Arn couldn’t. He wanted to. He wanted to shout to the heavens how wrong it all was, how accepting such wholesale slaughter could never be right. But he was a man who beat things with his fists. He wasn’t a philosopher. He wasn’t wise. Most importantly of all, he wasn’t as smart as his brother. So how did he tell him he was wrong? How to convince him?

  Could he even convince himself?

  “What we did, it wasn’t unity,” he said. “It was murder. I believe that. I must.”

  “You must believe nothing but the truth, and so I lay it bare before you.”

  Dario crossed the gap between them. His hand wrapped around Arn’s head, pulling them close, holding them like the brothers they were. Their foreheads touched. Arn tensed, ready for battle, and not one of physical blows.

  “You condemn our murders, and so you murder us in return. But there is no righteousness in your killing. No justice. You decry the blood on your hands, and yet hope by shedding more, your soul will emerge clean at the end. Murder will save you, you think, but only the right murders. Only if the right corpses lie at your feet. Idealistic nonsense. Foolish. Naïve.”

  Arn pulled away, but Dario would not relent. Their divinely blessed muscles locked tight. Dario’s fingers on the back of his head were metal hooks digging into his skin. There would be no escape. His brother’s green eyes held him captive. They were sincere. They were pained. Arn hated every second of it.

  “Come back with me. Become a penitent before it is too late to save you, both in heart and mind. When the God-Incarnate calls me to the heavens to serve in the hereafter, I would have you follow me there, like you followed me into the Legion. Don’t remain behind. Don’t fall to the Hell below, to burn with the Nameless Whore. It would break my heart.”

  At last, the fingers relented. Arn shoved him away. Space now between them, he could finally breathe again. The words, though, they lingered, echoing again and again in his mind. So full of love, and so very cruel.

  Don’t remain behind. Don’t fall to the Hell below…

  “You are not my keeper,” Arn said. “And my soul is mine alone to guard. I do not doubt my path. I doubt yours.”

  Dario shook his head. His disappointment somehow grew greater than the sun and stars. Resolve steeled across his handsome face. He spoke as if he heard nothing of Arn’s protestations.

  “This is a hard choice, and you’ve devoted years to this delusion of salvation through heresy. I will give you time to dwell on my words. If you accept, I can smuggle you back into the fold. The Heir-Incarnate trusts me, and with his help, we will begin your penitence. It will be hard, Arn, but I’ll be there with you every step of the way. We can save your soul together. But hear me, little brother…”

  He clacked his gauntlets together, a rattle of metal that chilled the air. One final message before returning to the empire Arn had forsaken. A threat of love. A promise of violence.

  “If I witness you on the battlefield again, your face hidden behind bones, I will not hold back. I will break you. Whatever is left, I shall drag to Eldrid. You will be redeemed. This is my sacred duty as your brother, and I will never accept failure. By my blood and fists, you will join me in the heavens.”

  CHAPTER 9

  STASIA

  Commander Pilus Arenthan was waiting for the pair at Pelion. His graying hair took well to the sunlight, and his golden complexion had darkened since Stasia last saw him, no doubt due to a lot more time spent outdoors training his soldiers. Even without armor or uniform, he looked dashing enough, and had the posture of a man accustomed to giving orders.

  “Welcome,” he said. “I pray the journey was not too arduous.”

  The pair had packed both their belongings into a single large rucksack. Stasia removed it from the top of the carriage and flung it over her shoulder, unbothered by the weight.

  “Two days of bumpy seats, the smell of horses, and a night’s stay at an inn with more fleas than guests,” she said. “I wouldn’t call it arduous, but neither do I look forward to the return trip.”

  “The inn wasn’t all terrible,” Clarissa said, and she smiled and offered Pilus her hand for a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. “That boy in charge of their bread, give him proper ingredients and I wager he could open a shop right in Vallessau.”

  “You may have stumbled upon a rare culinary talent,” Pilus said. He smiled warmly at Clarissa. The two communicated often at meetings Thorda organized, and she was always complimentary of Pilus when brought up in conversation. “Or perhaps hunger is the best sauce.”

