Bryndine Errynson put the rest of them to shame. She wielded in one hand a sword that most could only have held with two, swinging it in heavy arcs that cleaved through armor and flesh and bone as easily as if she were chopping rotted wood. Her shield was a wonder to watch too, despite her wounded arm—the big steel disc moved with incredible precision and speed, deflecting blows that I scarcely even saw coming. She wasted no effort on useless motion, simply broke an opponent’s attack on her shield, waited for an opening, and then cut her foe down with a single stroke. I had thought Sylla the more dangerous of the two, but where she often needed to land three or four decisive blows to fell her target, Bryndine rarely needed more than one.
Several men of Waymark waded into the fray, refusing to keep to their homes despite Bryndine shouting for them to find safety. Unarmored and armed only with makeshift weapons, they soon paid the price for their mistake. Iayn Gerynson chopped into a man’s side with a heavy shovel, but as he was pulling it free, another of the rebels rammed a sword into his back. Iayn fell to his knees. He tried to stand, but the man he had struck—seemingly unhindered by the deep gouge in his side—caved in the big tanner’s head with a spiked mace. Other men fell as well, but I recognized few of them through the smoke, and then the rest were retreating in terror while Bryndine and her women guarded their retreat.
I could only watch as it happened, as men I had known for years were cut down. The terror growing in my chest locked me in place, a terror more pure than anything I had ever known. The voices in my head grew louder, wilder. They were angry and in pain, and so I was too, and it only added to my fear. But at least I could claim one small grace: I was not the focus of their attention.
And then I felt that change.
It was like the slow turning of a great invisible eye; an unseen force gradually becoming aware of my presence. I had been caught eavesdropping, hearing something I was not meant to hear. The macabre chant focused on me, every word resounding as clearly as ringing crystal. “
Pain,
” the voices chanted. “
Fire. Death.
” I realized with dread what was coming.
“
BURN
,” the voices ordered. And I did.
Chapter Six
The King’s Army is one of two bodies created to uphold Erryn’s Promise. While the Justices of the White Hall determine what it means to keep the Promise and whether or not a King has done so, the Army is the instrument by which it is actually kept. They have protected the Kingsland faithfully through seven recorded Barbarian Incursions, and more than one rebellion from within our own borders.
Each of the six baronies of the Kingsland has its own Army brigade, made up of five to ten companies of four hundred men, each led by a Captain. Each brigade has a primary company—the First in Three Rivers through to the Sixth at the Bridgefort—whose Captain is also Commander of the brigade. The Captain of the First Company serves as High Commander of the entire King’s Army.
— From Dennon Lark’s
Military History of the Kingsland
The constant bumping of the wagon’s wheels on the rough country road shook me awake. My back was pressed against the sharp corner of a wooden chest, and several bulging canvas bags surrounded me, giving me little room to move.
The first thing that came to my mind was panic. My hands leapt to check for the terrible burns that I was sure must cover most of my body—but there was no pain, no melted flesh glistening red on my arms or legs. I remembered the agony of burning vividly, but little after it; I could only imagine that I must have fainted. My head ached, and memories of whispered voices and fire flickered through my consciousness. I felt like I was going mad.
It was some time after midday judging by the sun shining full down upon me; I had to squint my eyes against the brightness. A low buzz of voices filled my ears, and for a moment I feared the whispers had returned, but as my eyes adjusted to the light I saw that the wagon was surrounded by hundreds of soldiers, marching in columns or mounted upon horses. They wore the tabards of the King’s Army, with a numeral one sewn in gold beneath the King’s burning tree—the First Company. Scattered among them were the villagers of Waymark, the women and children sitting in wagons or riding double with the soldiers while the men marched alongside.
From the look of the countryside I could tell that we were well away from Waymark, on the road heading east to Barleyfield. I was not sure exactly what had happened the night before, but by the fact that I was still alive, I guessed that the First Company had arrived to defeat the rebels.
