Nolyn Page 6

Nolyn peered closely at the First Spear. “How long have you been in the jungle, Amicus?”

  He grinned at that. “Not that long, sir.”

  “Good to know.” Nolyn walked along the stony bank of the stream but found no sign of anyone, human or goblin.

  “Care for breakfast, sir?” Amicus held out a handful of nuts and berries.

  Nolyn returned and took the offering. “So, what happened to you last night, First Spear?”

  Amicus shrugged. “I heard your order and charged. Ran into a gaggle of goblins, and we had an argument—more than one, actually. I wanted to get by, and they wanted to kill me.”

  “Who won?”

  “Careful, sir, I’m starting to like you. Nothing good can come from that.”

  “True. My apologies. Go on.”

  “Well, you were right about it being dark. Couldn’t see the swords in my hands, so I just kept on going. Heard shouts and cries. I tried to move toward them but didn’t find anything. I shouted out a couple of times, and that was a mistake. I invited visitors, but the ones who arrived were never who I wanted. Sitting quietly made more sense than thrashing about, so that’s what I did. At first light, I headed toward water. Been waiting here ever since, just me and ole Rascal. I figured anyone who survived would do the same. Looks like I was right.”

  “So your plan is to sit here and see who turns up?”

  “I don’t really make plans. That sort of thing is well above my rank. But I figured I’d wait for a few hours, then start following the river downstream.”

  Nolyn nodded and popped a sprinkling of berries and nuts into his mouth. “These are good. Are they part of your rations?”

  Amicus shook his head. “Found them this morning.”

  “You know how to forage in these parts? Able to differentiate between safe and poisonous?”

  “Nope. That’s why I gave them to you first.”

  Nolyn stopped chewing, his eyes wide.

  “Just kidding.” Amicus chuckled. “Those are abbra berries and rom nuts. They grow all through this jungle. You can live off them for months.”

  Nolyn hesitantly swallowed. “Don’t you have meals in that pack of yours?”

  “Gonna take us a while to get out. No sense depleting our supplies until we need to.”

  “Strange. I wouldn’t have pegged you as an optimist.”

  Amicus shrugged. “Half the battle is believing you can win.”

  “Careful, First Spear, I’m starting to like you, too.”

  “Even knowing who I am?”

  Nolyn nodded. “Especially because of that.”

  Amicus narrowed his eyes.

  “I rooted for you against Abryll.”

  “But you’re—” He stopped himself. “Sorry.”

  “It’s the ears, isn’t it? Not as pointed as my father’s, but not round, either. I wasn’t born this way. I guess I grew into them.”

  “Who is the other one?” Amicus asked.

  “Come again?”

  “The one with mixed heritage.”

  “Oh.” Nolyn looked at the leather strap around his wrist, and said, “Her name is Sephryn.”

  “Are you related?”

  Nolyn shook his head. “But we grew up together, first in Merredydd, then in Percepliquis after the city got completed enough to live in. We—” Nolyn stopped. Behind them came the sound of something moving through the brush, and he drew his sword.

  “What?” Amicus asked.

  Before Nolyn could answer, the First Spear’s head turned toward the sound, and he drew two of his own blades.

  Azuriah Myth and a man Nolyn only knew as the fellow fleeing the justice of the gallows spilled out of the jungle. They both grinned—first at them, then the river. Both of their waterskins were shriveled. Myth’s showed creases as if he’d twisted it. The two made feeble attempts to stand straight and offered chest-thumping salutes.

  “Go drink,” Nolyn told them, and the pair raced each other for the water.

  “Seen anyone else?” Amicus asked.

  The two nodded but continued to drink. Afterward, Myth lay back on a rock. He gasped for breath and sighed. “Paladeious, Lucius, Ambrus, and Greig.” Taking another breath, he added, “All dead. Found them together surrounded by a host of slaughtered gobs.”

  “How many?” Amicus asked.

  Myth nudged the other soldier. “What do you think, Smirch? Fifteen?”

  Smirch shook his head, letting the water run off his chin onto his shirt. “Eighteen, at least.”