  “I think it was a bit of both,” Stasia said. The trio walked deeper into the village, and she was happy to hear the rattling carriage leaving behind them. The driver had been polite enough, but she caught him praying several times, and she was fairly certain it wasn’t to Lycaena or Endarius.

  “Have you a gift for me?” Pilus asked as he walked alongside her. “The Coin sent a message asking me to wait for the Ax, and here you are. I presume it is something important?”

  “You’ll be the one to tell me that.”

  Stasia handed the sealed note over to the commander. Experience had taught her not to bother opening it to sate her curiosity. The first line her father wrote would always be something like “Trust not this note if the seal is broken.” As much as she wanted to know her reason for coming out to Pelion, she equally loathed the tiresome possibility of explaining why said seal was broken.

  Pilus drew a knife from his belt, sliced the note open, and then unfurled it. For a moment he debated reading it aloud to her, but then changed his mind just as quickly.

  “Here,” he said, handing it over. “I suspect this is for you as much as it is for me.”

  Stasia accepted the note and skimmed over her father’s neat, compact handwriting.

  Trust not these orders if my seal is broken.

  Act on the morrow. Ax will lead the vanguard to ensure victory.

  Take the fort. No survivors. Burn what cannot be looted.

  Retreat to Pelion when finished to await further instruction.

  —the Coin

  “Take the fort,” she said, lowering the note. “As in Fort Lionfang? Have you anywhere near the numbers for such a feat?”

  Pilus grinned at her.

  “I see you are unfamiliar with my accomplishments,” he said. “Walk with me, Ax, and look upon the army I have built.”

  The commander explained as they walked deeper into the woods. His training grounds were a good fifty miles farther south, and several others were dotted about the region, their numbers small and mobile. A week prior, Thorda had sent orders for them to gather in the nearby forest.

  “I have assumed Fort Lionfang would be my target for the past few weeks. Not merely to hold it, mind you. The current Lord of Tannin hides within instead of taking his proper seat in the city of Syros deep to the south. He is a cowardly man by the name of Acastus Agrito and prefers the safety of his soldiers over a crowded populace. Once the Coin sent his note to prepare for moving out, I was all too eager to begin our preparations.”

  “Preparing how?” Clarissa asked. “Have you any siege weaponry to break the fort’s walls or gates?”

  “Neither will be necessary. We’ve scouted their nightly patrols along the walls. It is a skeleton crew, if even that. I suspect they are struggling to bring adequate numbers across the Crystal Sea, and the Heir-Incarnate’s arrival has only further consolidated the empire’s strength in Vallessau.”

  Something is strange about Thanet, thought Stasia, remembering a conversation she’d had with her sister. Normally the conquered territory’s regent would work with the Uplifted Church to recruit faithful converts into the military, bolstering ranks and adding a local face to the peacekeeping efforts. So why did they not do so here? Did they believe Thanet too weak in its faith in the God-Incarnate? Or perhaps Lord Agrito feared any recruits could be potential assassins and traitors?

  “Ten men can hold off a hundred if the walls are high enough and their arrows plentiful,” Stasia said.

  “A fact I am aware of, Ax. I will not throw away any lives needlessly. My soldiers trust me, and I will repay that trust. They will receive the best training I may offer, the best gear I may outfit them in, and the wisest of my plans when it comes to battle.”

  “Fair enough,” Stasia said, too tired and travel sore to argue. Hoping for transparency from her father was like hoping for the sun to rise in the west. Whatever his plan, she’d learn it in time, and modify it if she truly thought it asinine. This Pilus did seem the intelligent sort, but Stasia had seen more small-scale skirmishes than most anyone alive. If her father’s note said she was to lead the vanguard, then she would lead it as she saw fit, and force the commander to adapt accordingly.

  The brush thickened around them, the thinner trees marking the outer rim of the forest near Pelion growing wider and taller. Minutes later, she heard the first distant murmurs of conversation, pierced by the occasional shout or laugh. They must be getting close.