I became conscious of several voices closer and louder than the rest, audible even over the rumbling of wagons and clip-clop of hooves. Bryndine’s voice I identified almost immediately, and then Sylla’s, speaking to a third woman whose voice I didn’t know. I tried to stay silent and still, though the autumn chill in the air made it difficult not to shiver. They did not seem to notice that I had awoken, because their conversation continued unabated.
“It was strange, yes. I did not see him wounded.” That was Bryndine’s voice, in answer to something I had not heard.
“Strange? Bryn, he was shrieking like his head had caught fire,” Sylla replied. It was not hard to deduce that I was their subject. I didn’t like it, but it was understandable—why should they have faith in my sanity when I was beginning to doubt it myself?
“Might he have an illness?” a soft voice asked uncertainly. “My uncle used to have the shaking sickness. It would come on him when he got upset.”
“That may be, Genna,” Bryndine said. “I only hope he was not harmed in some way I did not see. My cousin may have need of him.”
“Your cousin is an ass,” Sylla muttered. “Why bring him a Scriber? At least in his condition he won’t be able to report you to the King.” I could not imagine what they were talking about, or what Bryndine might be reported for. But I knew that her cousin, Uran Ord, was the current High Commander of the First Company, promoted after the death of Millum Wren two years before. It sounded as though he had been wounded.
“Sylla…” The soft voiced woman—Genna—sounded concerned. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“I will not wish misfortune on my cousin to save myself, Sylla,” Bryndine said sternly. “We are soldiers in the King’s Army. We have sworn to uphold Erryn’s Promise. Such suggestions do not become us.”
“Sorry, Bryn. I didn’t mean…” Sylla’s gruff contrition trailed off midway. She did not seem a woman accustomed to making apologies. “I wouldn’t trust that Scriber to treat a bee sting, though.”
“He treated my wound well enough.”
“It’s twice as swollen as it was!” Sylla protested.
“He warned me not to use it. I’m afraid I am not the most obedient patient.”
“You just distrust anyone who is rude to the Captain, Sylla,” Genna teased gently. “He did help us get the people out of Waymark.”
“They would have come with us either way,” Sylla grumbled.
“But perhaps not willingly, Sylla,” said Bryndine. “As happy as you might have been to truss them up and carry the lot of them off in the wagon, I am glad we had Scriber Dennon’s help.”
I was not comfortable with Bryndine’s praise. My memory of the previous night was not clear, but I recalled a hazy image of her shield repelling Hareld’s axe—she had saved my life. I reminded myself that she had put it in danger to begin with by failing to warn the village when she first had the chance. I could not forgive her for that. A Scriber never forgets.
“Besides, Sylla, bringing the Scriber might help our case,” said Genna. “The Army Scribers are mostly Warfare trained, even Tenille. They can perform field treatment at best. If the Captain produces the Scriber who saves the High Commander, it won’t be ignored.”
“If he even
is
any better than the rest.” Sylla seemed disinclined to give me the benefit of the doubt. “He’s just the local Scriber for a little nothing village. All we know about him is that he can stitch a wound and wrap a bandage. That’s hardly more than field medicine.”
“I have reason to believe he has had the appropriate training, Sylla. I will bring him to Uran as soon as we make camp.” Bryndine’s tone was decisive, and Sylla let the matter drop with a sullen grunt.
I wondered what Bryndine had meant about my training. It was true that I had excelled in many fields at the Academy despite my focus being History; I was an accomplished student in the Schools of Medicine, Arts, and Politics, and I had even done some study in the Sciences. But Bryndine had acted as though she didn’t recognize my name when we first met, and if that was so, she had little reason to think more highly of my skills than Sylla did.
I was struck with the unpleasant feeling that she knew more about me than she had let on; perhaps she had spoken to Tenille. I would not be able to keep my history a secret when we arrived in Three Rivers in any case, but still, it irked me that Bryndine Errynson might have yet another reason to look down on me.
The women were done talking about anything that interested me, and I had questions that needed answering. I sat up in the back of the wagon, trying to act as though I had only just awoken.
As I crawled over the wagon’s cargo towards them, the three women noticed me and ceased their chatter. Sylla and Bryndine turned towards me, and Genna—who I recognized as the stout blond-haired woman I had seen charging a group of rebels the night before—turned her eyes away, focusing on steering the horses with unnecessary intensity.
