Chapter 23

Corec reached the top of the ladder and stepped out onto the wooden platform the builders had constructed above the partly collapsed lookout tower. The structure seemed sturdy enough to hold him.

Facing in the direction of Sarette’s warden bond to the southwest, he summoned a mage light and held it in place for a moment before dismissing it, then called two more in close succession, allowing them each to flicker out after a brief flash. Then one final light, lasting as long as the first. He waited half a minute, then repeated the same pattern.

Sarette had just started teaching him stormborn message signals, and the only signal he’d memorized so far that seemed to fit the situation was return.

He had no way to know if she or her troopers had seen the message. She’d taken the new soldiers out for an overnight patrol, but Corec hadn’t thought to ask her to watch for signal code. Neither of them had anticipated needing it so soon.

He planned to send Sargo out at first light to search for the patrol, but it would take the scout a while to reach them. With Leena away, the stormborn signals had seemed like the next best option.

He flashed the code three more times before returning to the tavern. The common room was quieter now, the remaining patrons having finally returned to their homes after he’d spoken with each of them.

The tied-up assailants were laid out in a row—those who still lived, at least. Thirteen of the mercenaries had died, either during the battle or before Treya could heal them of their injuries. That included nearly all of those who’d been inside the tavern. Of the fifteen who’d lived, most had been setting up a secondary ambush in the fortress’s courtyard. Razai had managed to slip past them unnoticed, taking the two right outside the tavern door by surprise.

With the healing done, Treya was now attending to each of the sleeping mercenaries in turn, cleaning the demonic compulsion from their minds.

Nedley saw Corec enter the room and shuffled over, staring at his feet. “I should have told you about Bertram. Razai told me he was a red-eye, but I thought if I said anything ... I don’t know.”

It took Corec a moment to consider his response. His head was still fuzzy from the ale. “Do you think I would have recognized your brother if I’d known?” He’d never met Bertram.

“Oh,” Nedley said, looking up. “I guess not?”

“Razai warned us that Rusol had more compelled troops, mercenaries and others, and she told us that they’re harder to detect than the red-eyes. Knowing your brother was one of them wouldn’t have changed anything.”

Nedley nodded.

“But Ned?” Corec said.

“Yes?”

“Next time you want to make a point, just tell me, all right? Don’t knock me over during a fight. If I hadn’t realized who you were, I could have killed you by accident.”

Nedley ducked his head down again. “I’m sorry.”

Treya had approached while they were speaking. “I’m ready,” she said. “Do you want me to wake them up?”

“One at a time,” Corec said. At Nedley’s sudden, intense look, he added, “Fine, Ned. Bertram first.”

Boktar and Ral dragged the man in question over to the wall and propped him up against it in a sitting position. Treya knelt to lay her hand across his forehead, then stepped back.

Bertram opened his eyes and struggled in his bonds, looking like a wild animal trying to get free of a trap. Then he settled down, still breathing heavily.

“What’s going on?” he asked, squinting. “Ned? Is that you?”

“Yes, I—”

Corec held up his hand to cut Nedley off. “You’ve been under a demon’s spell,” he told Bertram. “Do you know what I mean?”

The man’s lip curled into a snarl. “You’re Corec Tarwen. I’m supposed to—” He stopped talking, then struggled to free himself again. “Let me go!”

“What were you supposed to do? Kill me?”

Bertram froze. “The voice ... Nothing! I wasn’t supposed to do anything!”

“The voice was King Rusol!” Nedley exclaimed. “He was controlling you with magic!”

“Ned!” Corec snapped, then reconsidered. To Bertram, he said, “He’s right. It was Rusol who had you in that demon spell. Do you remember what you and your men did here?”

“Tell him, Bert!” Nedley said.

“I...” Bertram looked away and noticed his compatriots for the first time.

“They’re alive,” Corec said. “The ones here, anyway. The rest are dead. We didn’t have a choice—they tried to kill us. They did kill two of my men. The only reason we spared the rest of you is because you weren’t in control of your own minds. So talk. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go free.”

There was a gleam of anger in Bertram’s eyes, but he answered the question. “We were supposed to sneak in, find out who your mage friends are, then catch you alone and kill you. But you stayed here, so we had to wait. I don’t know what happened after that—I was outside until I heard the fighting.”

“Who told you to kill me?” Corec asked.

“The king.”

“The new king, right? Rusol?” Best to make sure.

Bertram nodded.

“When did he give you the order?”

Nedley’s brother furrowed his brow. “A few weeks ago? Three? It’s hard to remember. Before we left Telfort.”

“Three weeks from Telfort?” Corec asked. That would require fast horses.

“We came straight through the mountains. It’s summer—the weather’s good. We didn’t sleep much.”

There were roads throughout the Black Crow Mountains, but there was no direct east-west route all the way across.

“Are you saying you were on foot?” Corec asked.

Nedley spoke up suddenly. “We ran,” he said, his voice haunted. “It wouldn’t let us stop. We were so tired! So hungry!” He started sobbing, and Katrin and Treya gathered him up between them.

