Scorpion

  He’d used the enforced rest to read the memory, despite the fact that he had struggled to make out the words, at least at first. Reading had never been his strongest skill.

  The most fascinating thing about it was that many officers had written this. His officer was only the last one in a line of men that couldn’t have been any more different. Rare glimpses of humor, of world-weariness, of snarling determination—battles, and lines of dead and new recruits, in the barest of notes. Who had been betrothed when, where they came from. Hundreds, no, thousands of names—comrades that Kendras had never met but felt bound to.

  Their lives, their deaths as Scorpions bound him ever tighter to the few that were still alive. He read the sparse words of the previous officer about “political complications” regarding the recruitment of the new officer. It was all cryptic, and the sentence “It may be more politically expedient to keep this to the bare minimum” intrigued him. No other Scorpion was shrouded in the same mystery. Not only that. One name had been scratched out on the heavy vellum—the name of the current officer. But who had done that? Who had dared?

  Nobody tampers with the memory.

  There were no other secrets. The memory served as a letter to every new officer, containing drills, rites and instructions, warnings, and the name of every Scorpion, alive or dead, who had made it through the tests, and those who’d died in the attempt. Why then was this an exception? What was different about the current officer? It didn’t get any more mysterious than this.

  The memory ended on the eve of battle at Fetin, and the last entry read:

  We have taken the commission to fight for the Dalmanye king against Fetin. It is the same game of the three cities again. Vededrin stands aside, but I know the Elder watches. And the Dalmanye king—is he the one to resurrect the Empire of Shara? I can’t say I like or trust him, but he is a decent enough general. For all his failings, I believe he has the vision to do it. And clearly, it needs to be done.

  He will have to subjugate Fetin and Vededrin first, the first to control trade, the second to control the ocean. Lord Protector Ashangul of Fetin made the last attempt to impose his rule by war. But I don’t see Fetin as ruling Dalman. Dalman is stronger, its population more numerous. Dalman is the old imperial city—Fetin just a grown up garrison town. It might not be wise to fight against Fetin, but I need to put my personal feelings aside.

  That was it. No names of the fallen and wounded. Kendras’s fingers itched to complete the chronicle up to now, but that was clearly the task of his officer. Adding what had happened since would be to pretend the officer would never come back.

  Kendras pried one of the wooden floorboards loose and pushed the book underneath before he hammered the board back in place with the palm of his hand.

  He put his leathers back on. The stiff material sat harshly on his sore back, but it also gave him strength when he pulled the laces tight. It forced him to straighten, pushed his shoulders back, and felt like the embrace of an old comrade. Something he could always rely on. It gave him strength to face Steel.

  Favoring the bad leg, he limped down the corridor. The first time that he'd left the room for anything but a bath. The first time he'd done so in daylight.

  When he stepped outside into the small courtyard where Puppy and Stick often hung out, the banter between the mercenaries ceased. Steel sat there, knife in hand, a piece of white cheese sat pierced at the tip, while he sucked on an olive stone, before he placed it, gingerly, into a bowl.

  “Look who’s visiting.”

  Widow was cutting bread and smirking, but said nothing. Which might be wise, considering that half of what Widow said was vulgar and the rest was blasphemous. At the same table, somewhat ill-at-ease, sat a number of ocean priests in their robes of silver and blue.

  And there was the “pretty thing” that Widow had mentioned. A pale young man wearing embroidered casual clothes sat amongst them, his black hair artfully braided and adorned with silver jewelry. He was still in his teens, a certain softness in his features betraying a pampered life, but he kept himself as upright as if he’d been a guard captain.

  Kendras sketched a bow to the priests and in the general direction of the youth, then settled down next to Puppy on the bench and reached for the cheese and bread as if he belonged there. He was glad that Widow’s gloves hid the scorpions on the backs of his hands.

  “Does he belong to you?” one of the priests asked. A bald-shaved man with a pinched face.

  “Yes.” Steel leaned back. “Isn’t he perfect?”

