“I’m afraid so.” From now on, folks would spit at Rufe’s feet—if not in his face—the military would reject him, and few would hire him. He’d be an outcast, a bastard, and a possible traitor.
Lars asked, “Why? Once, a hundred seasons ago, one person returned, influenced by their captors, and slaughtered a noble. One person. And for that, they blame us all. But such a marking won’t happen to a highborn lad like yourself. As soon as your father sends gold, you’ll return to your nice, safe life.”
So, Lars did mistake Rufe for Draylon, the only thing keeping him alive.
The man who’d assaulted Rufe now lay sobbing on the floor, the others having dispersed, save for one who stood behind Lars. Lars snapped to the man in Craician, and he disappeared, returning with a few chunks of meat on a broken piece of crockery and a sloshing gourd.
Lars cut the ties on Rufe’s wrists, and Rufe shook his fingers, trying to work the circulation back into his hands. They stung terribly. As soon as he could properly move his fingers, he grabbed the meat, shoving chunks into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. He sniffed the gourd, which had no smell other than its own. He lifted the gourd to his lips and drank deeply of stagnant water.
“I’ll leave you untied but guarded,” Lars said, cutting the bonds on Rufe’s legs. “If you try to escape, you won’t like the consequences.” The harshness of his gaze added to the threat.
“I’m too tired to do anything but sleep.” If Rufe could manage to sleep with the cold penetrating his bones and the terror of whatmight come bouncing around in his skull. He could be lying dead on the cold ground beside his captain, join his former comrades in death. Would the God of War come for him if he died of cold or torture and not in battle? Would the Unnamed Goddess come for him if the war god didn’t?
Oh sweet Goddess, protect me.
“Sleep, lad. You’ll need it.”
Surprisingly, Rufe did.
Rufe didn’t know what happened to the horses he and his company rode in on, they’d likely died in the fire, but he sat guarded under a tree, bearing witness to the brigands beating back buzzards and stripping the bodies of his fellow Cormiran soldiers. Captain Anjoix, who’d led by example and whose wife would soon have their third child. The young blond who’d tried to befriend Rufe. Rufe could never be sure if someone wanted his friendship or ties to the emperor’s son, so he rebuffed the advances. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hard.
He turned away from the damage swords, carrion birds, and bloating had done to the bodies of men he’d known.
And wept.
What uniforms and armor the brigands could salvage, they did. Lars jerked a cloak off the ground and dropped the sodden wool over Rufe. No telling what happened to the previous owner.They were beyond caring, at any rate. “Can’t have you freezing to death.”
The other uniforms the men and a few women held against their bodies, passing clothing around for the best fits. Oh, the damage these people could do, dressed as Cormiran soldiers. They’d rounded up six frightened horses by afternoon, none a familiar black mare with four white socks. Easily twice as many had to have died in the fire, confined to stalls in the stables with no way out. Poor Rainfall, who’d also been a gift from Draylon. The fire likely destroyed his packs, clothes, and other personal items in the stables.
He wouldn’t mourn the possessions, but he would mourn Rain. Poor, sweet-tempered beast.
That afternoon, Lars mounted one of the horses. Between himself and his men, he wrangled a bound Rufe in front of him on the saddle. “Can’t have you fighting me while we ride.” Some others rode double, having so few horses. Others walked.
They traveled west, away from Cormira, from all Rufe knew—toward Craice, an enemy of the empire.
Rufe didn’t know what to make of Lars, the ruthless leader of the remorseless killers, yet he occasionally showed Rufe some kindness.
Which all changed at sundown.
The men dismounted and put on what Cormiran uniforms they’d scavenged, the four with the most complete attire riding ahead of the others.
Snow drifted down from the sky, accumulating. They’d need to find shelter soon. Lars wrapped the bearskin around himself and Rufe, keeping Rufe warmer than he would’ve been on his own.
They came upon a manor house, surrounded by fields, now lying fallow in the cold months. Smoke rose from the chimney. Warmth. And likely food. Rufe’s mouth watered.
Lars slid out of the saddle, taking Rufe with him, then donned his own Cormiran uniform, the captain’s swirling insignia on his shoulder. While the rest stayed back, two impersonating Cormiran soldiers approached the door, along with Lars. Bile burned the back of Rufe’s throat, and his heart sank, knowing what came next. If he yelled, could he warn the occupants inside before a sword brought him down?
A dog barked, and a man flung the door wide to welcome the emperor’s men.
Lars drew his sword—Rufe’s sword—and struck the man down where he stood. The man never had time to scream. The Craicians pushed their way into the house.
Now, with the doors open, the others followed, save for the two men guarding Rufe.
Screams, laughter, and the sounds of pottery and glass breaking came from the house. The dog cut off in mid-bark. Finally, the house grew quieter. A soldier stepped outside and whistled.
A farm family tucked in their home where they should’ve been safe. Cut down. For what?
The two guards each grabbed one of Rufe’s arms and dragged him to the front door, stepping over the dead homeowner. Rufetried to avert his gaze, but couldn’t miss the depravity. The house was surprisingly blood-free until Rufe glanced out the back window to where Lars held a torch while his men stacked bodies.