Bertram stared wide-eyed at his brother. “What’s wrong with him?”

“The same thing that happened to you,” Corec told him. “Rusol sent him to kill me. We saved him from the spell, just like we did for you.”

“He’s just a kid! Why would anyone...”

“That’s a good question,” Corec said. “Did Rusol tell you why he wants to kill me?”

“No. The voice ... as soon as we got our orders, we had to leave.”

“Are there more of you out there?” Boktar put in. “A camp?”

“We camped three miles west. No one’s there—we just left our gear and armor so we could sneak in.”

The old red-eyes weren’t capable of that sort of planning, but even if this new group had retained their minds, they hadn’t been able to ignore the orders they’d been given. A few small tweaks to their plan would have offered a much greater chance of success. A few men could have wandered into the village during the day and learned who the mages were, then the entire group could have returned late at night—with armor and heavier weapons—and done far more damage. By following their orders verbatim, they’d doomed themselves to failure.

“What about the rest of Rusol’s mercenaries?” Corec asked. “Was this the only group he sent out?”

“We all got our orders at the same time, but the rest went somewhere else. I don’t know where. There were only seven hundred of us left in the capital by then. The rest are at Fort Northtower.”

Seven hundred mercenaries deployed to an unknown location for an unknown reason. Were they all under the same spell? Razai had thought that only a small number of them were, but maybe that didn’t matter. Mercenaries were mercenaries—they’d go wherever they were paid to go.

It came down to the question of how serious Rusol was about killing Corec. Twenty-eight soldiers sent in secret was an assassination attempt, but seven hundred was an army. If Rusol sent that army outside his borders, Corec would have to decide how to respond. He could have negotiated with the knights, or retreated from the army, but mercenaries didn’t operate under the same rules of conduct.

For now, he had to deal with the problem in front of him. The solution he’d used with the last batch of red-eyes at Jol’s Brook seemed like the best choice.

“I’ll let you go as long as you pledge not to return to Larso,” Corec said, kneeling down to untie the knots around the man’s wrists. “You’re from Tyrsall. Go east. If I see you around here again, we’ll have a problem.”

“No!” Nedley said. “Why can’t he stay?”

“They killed Graeme and Ludlo,” Boktar said. “We can’t hide that.”

Corec nodded. “I’m not going to hang them—not when they couldn’t control what they were doing—but the people here aren’t going to accept a story about demonic compulsion. As it is, we’re going to have to say that the ones responsible for the murders all died in the battle.”

“What about them?” Bertram asked, nodding toward his companions as he rubbed the feeling back into his wrists.

“We’ll wake them up one at a time and let them go, separately, in different directions,” Corec said. “You can stay until the end to let them know I’m telling the truth, but I’d better not find out they’re causing trouble in the free lands, or trying to return to Larso. Help me convince them that they shouldn’t try to meet up with each other. Ral, take a squadron and a wagon out to find where they camped. Load up all their gear and wait. If any of them show up there, kill them.”

Ral saluted and left the tavern. Corec nodded to Boktar, then tilted his head to the side. The dwarven man followed Ral out. Boktar would enhance the plan with the details they couldn’t let Bertram overhear, to make sure the squadron wasn’t ambushed.

“You want me to quit working for Larso?” Bertram asked. “Fine. But Ned’s coming home with me.”

Corec had to keep a tight grip on his temper. “That’s not my decision. Ned? I’d like you to stay, but it’s up to you.” Nedley wasn’t just a friend but a trusted ally. If he left, there would be a big gap in the middle of Corec’s command structure. Ral was trustworthy, but he wasn’t Nedley.

“I ... I don’t know,” the young man said.

“You don’t have to decide yet. Help me finish untying your brother, then Treya can wake up the next one.”

The fatigue and whiskey had finally gotten to Nedley, and he’d fallen asleep at one of the tables while Corec and Treya dealt with the formerly demon-compelled troops. Just before dawn, Corec had woken him and asked him to put on his armor to help reassure people as the news spread throughout the village.

That meant Nedley was standing guard at the gatehouse when his brother came through, a canvas bag of food slung over his shoulder. Each of the exiled mercenaries had been given enough provisions to reach the next town, the amount depending on which direction they were heading.

“He won’t give me back my sword,” Bertram said with a scowl.

“You don’t need a sword around here,” Nedley told him. “Just buy one when you get to Dalewood. Do you have enough money to make it to Tyrsall?”

“Larso paid well, at least,” Bertram muttered, then seemed to realize what Nedley had said. “You’re not coming with me.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. I’ve got a good job here, I’ve got my own house. I can’t go.” There was more to it than that, but Nedley didn’t want to put it into words.

Bertram grunted, eyeing Nedley’s armor. “With that getup, you look like one of those knights. They were always peering down their noses at us in Telfort.”

Nedley shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m just a soldier. The armor was a gift.”

A pair of village women gave Bertram suspicious glares as they walked past. They couldn’t know who he was by sight, but everyone was on edge after the attack.

“I guess I should get going,” Bertram said. He gripped Nedley’s shoulder, then turned to leave.