  “I’ve never been to an army encampment before,” Clarissa said. “Is it like a hunter’s camp?”

  “Somewhat,” Stasia said. “A really, really big hunting camp. If experience has taught me anything, it’s going to smell of smoke, sweat, and shit, and not in that order.”

  Pilus shifted directions, and they came upon the semblance of a footpath. They followed it into the camp, first encountering the latrine trench. Boards were laid across it to form a simple bridge, though Stasia distrusted it and instead leaped over.

  “My apologies,” Pilus said as Clarissa tested the boards, found them sturdy, and then hurried after. “But the wind blows the way it blows, and we dug accordingly.”

  Once past a few more trees, the grounds opened up, the remains of dozens of stumps marking the efforts to clear out a place to live within the forest. The sight of it gave Stasia a strange sensation of nostalgia. How many similar camps had she visited throughout her life? Men and women gathered together, laughing and chatting. Nervous energy intermixed with boredom. Some trained, some cleaned, and many others lounged about waiting for the killing orders to come. Stasia estimated two hundred soldiers in total, not bad for a force built directly underneath Lord Agrito’s nose.

  Clarissa stepped closer to Stasia, and she took her free hand in hers.

  “I suppose you did warn me about the smell,” she said softly.

  Stasia shifted the rucksack of their belongings to her other shoulder.

  “I’ve seen a lot of these camps, but for what it’s worth, this one’s set up better than most.”

  “Appreciated,” Pilus said, overhearing the discussion. “If you’d follow me, please?”

  He led them through the camp, a quick little jaunt past the mess tent, the training grounds, a second latrine trench, and the many rows of sleeping tents. He pointed out a well-beaten path that led to a stream for drinking, and a secondary path farther downstream for bathing.

  All the while, men and women stared. Stasia’s mind itched. She should be wearing her mask. Each and every one of them was seeing her face, and the brilliant make and shine of her axes alone hinted at her identity. Yet she wanted them to trust her. Her hand pressed to her word-lace. A compromise, at least. She felt a tingle, and the red of her irises faded to brown. There. At least she might have some plausible deniability should any of these soldiers be captured and tortured.

  “This was once a hunting retreat we greatly enlarged,” Pilus said once their little tour was over and he brought them to his yellow command tent. “There is a little cabin normally reserved for myself. It is all yours for the night, but before you settle in, there is a matter I wish to discuss involving tomorrow’s mission.”

  Stasia crossed her arms and prepared herself for frustration. It wouldn’t be the first time a commander had cold feet when it came to letting her, an outsider, lead their troops. Her mood must have shown on her face, because the older man immediately adopted a softer tone and clarified.

  “I have no objection to you leading the attack,” Pilus said. “But that does not mean I lack reservations. These men and women under my command are largely untested, well trained but lacking experience. In plain language, they are nervous, and nervous soldiers fight poorly and flee easily. I believe that is why the Coin has sent you.”

  Stasia frowned at him. This was a switch. She’d feared he would want her out of the way, but now learned she was expected to carry the morale of an entire force.

  “I can bolster a line and fight as well as twenty,” she said. “But I can’t take a whole fort on my own if your soldiers abandon me.”

  “Your abilities are secondary to my concern. It’s your reputation I want. My soldiers, they know of the Ax of Lahareed. It will elevate their efforts to fight alongside you. They want to believe your presence here means we are capable of accomplishing the impossible. Yet stories and rumors are fickle and unreliable. Let us leave nothing to chance. If you are to lead them tomorrow night, I believe you should secure their confidence through more than just reputation. Give them a demonstration of your skill.”

  All of Stasia’s worries and frustrations broke away into an eager smile.

  “If you believe it best I beat a few of your men senseless, then who am I to disagree?”

  “Will you actually be causing injuries?” the older man asked. “That may influence who I volunteer.”

  And then he winked. The playfulness of it had Stasia bursting into laughter. She’d not often worked with Pilus over the years, with most of his time spent outside Vallessau where the eyes of the empire were not so sharp. He’d always seemed competent, though, and now she decided he might be a bit of a charmer, too.

