2. Daniel
Stripping the dead was his least favorite task.
He felt like a beetle in a wheat field. But instead of golden stalks towering over him, thick trunks—larger than six grown men could reach around by touching fingertips—spread a dense canopy of foliage across the sky. Daniel squinted at the swaying leaves high above, wondering if death still lurked among them in the form of the Empire’s only remaining enemies on the main continent: Northerners. Unfortunately, the shifting viridian above him was not one to give up its secrets so easily.
It never did.
“Daniel, stop lollygagging!”
He snapped back to attention, his mind pulled back to the carnage before him and away from thoughts of wind and ruffled tufts of wheat before the summer harvest. He bent over once more, flipping a fallen woman onto her back. Daniel made a quick assessment of what was still salvageable. A buckler, a sheathe without its sword, shoes only half-worn through the soles... and nothing else.
Not even her name would be worth saving. There was barely enough time to search for reusable supplies. Whatever her name had been, it would be burnt along with the rest of her, lost to the large pyres that poured dark towers of smoke into the sky above the battlefield.
The dead woman would be kindling for the flames that would snake up those same trunks he had just caught himself admiring, tendrils weaving like vines into the branches above. Firebearers would stoke the flames to white, hot enough to peel away the bark thick and strong enough to be used as armor. Nothing would be left of this outpost, or its resistance against the Empire—nothing but scorched earth.
Once he’d collected all the macabre bounty his arms could carry, Daniel walked over to the men and women now sorting through leftover effects from the dead, making sense of the battalion’s new influx of supplies.
“How much is left in the field?” a man asked.
“I think it’s mostly done.” Daniel wiped his brow with the back of his hand, squinting through smoke and heat distortion onto the field.
“Heard you weren’t half bad out there.”
Daniel gripped the pommel of his sword at the words. Pride swelled in his chest, curling around purpose. “I am merely serving the Empire.”
“Aren’t we all?” the man snorted, dropping whatever he’d been cataloguing into a pile before resting back on his thighs. “A soldier’s wages are nothing to sniff at either.”
“No, they’re not.” A soldier’s compensation could be enough to buy a home, a respectable one with land that could be worked for generations to come. That or a modest abode in the city—if Willow’s preference remained unchanged. That was assuming he survived long enough to see final installments of the payment he was owed.
“Daniel?” His name echoed across the field, broadcast from two hands cupped around a woman’s mouth. “Daniel Taffl?”
He recognized the woman as another in his company, Ingrid. “I’m here!”
Ingrid crossed the distance to him in a hasty jog. A bandage clung tightly to her arm, weeping blood. The corners of his mouth tugged downward into the shape of a frown. The wound was on her sword arm.
“I see you made it through just fine,” she said after a hasty assessment. He made sure not to let the flash of pity from earlier show on his face.
“I was lucky.”
“There’s a point at which luck is merely a synonym for skill. You’ll have to admit it eventually.”
Daniel ran his fingers over the pommel of his sword. Some of the men in his company had little issue with making their opinions on the thin rapier known. “A woman’s blade,” they’d called it. Two of the men who had made such arrogant remarks were no longer able to speak at all—unless the dead found voice roaming the Father’s halls in the afterlife.
“A bit of both, I think.” Pride was unbecoming at best, and at worst, begged for whatever luck he’d garnered to eventually run out.
“You’ve been requested in the Major’s tent.” At the mention of their superior, the small talk instantly ceased.
“I see.”
Daniel couldn’t imagine why Major Raylynn would be seeking him out, and likewise knew Ingrid had no more information to share. He followed behind her through the spotted carnage, remnants of North and South alike in the pitted mud of the forest floor. He kept his questions to himself, as a good soldier should. Following orders generally kept him alive, and those who gave them did nothing but command respect.
Few commanded more respect than Major Raylynn.
Her tent was erected on the edge of the opposite end of the field. Many-posted, it towered as the largest structure he’d seen in weeks. The interior bordered on luxurious for a soldier at war: a proper cot of canvas hung suspended above the rooted ground, and a table stood centrally—a place to conduct business and lay plans against their stubborn foes.
Behind that table was the woman in question.
“This is him?” Raylynn inspected Daniel the moment he entered. Ingrid nodded. “Good. You are dismissed, Ingrid.” Ingrid retreated without another word, leaving him to the major’s command. If he were a joking man, Daniel might even say he was at her mercy. Thankfully, he was more soldier than fool.
“Daniel Taffl, reporting for duty, major.” He brought a fist to his heart in a practiced salute.
Her eyes scanned him from head to toe, landing for a long moment on the pommel of his sword. Daniel kept his focus on her, ignoring the other two men who occupied the tent. He knew there was only one opportunity to make a first impression, and he would not sully it with the carelessness of distraction.
“You have an interesting blade. Not standard issue.” The major rounded the table, giving a small toss to her hair. Some of the soldiers called her the Golden Prince’s sunbeam, noting the youngest Imperial prince’s favor for her and her tresses of Southern blond. But Daniel never shared in such monikers. He had witnessed what this woman could do with a blade. She deserved far better than to be known only for her closeness to the prince. She was a blazing sun in her own right. Raylynn tilted her head as if reading his thoughts, eyes drifting lazily from sword to gaze. “Might I see it?”
