Page 75 of Storm Front
Red squinted at the tree Glaive was pointing to. “I don’t… really know much about tree climbing. We climbed cliffs in Thalassa, sometimes?”
“Same principle,” Glaive said, even if it wasn’t. He put more dominance in his voice, and Red let out a soft huff and leaned away. “Now get up there.”
“Yes, sir,” Red said, adding in Morrey, “You’re dominant enough to shout down a wyvern.”
“No wyverns in the mountains, Red. Go.” Glaive allowed himself a small smile at Red’s look of shock, then stood back as the poor man tried to climb the tree. He was awful at it and kept slipping and cursing as he missed handholds and branches. When he came down again, he was panting heavily, his red hair was dark with sweat, and he could barely speak.
Perfect.
“Can’t. Tell. What the… what the animal tracks… are…” He upended a waterskin over his head.
“They’re headed that way,” Glaive said, and Red gave him an outraged look.
“You… knew?”
“Save your breath for the hike, Red.”
It didn’t take long to find their quarry, even with Red panting beside him like a winded bear. He was a quick learner, though—Glaive only had to tell him how to do something once, and when he gestured for silence the next morning, Red covered his hair with a brown cloth and sank down, disappearing into the underbrush.
The man they were hunting called himself Jole the Wolf, which was a ridiculous name, since wolves killed to survive, not out of cruelty. Jole tried to put up a brave front, but with Red nocking an arrow and Glaive’s sword at his throat, he gave up quick enough.
“Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it,” he said, shaking as Glaive tied his hands and feet together. Above them, the sky was dark with storm clouds, the air around them growing heavy. Glaive’s belly felt leaden as he tied Jole to a stake he’d hammered into the ground.
“You killed children, Jole.” Glaive unrolled his tools—a hammer, thumbscrews, slender knives—and Jole started shaking. “Six kids, that’s half a village. Their parents want to know you feel the pain they felt, that’s all.”
“Just kill me, then.” Jole flinched as Glaive took up the hammer. “I know I fucked up, but they were… they were taunting me, the way they—” He howled before Glaive even touched him, and Glaive looked to Red, who was staring at him, hands tight around the grip of his bow.
“Go set up the tent uphill,” Glaive said. “It might rain soon.” Hopefully, it wouldn’t. Hopefully, it would only thunder, and when the man shaking under Glaive’s gaze finally died, Azaiah would be the one to find him.
“I can handle it,” Red said softly. Glaive frowned but turned back to his target.
When he was almost through, Glaive stopped, went to Red, and turned him around by the shoulder. Red flinched at his touch. Glaive didn’t blame him. “Go uphill,” he said, his dominance heavy over the roll of thunder. “Set up camp.”
“Do you…” Red took a shaky breath. “Do you have a spade?”
“Yes. In my bag. Why? Digging a latrine in the rain is no good.”
“No, for… for him.” Red wouldn’t turn around. “A grave.”
Glaive raised his brows. “We aren’t being paid to dig graves, Red.”
“But he’ll need one. Everyone does.” Red closed his eyes briefly. “Even if they… did all the things he admitted he did, when you were… when you were working on him.”
Glaive couldn’t remember the last time he’d buried one of his targets. If they had a burial, it was because someone else wanted it done, so all Glaive did was return the body. He looked down at Red, an unfamiliar emotion stirring in his chest, and shrugged. “Go on, then. Dig your grave. Make it deep.”
Red nodded and headed down the hill, breathing hard. When Glaive turned back to Jole, lightning arched across the sky, illuminating his gaunt face.
Glaive knelt over him and drew the blade across his throat.
It’s easy to summon my brother,Ares had said.All you have to do is kill.
Thunder boomed, and for a second, Glaive thought he’d done it. Then a drop of rain struck his cheek, and he clenched his fists in the dead man’s shirt as the clouds burst.
“No.” He got up, leaving the dead man behind. “No. Not you. I didn’t ask for you!”
Thunder drowned out his voice, and Glaive staggered a few steps in the rain, the grass already slick with rivulets of mud. It was hard to see through the rain, but a figure was approaching, cowled and slender, silver hair dripping down the front of his cloak. The grass went brown at his feet as he approached Glaive, who dropped to his knees.
“Azaiah. Please.”