  “Send me your gods-damned best,” she said. “I’ll give your camp a show they’ll remember.”

  Pilus pointed to a portion of cleared earth heavily trodden so not even grass endured. A rope circled the perimeter, forming the clear boundaries of a sparring ring.

  “Wait there. I’ll bring both challengers and a crowd.”

  Stasia thumped a fist to her breast, a salute she’d learned at some point over the past two decades.

  “I expect a hot meal and a warm bed waiting for me afterward.”

  “You shall have both and more,” Pilus said. He saluted, then hurried into the scattered tents, pointing and barking orders. Stasia made for the training circle. Clarissa followed at her side, a bounce in her step so lively she was almost skipping.

  “Someone is excited,” Stasia said.

  “It’s not often I get to see you and your axes in action.”

  “You’ve seen me train plenty.”

  “Training is not fighting, and you know it.”

  Stasia laughed and kissed her on the cheek.

  “For your sake, I’ll try to make it entertaining.”

  Pilus gathered up most of the camp to watch. As for her opponents, four men and one woman stood in a loose line, wood training swords held in hand. Stasia unclipped her axes and set them on the ground beside Clarissa, who blew her a kiss for good luck.

  “Will these suffice?” Pilus asked, and he offered her two rounded poles. They were of the proper length, though lighter than her axes.

  “I’ve trained with similar,” she said, accepting them. “They’ll do. What of your soldiers? Have you any rules for when they duel?”

  “The first to drop their weapon, step out of the ring, or get knocked to their rear loses the spar. All else is fair.”

  “Good enough for me.”

  Her first opponent was wide-eyed and nervous. Stasia stood perfectly relaxed, her grin daring him to make a move. When he tried, it was with a thrust at her abdomen lacking any real strength behind it. She exploded into action, batting it aside with her left hand while her right swept low and then up, cracking against his wrist. Out went the wood sword.

  “Next.”

  The man left blushing, made worse by the ribbing of his friends as he stepped back into the crowd. A larger man came next, his hair long and his body resembling that of a lumberjack. More muscle than necessary, it’d make him slow, but he’d end most fights with a single hit.

  Most fights. Not one against her. She let him swing, a dreadfully slow wind-up that again reminded her of a lumberjack chopping a tree. She blocked the hit with both her poles, and though the impact was enough to strain her wrists, she pretended it meant nothing.

  “My turn,” she said.

  He had strength, but no speed. Stasia struck him with her shoulder, then rolled around him, back to back, before sweeping her poles in an arc. They collided with his knees, crumpling him.

  “Next.”

  The third man knew how to wield a sword, that was refreshing. He blocked her first blow and planted his feet well, holding fast when she tried to trip him up with a sudden burst of strength. Her next swing was a feint, and he fell for it, sword up to block. She slipped both poles underneath, striking his stomach and taking away his breath. When he doubled over, she put a boot to his chest and kicked, tumbling him out of the ring. The entirety of the fight lasted but a handful of seconds, but he’d at least made her work for it.

  “Could you at least play with them a bit?” someone shouted, and others laughed. Stasia clacked her weapons together overhead, all smiles as the performance swept her up.

  “Hardly my fault. I’m not even sweating. Both of you, get in here. Maybe a threesome will get the crowd going.”

  Laughter joined the cheers as the next two opponents entered. They whispered a plan to each other, their words lost amid the noise of the boisterous crowd, and then approached side by side. Stasia bounced atop her toes, keeping limber and ready. The woman began the attack with a shout to her teammate.

  “Now!”

  They charged, weapons high for downward slashes. The coordination wasn’t bad, but she had faced paragons. These two paled compared to such foes. She blocked both, her arms wide, one pole for each attack. The pair of them pressed with all their might, their jaws clenched, their teeth bared, and their faces turning red as their muscles tightened. She flexed in return, her heels digging into the earth. Her weapons fell an inch, drawing them in close, making them think they would break her.