It was phrased as a question, but Daniel knew he had no choice in the matter, not if he had any hope of keeping any standing in the army. If he lost his standing, he lost his pay, and everything was for naught. He acquiesced and drew the weapon, holding it parallel to the ground for her assessment.
Raylynn waited until the blade stopped its quiet hum before taking it into her hands. Beautiful and deadly, they called her. Daniel had never refuted the assessment, but could see the resonant truth of it up-close. She was beautiful enough to be a lord’s wife, even with—and perhaps especially because of—the scars that lined her body from head to toe.
Daniel didn’t like letting others hold his blade—no true swordsman did—but there was something inherently different about the major that took some of the sting out of it. She seemed to know the weapon from the moment it touched her fingers. Daniel remained at ease through the inspection; there was no possibility the blade would fail under her scrutiny. It was one of the few things in his life he’d spent real money on, and it had taken one of the best smiths in Lyndum three weeks to forge.
“It’s well made. An interesting choice for an Easterner.”
Daniel ran a self-conscious hand through his telltale chestnut hair, though his Cyvense accent no doubt gave him wholly away. “My first swords were reeds from the riverbank by my father’s fields as a child,” he offered by way of explanation. Most Easterners found themselves in the pole-arm units, familiar primarily with pitchforks and sickles. “A weapon of this shape feels most natural.”
“The steel agrees with your assessment.”
It was a cryptic statement, and one Daniel didn’t know how to reply to, so he said nothing. She could say whatever she wanted with her skill and the favor of the pr
ince to back up her words. At least, for now, those words seemed in his favor.
“I can spare him for your task, Jax.” Raylynn returned to her place at the table, aiming a small grin at the Western man who had been hovering at Daniel’s right.
Jax. Major of the Black Legion—sorcerers—and another unconventional favorite of Prince Baldair. The gleaming metal bracer he and the major wore were useless as armor and unbecoming as jewelry, but were critically important nonetheless. That bracer signified the highest honor any soldier could ever hope to see: membership in the most elite fighting group, hand-picked by Prince Baldair himself, the Golden Guard.
“You’re just too good to me.” Jax’s features hummed with the sort of look that, when turned Daniel’s way, sent a flock of nerves up his spine and into the back of his mind, setting off a quiet alarm. But Daniel was trained to stay at attention, impassive and ready for orders. While all sorts of grim rumors surrounded the fallen lord—known to some as the Crown’s Dog—he was still a Major and beyond that, another person whom Prince Baldair had deemed worthy to keep close. He was Daniel’s superior in a multitude of ways, a fact that showed in the major’s eyes when he finally said, “I have a task for you.”
“For me?”
“You and Craig here will be delivering a letter for me, to Prince Baldair back in Soricum.”
Daniel glanced at the man standing a half-step behind Jax. Another Southerner, judging from his striking blue eyes and golden hair.
“Shouldn’t be an issue.” The path they’d cut from Soricium would still be mostly cleared, Daniel reasoned, his thoughts already on the task at hand.
“It’s a very important missive, and time is of the essence.” The major’s grin only continued to widen and Daniel could’ve sworn he heard a snort from Raylynn’s side of the table.
“Then we shouldn’t delay.” No questions, Daniel reminded himself. He was a diligent soldier and he was in the North for a reason—to make his money and return home to build a life for him and Willow. She was waiting for him, counting on him to live up to his side of the arrangement.
“No, we shouldn’t,” Craig agreed. “I’ve secured two horses for us.” The tone of his voice held a weight Daniel was unable to define, but it was easy to ignore in the face of their orders.
“Don’t get yourselves killed,” Major Raylynn muttered, engaged in moving tokens across her maps and cross-referencing a variety of notes.
“Or do, and make sure it’s in such a horrible way that it becomes a tale to sing songs about,” Major Jax added eagerly as the tent flap closed behind them.
A moment passed between the two soldiers. They were silent, their eyes pinned on the sealed entrance to Major Raylynn’s tent. Craig was the first to break the quiet tension.
“Between the two, I’ll take the former,” he remarked dryly.
“Me as well.” Daniel nodded before holding out his hand in greeting. “Daniel Taffl.”
“Craig Youngly.” The other man clasped his forearm firmly. “Shall we get this over with, Daniel?”
Daniel voiced his agreement earnestly. After all, it wasn’t every day that one was called to task for a prince.
3. Craig
The men and women who served in the legions under Majors Raylynn and Jax had been marching for four weeks to the southwest of Soricium, a sort of zig-zag pattern to root out further resistance and lay waste to strongholds. But that time had been rife with stops for battles and burnings. Judging from Raylynn’s map, Craig suspected they were only a ten day’s ride from the capital of the North. That meant he should be able to cross the ground in six if they rode hard, thus completing their task well within the ten-day term Jax had set.