  “Eighteen?” Nolyn said. He looked at Amicus. “You killed about twenty last night. That means—”

  “I took out forty-two,” Amicus said. “You’re forgetting about the arguments.”

  “Okay, so that makes more than sixty. That’s a huge bite out of their force.”

  “Only four of us left, sir,” Smirch pointed out. “They got a mouthful, too.”

  “True. But with a third of their forces lost, they might fall back to replenish their numbers.”

  “Maybe,” Amicus said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  Myth and Smirch dunked their heads, then set themselves to the task of refilling their waterskins.

  “What made you root for me?” Amicus asked Nolyn.

  “Huh?”

  “Before. You were saying that during my last arena fight you were on my side. Why?” The First Spear had a hint of skepticism in his tone. “Your father made it clear that Abryll was his choice.”

  “Yeah, that’s actually part of the reason,” Nolyn said.

  “You don’t like your father?”

  Nolyn laughed.

  “Not real fond of mine, either,” Smirch grumbled. “Spent all his money at the Happy Pint, leaving me and my brothers to live off squirrels. The first few aren’t so bad, but by the fifth one—let me tell you, bossy—you can really get tired of those big-tailed rats. After ten, you start running short of squirrels.”

  “Smirch is our own little ray of sunshine, sir,” Myth explained. “Always quick with an anecdote to lift the spirits.”

  “After that fight,” Amicus said to Nolyn, “I got on your father’s bad side. He ordered my arrest.”

  Nolyn nodded. “Sounds like him. Doesn’t like being outshone; that’s for sure. If he could reach it, he’d stab the sun for daring to be brighter, and he sincerely believed that no human would ever defeat an Instarya.”

  “So you two don’t get along?”

  “Let me put it this way, I wasn’t joking when I said someone sent me here to die.”

  “Are you suggesting your father would . . .” Amicus paused.

  “He’s my best guess. We haven’t spoken to each other in centuries, literally centuries. The last time was the day my mother died. He told me to pack because I was joining the legion. Two days later, I was sent to fight in the Grenmorian War. I’d never been in a battle before, but ten days after my mother’s death, I was going up against giants. At least it gave me something to do with my anger. I survived, and after we won, I was sent to fight in the Goblin Wars.”

  Nolyn shook his head miserably. “My father probably hoped the giants or the goblins would finish me off. When they failed, he rewarded his son with a post as an assistant to the administrator of a salt mine. That was my reward for taking the Durat stronghold, slaying Lord Rog, and ending that Goblin War. I was exiled to that backwater pisshole in southwestern Maranonia for doing my duty. My new charge was to remain out of the public eye until everyone forgot that the emperor had a son, especially one who did so well in the wars.”

  “Wait, sir, are you saying you fought in the First Goblin War? Just how old are you?” Myth asked, sliding his now-fat waterskin over his shoulder.

  “I’ll be eight hundred and fifty-five in a few months.”

  “Whoa,” Myth uttered. “So you were already four hundred when this war broke out?”

  Nolyn nodded his head. “Yep, and I expected to be called up. That would actually make sense because I had so much experience. But
no word came. I spent more than five hundred years stranded in that salt mine. Then out of the blue, I was sent here. No one said the orders came from my father, but honestly, who else besides Nyphron cares enough to kill me?”

  Amicus looked at Nolyn with new interest. “If you’re that old, do you remember the Battle of Grandford?”

  Nolyn shook his head. “I was born a year after.”

  “But you knew them?”

  “Who?”

  “The Heroes of Grandford, the ones in the legends. Did you ever meet Brigham Killian? I’m a direct descendant.” Amicus drew his short blade. “This was his weapon, the Sword of Brigham. He was a member of the Teshlor Warriors.” Amicus spoke as though he and Nolyn were strangers who’d met in a roadhouse and just discovered they were from the same small town rather than two soldiers in a lethal jungle. “Strange, you don’t seem . . .” Amicus hesitated. “Well, you don’t act like a person who’s been around so long.”

  “Really? How do they act?”

  Smirch laughed. “Walked right into that one.”

  “It’s just that I would expect you to be more . . .” Again, Amicus held back.