  “Yes, very good.” The priest’s words could have been spoken about an animal. “Will he be able to fight?”

  Steel glanced at Kendras, then picked a green olive from the bowl, scraped half off with his teeth, and sucked off the flesh, before he turned the olive and chewed off the rest. The stone landed in the bowl with a ping. “Maybe not tonight or tomorrow.”

  The priest cast a glance at the young noble, a cold glint in his eye. Kendras wasn’t sure what any of this meant, but it felt a lot like a conspiracy. Yet another reason to keep his head down until he knew what he was doing.

  “Well, thank you for your hospitality, Master Steel. I’m afraid we will have to return to the temple… at least for the time being.” The priest turned to the noble. “You, young man, will remain here. It is a lot safer here. We cannot yet afford to show you to the world.”

  The young man scowled. “As you say.” He wasn’t really obedient, just did what he was told. That spelled trouble, but Kendras didn’t move a muscle.

  “Steel, bring him to the temple in a week’s time. The stars are in alignment; it’s clearly the will of the gods.” The priest lifted his hands up, palms pointing to the ground. “The powers of the ocean rise; soon it is time.” The priest shot Steel a glance that said “don’t ruin it,” then turned on his heel and marched toward the exit.

  “Your will be done,” Steel said. “And that of the gods, of course,” he added with a hint of sarcasm.

  The young noble leaned back, looking petulant. Kendras wondered what he’d look like with legs in the air and spread. If he read Steel’s expression right, that image wasn’t too far from the mercenary’s mind, either. But he remembered Widow’s warning. While he was one of very few survivors, he couldn’t afford to draw the ire of the ocean temple.

  Steel glanced at Puppy and Stick and nodded to the young noble. The two mercenaries indicated understanding with a nod.

  “Kendras, a word.” Steel stood and walked off. Kendras followed, slower, but just being able to walk was a pleasure, despite the lingering pain.

  They walked toward the vast garden behind the kitchen. Herbs buzzed with insect life. The heat of the day was on the retreat. Kendras felt the tension down in his balls, but forced himself to remain calm and unmoved. What else could Steel possibly do to him?

  He still craves you.

  Steel led him further away, into the orchard, then leaned against one of the trees. “Can you fight?”

  “Yes.” Kendras indicated his foot. “I can walk. That means I can fight.”

  “What about your back?”

  “I’ll wear armor too.”

  Steel hesitated and studied him. Kendras knew he was waiting for more, at least for more than he was giving him, but he refused to acknowledge it. He lowered his gaze and kept it to the side. Not subservience, not modesty. He didn’t want to give Steel anything—no angle of attack, no weakness. That was done. They’d crossed that river. Kendras kept his gaze lowered, just like any slave.

  “Gods below.” Steel’s voice betrayed unease, maybe even pain. An ironic thought, considering what he’d done.

  Kendras didn’t respond.

  “What am I to you now, Kendras? What?”

  “My master.” Kendras kept his gaze low. “You speak, I obey. It’s easy.”

  “Fuck this.” Steel stepped closer, lifted a hand, and placed it on Kendras’s chest. “You know exactly what I want. You forced my hand. I didn’t enjoy whipping
you.”

  “Neither did I.” Kendras huffed but met Steel’s gaze now. That same hunger he knew. Gods below. The best Steel could hope for was a foot of his namesake through his guts. “I’ll obey.”

  “Maybe we can….” Steel struggled with words. “Not right away. I’m not… forcing you. I won’t treat you like a slave.”

  Kendras swallowed the rage that was welling up. He still craves you. Play him. If the officer could see him now. “I have nowhere else to go.”

  “No. Now you don’t.” Steel slid his hand up to Kendras’s shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll treat you well. All I’m asking is respect. Just do what I say, and we’ll get along fine. And maybe….”

  “Maybe you’ll love me back,” was what Kendras could almost hear in the man’s voice. On your mother’s bones, he thought, but just gave a silent nod.

  “What is this job? Who is the boy?”