Six days, and he’d have two of the three Golden Guard members voicing their support of him to Prince Baldair. Six days, and he’d be that much closer to a golden bracer of his own. Craig could tolerate almost anything for six days. He’d been at war for two years now and had seen a wide range of conditions in that time, from the rainy months when soldiers began to rot alive from the damp, to weeks of living underground, waiting for the enemy to move. It was rare that he found something outright intolerable.
Which made the man at his side even more utterly insufferable.
“You seem chipper,” Craig said, when he could hold in comment no longer.
“Pardon?” The look of confusion that overtook Daniel’s face was a refreshing variation from the unnecessary cheerfulness he’d worn like a mask before.
“You haven’t stopped smiling since we spurred off. Is scouting through enemy territory that much fun to you?” He traded his reins from left hand to right and gave a yawn to punctuate the thought.
“I have—”
“And the whistling.” Like a dam bursting, the roster of annoyances began to flow freely from his mouth; the farther they got from camp, the less Craig was inclined to tolerate them.
“A habit I need to break.” At least Daniel had the decency to look guilty for it. What does Raylynn see in this man?
“Without doubt. Surprised it hasn’t gotten you killed yet.” Craig glanced upward, an instinct they all had from being in the jungle too long. Death comes from above. It had only taken one ambush of Groundbreakers from the trees overhead for Craig to learn the truth first-hand. “You’re as fresh as they come. Letting everyone within earshot know of your exact location? Might as well be shouting for the Northerners to come and pick you off.”
“Right, lieutenant.” Daniel pressed his lips together. Craig had no doubt that the flimsy physical reminder not to talk back would be as temporary as it looked.
“You can drop that nonsense.” Craig waved a hand through the sunbeams that poked holes in the thick canopy dotting the sky—rare tracts of light determined to make it from the Mother’s hand to the forest floor below. “No one out here wants it.”
“But—”
“It just makes you seem greener than you already do, Daniel.” If Craig could mentally cut the man down, undermine his confidence, then he’d remove all possibility of Daniel being a threat to his own position as Raylynn’s apprentice.
“Right. just Craig, then.” Daniel adjusted his seat in the saddle. Even from the periphery, Craig could tell the order made the man uncomfortable. His companion was a solider through and through, wound tight by protocol and respect for the chain of command. It should have made Craig feel smug, superior even, but instead it just annoyed him further. And if he was being honest, chastened him a bit.
“Just Craig.” He finally let out the frustrations he’d been holding in with a sigh. Everyone was this new at some point—that much he understood—but this soldier practically glowed green. A Golden Guard member must be patient with all soldiers, regardless of experience. He would embody what he aspired to be, no matter how difficult. More than that, breaking someone down was made harder when all they did was give respect in turn. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“No, of course not.” Daniel shifted in his seat again.
“Why does it make you so uncomfortable?”
“I…” His voice trailed off. Clearly, he hadn’t given much thought himself to why the idea of not calling someone by proper rank and title bothered him so. “I want to make sure I’m giving you the proper respect.” It was almost comical, the man’s seriousness in the face of an uncommon situation. Greener and greener by the minute.
“Look, Daniel, can I give you a bit of advice?” When Daniel only proceeded to stare ahead in silence, back rigid with tension, Craig took it as permission to continue. “The titles and fanfare are left in the palace halls and city walls. On the field, the only respect that matters is doing as you’re told. Save your ass and the asses of those around you, and it will surely be reciprocated.”
“But—”
“Plus,” Craig barreled forward. “Titles? Unnecessary protocols? They do little more than distance
one soldier from another. When you more like another rank and file than a man’s brother, it hinders the likelihood of him risking his neck for you.”
For a long moment, Daniel remained silent, letting Craig’s words resonate.
“I see,” he said eventually, seeming to give the matter real thought.
Craig hummed softly in approval and thought himself clever. Daniel would heed his words and be praised for being more relaxed on the field, for which credit would roll back to Craig. Or, Daniel would be scolded for dropping formality, and Craig would have the satisfaction of witnessing the upstart’s fall from grace.
Daniel opened his mouth shortly thereafter in what might have been the explicit intent of proving him wrong. “I must respectfully disagree, lieutenant.”
The word “lieutenant” had never rankled him so badly. This Easterner had a real knack for finding new nerves to tug on.
“Because even out here, hierarchy is important. It is that fact more than any other that keeps soldiers doing as they’re told.”
Mother, this man was a toddler of a soldier. “What keeps men doing as they’re told is the knowledge that the people giving the orders have a far better idea of what’s going to keep them alive. It’s all about self-preservation.”
“It’s about loyalty to the Solaris Empire.”
“You are not under some kind of test.” Craig rolled his eyes so dramatically his head turned with them. “Seriously, Daniel, this is going to be a long trip if you don’t drop this ‘good little soldier boy’ bit and relax.”
“I am relaxed,” he huffed, though he contradicted the statement nearly immediately by adjusting his position in the saddle for the third time. And then, for good measure, he added a terse “Lieutenant.”
Call me lieutenant one more time, Craig wanted to say. Nearly did. Instead, he took a breath and replied with a strained, “Glad to hear it, soldier. Because we’re in for a long trek back to the Northern capital.”