  “Wise? Intelligent? A master of any weapon? How about mature? People my age certainly ought to be that, right?”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  Nolyn took a breath. “But you aren’t curious as to why I’m not taller, are you?”

  Amicus looked puzzled.

  “Children grow as they get older, right?”

  “Only to a point,” Myth said.

  “Exactly. When you reach the height you’re supposed to be, you’re done. A glass can only be filled with the amount of liquid the vessel can hold. You can keep pouring, and some of what went in first might dribble out and be replaced with the new stuff, but the total amount doesn’t change. I’ve met children who are wiser than old men, and I’m sure you have met people older than you who act juvenile.”

  Myth and Amicus looked at Smirch, who nodded and shrugged.

  “Age doesn’t endow an idiot with intelligence, and time alone doesn’t grant experience, nor does it make you an expert in all things. I suppose if you’re the type of person who loves to learn, you could gain a lot of knowledge, but it wouldn’t make you a genius. Some things you’re just born with. People’s personalities are formed remarkably early. Age most often serves to either mellow or harden what’s already there. I don’t know the first thing about knitting, and I’m a lousy cook, mostly because even after eight hundred and fifty-five years, I’ve never found those activities appealing, so I avoid them.”

  He thought a moment. “Sephryn is nearly as old as I am, and she’s pretty much the same way. She can’t cook, either. But she does have a passion for improving the lives of others. She’s a lot like my mother in that way. But Persephone was a chieftain and a keenig, which gave her power. Sephryn’s entire life has been under my father’s rule. During all that time, there hasn’t been a regime change, so the status quo marches on. That still hasn’t stopped Sephryn from trying. She never married or had any children because she keeps throwing all her energy against a mountain of stone that will never move. Yes, she’s achieved a few small victories, but nothing to significantly change things. And why is that?”

  None of the others had an answer.

  “Because age hasn’t granted her magical abilities. She’s not all that different from you or anyone else, just older.” He paused. “Well, she does excel at being stubborn. But that’s a trait she’s always had. Kinda have to be that way, right? Anyone else would have given up by now. I did.”

  Smirch got up and started heading away from the group. He stopped suddenly and erupted, “Son of the Tetlin Witch!” Pointing wildly, he added, “There’s a big-ass snake over here!”

  Nolyn and Amicus laughed.

  “It’s not funny. I was just about to take a piss, and now I have!” He shook his leg.

  “His name is Rascal,” Nolyn said. “Rascal DeSlothful.”

  Nolyn guessed it was about an hour later when Riley Glot, Jerel DeMardefeld, and the Poor Calynian appeared. They had found the river farther upstream and were walking down its bank when they stumbled upon the others. Riley was out front, sword in hand, while the wounded Calynian, still with the bloody rag gagging him, was helped along by Jerel. The shiny warrior’s expression didn’t match his attire until he caught sight of them. Then his eyes brightened, and a joyful smile lit his face.

  Seeing Nolyn, Jerel DeMardefeld gasped, rushed forward, and grappled the prymus so forcefully that he nearly took both of them to the ground. “Thank the One, you’re alive, Your Highness!” He continued to hug Nolyn so tightly that the man’s breastplate threatened to cut Nolyn’s lip. Jerel DeMardefeld wasn’t a small man, and there was no getting free until he let go. “I feared for your safety, sir.”

  “He’s not kidding,” Riley said. “He wanted to look for you last night. I had to take his sword, and if I had any rope, we would have tied him up. Took both of us to keep him from running off.” He looked to the Calynian, who nodded in agreement. “I guess we got separated,” Riley told Amicus. He had a pitch of shame in his voice, as if he’d committed a crime.

  Amicus nodded. “Impossible to see much of anything.”

  Every squadron had its history: shared memories, past failures, regrets, promises, and debts. From their collective experiences came a secret language. To outsiders, their conversation would sound perfectly ordinary, but Riley’s words were coated in a kind of code for those who had bonded throughout the years—an understanding that only those equally cursed by shared memories could read. Having been with the squadron but a few days, Nolyn didn’t speak Seventh Sikaria. Still, he knew the secret language when he heard it. Riley was asking for forgiveness, perhaps for something that had nothing to do with the previous night, and with that slight nod, Amicus appeared to have absolved him.