  “Ah, yes.” Steel nodded. “The boy is the future king of Dalman.” He laughed. “Vistar An Grekaran.”

  “The An Grekarans?”

  “The very same.” Steel grinned. “The priests chose him to be king, so we’re guarding him until all the rites are done. It’s one wonderful sleight-of-hand trick, not unlike the Vededrinye snake charmers in the market.”

  Pulling a viper from the sleeve of a coat to make it dance. Very interesting way to put things. Especially talking of a scion of one of the oldest, richest families of Dalman.

  “What about the current king?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sentimental about him? He pitted your unit against the Flames, wiped them out to a man, and he set my home city aflame. Would you miss the bastard?”

  “No.”

  “See. You’ll get your revenge, Kendras. I promise you this.”

  Chapter 11

  IF THIS was the future king, the palace servants would have their hands full. Kendras saw more of the young An Grekaran now since he was spending more time in the yard, working the glaive and his muscles to recover his strength.

  Train as if you had to bring the horse down, not the rider. Fight bulls, not men, and men won’t best you.

  He stretched out his muscles first, then went through the old exercises. Pushing against a wall, knowing he’d never push it over, but trying nonetheless. Fighting hard to do the impossible.

  He remembered with a smile how they’d done this as a unit and succeeded once, dazed and coughing in the dust, but laughing, their eyes gleaming with fierce joy at their strength. Like boys out to play. Kendras gritted his teeth and pushed harder, until his strength gave out, then he stretched again.

  He gathered up the glaive and went through the basic movements: push, thrust, parry, sweep, swirl of the glaive, beginning with basics like a musician first warmed the instrument and played a few simple harmonies before turning to the more complicated tunes.

  His body was buzzing when he went for the last part of morning training—fighting a man he only imagined, then two, then riders harassing him, who forced him to duck, move as fast as he could, and roll.

  Don’t defeat your shadows. Keep them undefeated or they’ll lose their bite.

  Like invisible servants, Kendras dismissed the imagined foes. Maybe they’d found a better target, an easier enemy. Maybe they were called back by their commanding officer.

  He wiped the sweat from his chest and noted that Vistar An Grekaran was watching him with that petulant glare that was quickly becoming the boy’s defining characteristic. Had the young An Grekaran ever been tested to the end of his strength and beyond? What would the officer see, looking at him?

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “I think I will make you one of my guards,” Vistar decreed.

  Will you now, Kendras thought. “I’d be honored, my lord.”

  “What is that weapon?” The young man drew closer. He was perfumed and smelled of lemons and thyme. Like a chicken, Kendras could hear Widow comment on this. He turned his head, but if Widow kept an eye on him, he was discreet.

  “It’s a glaive.” He went on to explain the reason for the pike, the blade, the hook and the metal butt at the end, thinking it was strange that the future king of Dalman knew nothing about war. Where had they raised him? In a library?

  “You sound like a Dalmanye, but you’re really a Jaishani, aren’t you?”

  Kendras straightened. “You mean my parents or where I grew up?”

  “Didn’t you grow up with your parents?”

  “No.” Kendras would have turned away, but insulting a noble was only a little better than insulting a future king. They could get really unpleasant about things like this, and the last he wanted was another whipping to soothe a ruffled sense of self-importance.

  “It seems my parents were Jaishani.” And gods below knew what had happened to them. He didn’t remember, didn’t know, and had never tried to find out. All he knew was that children of two Jaishani could have blue eyes and were as dark as he was.

  He wasn’t the only one, either, but just rare enough to attract some attention at times. Jaishani traders had fathered enough children along the trade routes that they weren’t that rare. Others were slaves, like, no doubt, the Jaishani kept pale slaves in their own country. Kendras had never crossed the ocean to find out. Dev had been a runaway pit slave, and there were other Jaishani that made their way. Such as the mysterious lady at Fetin. He wished he’d paid more attention to such matters.

  “So you’re Dalmanye?” The noble clearly didn’t understand.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Kendras glanced around, hoping for an interruption, but Widow, even though usually a pest, didn’t show up. Nor did Steel. “Can you fight?”

