on the frontlines and don’t hide behind the other divisions. I want to be in the first charge.”

Simon smiled and then he said coldly. “That position is
earned
.”

“I am no common mercenary, and I assure you I have earned it by—”

“By doing what?” the captain interjected firmly. “By being born a Fairchild and a battle mage?”

Sara felt her stomach turn. “There is nothing wrong with being a Fairchild.”

“I agree,” replied the captain. “But there is everything wrong with being a young woman too confident in her skills to know she is at the bottom of the totem pole. No matter what family she was born to.”

Sara felt a hot flush run up her spine. They had no idea what she had gone through to get here. Before her father’s death and now after her mother’s. The one thing she had never expected was a challenge to her fighting abilities.

Well, expect the unexpected
, she thought grimly.
Isn’t that the motto of the mercenaries?

The hot flush running up her spine, a mixture of anger and confusion, only grew when the gray-bearded man standing beside the captain said, “Your father had the same problem.”

She turned to him. “Confidence?” The one word was spit out with rancor.

“Pride,” he said. “And that was his downfall.”

“You don’t know a
thing
about my father.”

The gray-bearded man’s eyes turned cold. “On the contrary, I know everything. Seeing as I trained him from a wee lad.”

Sara’s mouth dropped. Then she realized how wrong she had been. This had been the test, the test that all mercenaries who came before the Corcoran guard were subjected to, and she had failed.

“Yes, girl,” said the man curtly. “I am Amadeus. I am Commander of the First Division.”

“But,” stammered Sara, “why didn’t you say so?”

“Because, child,” he said gruffly, “every man and woman who is a part of my unit began as one thing...a common mercenary. And you have a lot to learn before you can be that.”

Amadeus turned on his heel and left.

Sara stared as his retreating back before the captain’s cleared throat had her turning toward him. She felt a mixture of pride and shame that her father’s instructor had seen her this way.