  “How long have you been here?” Riley asked, pulling his ax, which was acting as a furca, and his pack off his shoulder. He dropped his burdens to the ground.

  “Hard to tell,” Amicus replied. “Two hours, maybe.”

  “That’s a lot of time to spend in one spot.”

  “We were waiting for stragglers like you.”

  “Don’t have to anymore.” Jerel pulled a strip of dried meat from a pouch and held it in his teeth while he closed the little bag. He took the meat from his mouth and gestured in a circle at the rest. “This is us. We came across Paladeious, Lucius, Ambrus, and Greig on the way here.”

  “Smirch and I found them, too,” Myth said.

  “That still leaves nine unaccounted for,” Amicus commented.

  Riley shook his head. He glanced at Jerel, that sense of shame filling him again. “When the lights went out, we heard the command to charge. Not everyone heeded the order or maybe they just didn’t act fast enough. Yorken, Hamm, and Blanith were crushed.”

  “I was near the back,” Jerel DeMardefeld said. “That order saved my life, sir.”

  “We were blind,” Riley added, that tone of guilt leaking back into his voice. “Just swinging in the dark. Gobs were everywhere, could hear ’em clicking and chattering. Nothing we could do ’cept run, swing, and stab at the nearest sound.” The Second Spear let out a mournful sigh. “We went back to the cleft this morning.”

  “You did what?” Nolyn asked, surprised at the bravery that would have taken.

  Riley disavowed his admiration with a smirk. “No great feat, sir. We never got very far to begin with. Yorken, Hamm, and Blanith were mostly buried by the fallen cliff. The others lay scattered but generally within sight of our fire, or what was left of it.” He sighed and looked down at his feet. “Sessation and Gammit . . .” He stopped to swallow. “Sir . . .” Riley lifted his eyes to look directly at Nolyn. He held his commander’s gaze as if doing so was painful. “Sessation and Gammit didn’t have any claw marks. Both men died from sword blows. They were hit from behind.” He paused and shook his head. “It was just so damn dark.”


  Jerel looked at the strip of meat in his hand as if he didn’t know why it was there.

  “What about the others?” Amicus asked.

  “Gobs got the rest,” Jerel said. He, too, conversed in the language Nolyn didn’t yet speak, and probably never would.

  “We should go back and bury them,” Riley said. “Now that we’re all together, that is. We didn’t want to get left behind if others made it out. But now . . .”

  “We need to get our asses out of here,” Smirch growled, still casting looks at Rascal DeSlothful as if the snake might leap across the twenty feet between them.

  Amicus looked at Nolyn. “Sir?”

  Nolyn focused on Riley, who looked wounded even though he didn’t have a mark on him. “How many ghazel?”

  “Sir?”

  “How many gobs did you kill? You counted their bodies, too, didn’t you?”

  “The gobs take their dead,” Amicus said.

  Nolyn nodded. “They also take the ones they kill, but last night they didn’t.”

  “Fifty-three, sir,” Riley answered. “Not counting Amicus’s pile.”

  “Fifty-three?” Nolyn said, stunned.

  He stared at the Second Spear, trying to evaluate the man. He’d just admitted to accidentally killing his fellow squadron members, and it was clear he accepted it as his fault. Given that, Nolyn didn’t think the soldier would lie.

  “All told, this squadron killed a hundred and thirteen ghazel who were accompanied by an oberdaza. Fewer than twenty men did that in the dark, without fortification or much in the way of defenses.” He said the fantastical words out loud, thinking they might sound more reasonable coming out of his mouth. They didn’t. “Seven of us are still alive—only one wounded. That’s . . .”

  “That’s why they didn’t take their dead or ours,” Amicus finished. “Too few were left, or maybe none at all.”

  “True,” Nolyn agreed, “But I was going to say—that’s impossible. A single squadron shouldn’t be able to do that.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Riley said, “the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary isn’t just your average squadron.”

  “No? What are you?”

  “We’re special, sir,” Jerel DeMardefeld said, but Nolyn already knew to expect nothing less from him. Still, he was surprised when Myth and even Smirch nodded in agreement.