Lyeth said.
“We’ll come up the line soon,” Breton promised. “There’s not much to report. Those who got out of the way in time survived. Those who didn’t…”
“Their deaths were very quick,” Maiten said in a subdued voice.
Breton twisted around to check for the swarm behind them. While the smoke marked the passage of the skreed, he was relieved there was still no sign of the black waters. “Let’s just hope that’s the last of it.”
“Bite your tongue,” Maiten snapped. “Don’t even think it.”
“I think he wants to know more about where some of your fellow Rifters are at. He seemed rather worried, sir.” Lyeth rode his horse in a circle, halting to watch the smoke rising through the forest. “He would also like to begin making your people more familiar with us. He thinks the general seclusion between our groups may not be the wisest choice.”
“You don’t look like an officer,” Breton said, watching the Mithrian. “That’s a message he’d send with an officer.”
“I didn’t have time to dress up for you, I’m afraid. I was a bit too busy to bother with those silly little ribbons.” Lyeth grinned at him. “I am an officer, though. Barely. Alas, I’ve been reduced to a messenger for the duration. I’ll run along and inform Captain Silvereye of what you told me. Don’t tell him this, but it won’t hurt him a little to wait on you. I’m glad to finally meet you. Hopefully the captain will let me work with you more. Oh, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet. His Rifter needs work. He’s a bit young, but a good sort.”
Breton blinked, struggling to make sense of the Mithrian’s chatter, spoken disgracefully fast. “Who?” There were a lot of other questions he wanted to ask, but he worried Lyeth would answer—at length.
As if reading his mind, Maiten snickered and elbowed him in the ribs.
Lyeth stood in his stirrups, drew a deep breath, and bellowed, “Delaven!”
Breton straightened in surprise and curiosity at the Mithrian’s name. Was it a coincidence that the mercenary’s name meant ‘the red thundering wind’ in the Rifter language? The boy who rode up didn’t look any older than fifteen. His dark brown hair gleamed with the faintest hint of red in the sunlight. Delaven saluted to Lyeth and waited.
“Make yourself familiar to Breton and Maiten. You’re to do as they order until the captain tells you otherwise.”
“Yes, sir!”
With a friendly wave, Lyeth kicked his horse into a canter, heading towards the front of the line. Breton watched the Mithrian go, wondering what he was supposed to do with a boy who didn’t look old enough to be a hired sword trained for war.
“You’re young for a mercenary,” Maiten said, circling his gelding around Delaven. Lines creased the Guardian’s brow, and he had a thoughtful look in his eyes.
The boy sat straighter in the saddle. “Yes, sir. I’m fourteen, sir.” Unlike Lyeth, Delaven’s Rifter was thickly accented.
“I’m Maiten. I’m surprised you speak our language at all. It isn’t something younglings often bother to learn.”
Something about Maiten’s tone made Breton stare at his friend. Was Maiten lying ? His friend didn’t often speak falsehoods, and without fail, Maiten’s tone changed when he did so.
“I’ve got Rifter relatives,” the boy said proudly. “Ma insisted I learn. It landed me a good spot here ‘cause of it, sir.”
Something about the boy’s response, spoken without hesitation, as though rehearsed many times, warned Breton something was amiss. There was something amusing about the way the two dodged each other.
Knowing Maiten, Breton would learn the truth soon enough. He swallowed back his desire to chuckle. Outsiders sired by Rifters weren’t unheard of, but he hadn’t met one before. Letting Maiten deal with the Mithrian, Breton checked behind the company yet again. Nothing had changed, but he couldn’t dispel his worries that they were being
“We’ll come up the line soon,” Breton promised. “There’s not much to report. Those who got out of the way in time survived. Those who didn’t…”
“Their deaths were very quick,” Maiten said in a subdued voice.
Breton twisted around to check for the swarm behind them. While the smoke marked the passage of the skreed, he was relieved there was still no sign of the black waters. “Let’s just hope that’s the last of it.”
“Bite your tongue,” Maiten snapped. “Don’t even think it.”
“I think he wants to know more about where some of your fellow Rifters are at. He seemed rather worried, sir.” Lyeth rode his horse in a circle, halting to watch the smoke rising through the forest. “He would also like to begin making your people more familiar with us. He thinks the general seclusion between our groups may not be the wisest choice.”
“You don’t look like an officer,” Breton said, watching the Mithrian. “That’s a message he’d send with an officer.”
“I didn’t have time to dress up for you, I’m afraid. I was a bit too busy to bother with those silly little ribbons.” Lyeth grinned at him. “I am an officer, though. Barely. Alas, I’ve been reduced to a messenger for the duration. I’ll run along and inform Captain Silvereye of what you told me. Don’t tell him this, but it won’t hurt him a little to wait on you. I’m glad to finally meet you. Hopefully the captain will let me work with you more. Oh, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet. His Rifter needs work. He’s a bit young, but a good sort.”
Breton blinked, struggling to make sense of the Mithrian’s chatter, spoken disgracefully fast. “Who?” There were a lot of other questions he wanted to ask, but he worried Lyeth would answer—at length.
As if reading his mind, Maiten snickered and elbowed him in the ribs.
Lyeth stood in his stirrups, drew a deep breath, and bellowed, “Delaven!”
Breton straightened in surprise and curiosity at the Mithrian’s name. Was it a coincidence that the mercenary’s name meant ‘the red thundering wind’ in the Rifter language? The boy who rode up didn’t look any older than fifteen. His dark brown hair gleamed with the faintest hint of red in the sunlight. Delaven saluted to Lyeth and waited.
“Make yourself familiar to Breton and Maiten. You’re to do as they order until the captain tells you otherwise.”
“Yes, sir!”
With a friendly wave, Lyeth kicked his horse into a canter, heading towards the front of the line. Breton watched the Mithrian go, wondering what he was supposed to do with a boy who didn’t look old enough to be a hired sword trained for war.
“You’re young for a mercenary,” Maiten said, circling his gelding around Delaven. Lines creased the Guardian’s brow, and he had a thoughtful look in his eyes.
The boy sat straighter in the saddle. “Yes, sir. I’m fourteen, sir.” Unlike Lyeth, Delaven’s Rifter was thickly accented.
“I’m Maiten. I’m surprised you speak our language at all. It isn’t something younglings often bother to learn.”
Something about Maiten’s tone made Breton stare at his friend. Was Maiten lying ? His friend didn’t often speak falsehoods, and without fail, Maiten’s tone changed when he did so.
“I’ve got Rifter relatives,” the boy said proudly. “Ma insisted I learn. It landed me a good spot here ‘cause of it, sir.”
Something about the boy’s response, spoken without hesitation, as though rehearsed many times, warned Breton something was amiss. There was something amusing about the way the two dodged each other.
Knowing Maiten, Breton would learn the truth soon enough. He swallowed back his desire to chuckle. Outsiders sired by Rifters weren’t unheard of, but he hadn’t met one before. Letting Maiten deal with the Mithrian, Breton checked behind the company yet again. Nothing had changed, but he couldn’t dispel his worries that they were being
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