“Scriber Dennon,” Bryndine greeted me. “Are you well?” She was too polite to directly ask me about my fit, but I heard the question lurking in her voice. I ignored it.
“I’m fine, Lady Bryndine.” The mistake in rank was an accident, but the look on Sylla’s face told me it had not gone unnoticed. I corrected myself before she could. “Sorry—Captain Bryndine. How did I get here? When I—” I paused, trying to think of a delicate way to avoid admitting I had fainted. “That is, the last I recall, the village was overrun by rebels.”
Bryndine quickly filled in the gap between when I had lost consciousness and the moment I had awoken in the wagon. It went much as I had suspected. Her company had held back the rebels as well as they could, given their numbers, but were unable to clear the road in order to evacuate the villagers. Fortunately, the First Company had arrived before they were overrun, and their appearance had sent the Burners running. None had been apprehended—the rebels had vanished as suddenly as they had arrived.
“Do they actually call themselves that? The Burners?” I asked, remembering what the whispers had said:
We are the Burnt
.
“I don’t know, Scriber. They might. It links them to King Erryn, and we believe that Erryn’s Promise, or the King’s supposed failure to uphold it, may be their motivation. But it could just be a name that spread because someone thought it clever. We know little about the rebels—none have been captured alive.” Bryndine looked at me quizzically. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought… I thought I heard one of them use another name. The Burnt. Was I the only one?” I glanced between them hopefully. If someone else had heard the voices, then perhaps I was not losing my mind.
“You
heard
them?” Sylla peered at me suspiciously. “Scriber, nobody heard them. They never opened their mouths.”
“I heard nothing, Scriber Dennon. Genna?” Bryndine turned to the third woman, who glanced shyly over her shoulder, avoiding my eyes.
“Nothing, Scriber. I’m sorry.” Genna jerked her gaze back to the horses, as though embarrassed to disappoint me.
“If you are correct, Scriber, it may be the first thing we really know about these rebels. A small enough thing, but…” Bryndine shrugged. “I will ask the others if they heard anything.”
“It was nothing, I… I am sure I must have imagined it.” The thought of her spreading word of my madness among her company was appalling to me. “I was not… in my right mind.” Sylla snorted in amusement at that, but said nothing.
“It is strange, though,” Bryndine mused. “They stay so silent, strike so suddenly and disappear so cleanly. It suggests discipline, but they fight clumsily, like none of them have ever held a sword. We should not have been able to hold off so many, not for as long as we did, and with so few casualties.”
“How many were hurt?” I felt a twinge of guilt for failing to ask earlier.
“Six men from Waymark were killed, and one woman was apparently badly burned. The High Commander took a blow to the head, and five of his men died. Between the villagers and soldiers, we carry thirteen wounded in the wagons.” She bowed her head. “One of my girls was badly hurt. She… will likely not survive the journey.”
“I’m sorry,” I said—but silently, I damned Bryndine to the Dragon.
If she had only warned me when she first came to Waymark, none of it would have happened!
I had hoped never to feel the weight of another life on my shoulders, but if this girl died, she died defending me. “Is there anything I can do for her?”
“Only the Father can help her now,” Bryndine said. It was a mildly sacrilegious claim—the Father watched over warriors injured in battle, but the Children were fairly adamant that those warriors must be men. “She was stabbed through the stomach.”
She was right: a gut wound was a slow, painful death sentence without expert medical treatment. The surgery was beyond me, even if it could be done on the road, lacking proper equipment. But it felt wrong to so easily accept the girl’s fate. “With the proper facilities… the Academy…” I stammered lamely.
“We aren’t at the Academy, Scriber.” Sylla’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You think we’d just let one of ours die if there was something we could do?”
“He didn’t mean it like that, Sylla.” Genna came to my defense, laying a calming hand on her friend’s shoulder—but still she avoided my gaze. This timid, gentle-voiced woman was completely different than the one I had seen charge three armed men without hesitation the night before.