the process. “Well, no official word’s come down, mind ya’, but we heard of some scuffle out in the east. Got all the scale-backs red-cheeked ’n’ cranky, if you know what I mean. Four outta every five got shipped off to lock the situation down, and the rest of us are left here pulling double duty at half strength.”
Mevon rubbed his chin. Four out of every five—over two and a half thousand troops—was serious indeed. Had someone finally cornered those abyss-taken bandit lords? The three hundred he’d wiped out had belonged to them, surely, but represented only a fraction of the rogues, thieves, and highwaymen capable of being called upon by the self-proclaimed rulers of the Rashunem Hills. Mevon smiled, thinking of the clash that would unfold if, indeed, the bastard pair had finally stirred too great a bee’s nest with their schemes. How he wished he could be there to see them fall.
Green flash in his peripheral vision, and he turned towards the gate to see Jasside passing by, her eyes searching in his direction. She had been within earshot of Mevon’s conversation with the sergeant. She jerked her head away, but not before Mevon glimpsed her upturned lips.
“If I was you,” continued the sergeant, “I’d be gettin’ on to the fortress, quick-like.”
“I intend to.”
Two whistles urged Quake into motion. Mevon threaded his way into the cavalcade and passed under the gatehouse archway. After five beats trotting through the tunnel, he emerged into the northern quadrant of Thorull.
The smell hit him first, the stench of a hundred thousand souls, squeezed together like grapes in a winepress. A wall of noise next struck his ears like a thunderclap, displacing a half month of silence save the clip-clop of hooves and the solitude of his own thoughts.
Mevon patted Quake on his right shoulder, and the horse accelerated, passing several rows of Elite and sending one basket-laden citizen scampering to vacate his path. He soon came abreast of Jasside. Arozir and Tolvar rode at her flanks, and they inclined their heads to Mevon, a gesture he returned.
He addressed his captains. “You saw the gate?”
“Aye,” said Arozir. “Idrus already raced ahead to find out what’s happening.”
“Good.” He had expected no less. “Until we know more, keep the men on a short leash.”
Tolvar sighed dramatically. “If we must.” He raised his voice so that those around could hear. “So . . . maximum of, say, ten pints?”
“Right,” Arozir said. “And four whores.”
“And two tavern brawls . . . but only if they win!”
A dozen of the closest Elite chuckled and let loose a mock victory cry. Mevon could not bring himself to join in the merriment. Jasside, her face wholly unreadable, had fixed her gaze on him. He stared back.
“Give us some room,” Mevon said. “I’d like a last chat with our prisoner before she’s taken out of our hands.”
“Aye.” Tolvar turned his head around as both he and Arozir pulled back on their reins. “You heard the man, slow your asses down!”
“They’re horses, not asses!” someone called.
“Horses, too, then!”
“And I’ll throw saddles on your back and let your mounts take a ride if you don’t hurry up!” added Arozir.
“Don’t you mean slow up?” yelled a different voice.
“Who said that? Why don’t you . . .”
Their banter continued, but Mevon left them to it, their voices fading into background noise. He and Jasside now had space enough to talk in peace.
She smirked at him. “Back for more?” she asked.
“So it seems.”
Their last conversation had ended with Mevon’s wandering away, lost in thought. He had not spoken to her again in the days since.
“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think that you planned on washing your hands of me.”
“I . . .” Mevon had thought to do just that. He shook his head. “We shall see.”
She let out a hmph and turned away, a perfect image of apathy. It was a sham, though, and
Mevon rubbed his chin. Four out of every five—over two and a half thousand troops—was serious indeed. Had someone finally cornered those abyss-taken bandit lords? The three hundred he’d wiped out had belonged to them, surely, but represented only a fraction of the rogues, thieves, and highwaymen capable of being called upon by the self-proclaimed rulers of the Rashunem Hills. Mevon smiled, thinking of the clash that would unfold if, indeed, the bastard pair had finally stirred too great a bee’s nest with their schemes. How he wished he could be there to see them fall.
Green flash in his peripheral vision, and he turned towards the gate to see Jasside passing by, her eyes searching in his direction. She had been within earshot of Mevon’s conversation with the sergeant. She jerked her head away, but not before Mevon glimpsed her upturned lips.
“If I was you,” continued the sergeant, “I’d be gettin’ on to the fortress, quick-like.”
“I intend to.”
Two whistles urged Quake into motion. Mevon threaded his way into the cavalcade and passed under the gatehouse archway. After five beats trotting through the tunnel, he emerged into the northern quadrant of Thorull.
The smell hit him first, the stench of a hundred thousand souls, squeezed together like grapes in a winepress. A wall of noise next struck his ears like a thunderclap, displacing a half month of silence save the clip-clop of hooves and the solitude of his own thoughts.
Mevon patted Quake on his right shoulder, and the horse accelerated, passing several rows of Elite and sending one basket-laden citizen scampering to vacate his path. He soon came abreast of Jasside. Arozir and Tolvar rode at her flanks, and they inclined their heads to Mevon, a gesture he returned.
He addressed his captains. “You saw the gate?”
“Aye,” said Arozir. “Idrus already raced ahead to find out what’s happening.”
“Good.” He had expected no less. “Until we know more, keep the men on a short leash.”
Tolvar sighed dramatically. “If we must.” He raised his voice so that those around could hear. “So . . . maximum of, say, ten pints?”
“Right,” Arozir said. “And four whores.”
“And two tavern brawls . . . but only if they win!”
A dozen of the closest Elite chuckled and let loose a mock victory cry. Mevon could not bring himself to join in the merriment. Jasside, her face wholly unreadable, had fixed her gaze on him. He stared back.
“Give us some room,” Mevon said. “I’d like a last chat with our prisoner before she’s taken out of our hands.”
“Aye.” Tolvar turned his head around as both he and Arozir pulled back on their reins. “You heard the man, slow your asses down!”
“They’re horses, not asses!” someone called.
“Horses, too, then!”
“And I’ll throw saddles on your back and let your mounts take a ride if you don’t hurry up!” added Arozir.
“Don’t you mean slow up?” yelled a different voice.
“Who said that? Why don’t you . . .”
Their banter continued, but Mevon left them to it, their voices fading into background noise. He and Jasside now had space enough to talk in peace.
She smirked at him. “Back for more?” she asked.
“So it seems.”
Their last conversation had ended with Mevon’s wandering away, lost in thought. He had not spoken to her again in the days since.
“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think that you planned on washing your hands of me.”
“I . . .” Mevon had thought to do just that. He shook his head. “We shall see.”
She let out a hmph and turned away, a perfect image of apathy. It was a sham, though, and
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