  The young man looked him up and down. “What do you think I am?”

  “The future general of Dalman?”

  To his credit, the boy hesitated. “Do you think there will be more war?”

  “There’s always more war.” Kendras smirked. That, at least, he could be sure of. As long as nobles coveted each other’s fortunes and men and women took up arms for silver or love, there would be more war.

  “He who masters war, masters life.” Kendras spoke the officer’s words without thinking, only then realizing that he’d just told the youth he was incapable for life. Gods damn those nobles, they were the best reason to not speak one’s mind.

  “A soldier would say that,” the noble scoffed and plucked a speck of dust from his long sleeve. “He has no other pride in life than to bleed for others.”

  The comeback wasn’t half-bad. Widow, of course, would have parried that blow and eviscerated the young noble, but Kendras decided to guard his tongue better now.

  “As long as noble and commoner both know their place.” Kendras took the glaive up and stepped to the side to return to his parries and attacks against invisible foes. He worked until he was dripping with sweat, then emptied a bucket over his head and wiped the water from his face with one hand.

  Now Widow made an appearance. Kendras blinked a stray drop from his eyelashes and gave Widow an ironic salute. The tanesh laughed and nodded toward the boy, who’d settled down in the shade, fanning himself with a delicately carved wooden fan.

  “If you’re trying to drive Steel wild with desire, you’re making good progress,” Widow stated and drew closer, adding under his breath, “I have a little gift for your officer. We’ll only have to get it to him when we get to the temple.”

  “Is he there?”

  “Yes. I hear he’s their ‘sacred warrior’.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Ah, they can’t kill him, so they’ve enslaved him, of course. Don’t tell me you know absolutely nothing about the cult that runs your home city.”

  “The king….”

  “The Dalmanye king is a puppet. He leads the armies because the priests aren’t allowed to spill blood, and they prefer to have the nobles believe their opinion matters shit inside those walls.” Widow sneered. “You can’t be that stupid.”

  “The king is ma
rried to the ocean gods.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll see how that works.” Widow turned toward the noble, addressing him in a silky voice and with pleasant face, solicitous as a courtier. Somewhere inside that polished façade, Widow was laughing like a maniac. Kendras could just about hear it.

  They can’t kill him, so they’ve enslaved him.

  He couldn’t wait to get his hands on those priests.

  When they met for a meal in the courtyard later that day, he noticed tension and anticipation surrounding the mercenaries. Steel had the wine watered and kept an eye on how much all of them drank. Kendras pretended not to notice and merely ate his bread, cheese, cured meat, and olives.

  Steel pushed the food away and stood from the table first. He gave the others a nod, and they stood, too, Puppy and Stick eagerly, Widow last, first swallowing his last bite and finishing his watered wine.

  Kendras glanced up. “You leaving?”

  “I’d take you along, but I can’t risk your foot getting worse again,” Steel said.

  Kendras shrugged and took another olive from the bowl. “Anything I should do?”

  “Keep an eye on the kingling. If you see him outside, get him back into his quarters.”

  “How clever is it to tell him that?” Widow snapped.

  “Kendras is part of this. Not this, but the rest,” Steel said and stared at Widow. “Careful, Widow.”

  Widow raised an eyebrow and spat on the ground. “I’ll get the horses. And hire a couple men to shout it out on the next few marketplaces.” He sauntered off.

  “Sometimes, I want to whip him,” Steel ground out between clenched teeth. Yes, a lot more tension than usual.

  “You’ll fight?”

  “Yes.” Steel gave a tight smile. “Expect me back with the dawn. Make sure the little noble bastard stays indoors.”

  “Yes.”

  Steel paused, as if about to say something or expect something from him, but then he stalked off.

  Not much later, Kendras watched the mercenaries mount their horses. Their faces were covered with rags, eyes blackened, cowls drawn into their faces. They wore leather armor and were armed with swords and crossbows when they rode out of the gate at a gallop.