Chapter 76

Scorio stood within an old tent, the guide poles bending under the weight of the sodden canvas, drops of water pooling where it sagged to grow pregnant and then drip upon the heads of those gathered within. The air stank of sour sweat, anger, and mud, and from the impatient shuffling of the dozen men and the cantankerous stares they were leveling him, he could sense that the tenuous silence was about to break.

A table was before them, upon which a crude map was pinned down by daggers. It displayed part of the kingdom, the provinces immediately around their own, along with roughly carved wooden miniatures representing towns, the few larger cities, battalions on the march, galleons at sea, and their own, secret encampments.

If he focused on any one of them, names came swimming up from the depths of his mind: the village of Golden Creek, where they’d hung the six royal scouts they’d stumbled across by accident; the old Floss Mill, where they’d met in the dead of night with Garvin Smith two months ago to cement an alliance between his archers and their own men; Rump Moor, where they’d learned the dangers of attempting to fight the king’s men in open combat all too well.

And there, on the coast, Spurn Harbor, sacked and burned by the king, empty now but for a few hundred citizens who’d somehow survived the siege.

A stir; the wall of men around the table parted, and his brother, Eberro, stepped into view. His face was spattered with mud, his eyes bloodshot, his hair crazed with dried sweat. Pulling off his gloves, he threw them down on the warped boards and placed his hands on his hips.

“Well, it’s a fine day for a butchering, lads.” His voice was resonant, rich with authority and contempt. “I pressed the mayor about as hard as anyone could without drawing a sword, and he’s refusing to let us into the city. We’ll not be given the protection of the walls.”

“Then we should take the damn town,” cried Rawn, an old man with an eyepatch, skin leathery and tanned by a life spent toiling under the sun, his teeth jutting and yellow like those of a mule. “We’re not fancy diplomats from the capital, needing to stand on delicate points of etiquette.”

“We could,” said Eberro, expression flinty, “but what then? Face the king's guard tomorrow at dawn, our forces worn out and depleted from a violent siege?”

Rawn subsided, muttering angrily to himself.

“It was our one chance,” said Eberro. He leaned down over the table and glared at the miniatures as if they had personally betrayed him. “We’re cornered. If we try to retreat with this many men now, Captain Prewitt will catch us here”—he tapped the meandering course of the Whitemilk River—“here”—and he tapped the marshes beyond them—“or here.” And he tapped the open plain on the far side of the town. “Nowhere to run, boys.”

“Then we stand and fight,” growled barrel-chested Harkan, hand clutching the bandolier from which his skinning knives hung. “What choice do we have?”

“We could do that,” allowed Eberro, straightening up, and in that moment, Scorio realized what his brother was about. This had all been premeditated. He was leading the crowd to his own, foregone conclusion. “But that’s tantamount to suicide. Our two hundred boys against their five hundred veterans? No, we’ve had a good run.”

“What are you saying, Eberro?” Harkan narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out already.”

“What I’m saying,” said his brother, turning to regard each man present, “is that the writing is on the wall. We fight, we die. We run, we die. We gave it our best, but we weren’t able to muster enough support. Oh aye, we got Garvin Smith on our side, and Lady Farrow, and there was a chance we could secure the support of the Sea Baron’s League, but that proved to be naught but smoke and mirrors. We’re out of time, luck, and men. I say we disband, and I will present myself to the king and ask for clemency. Lady Farrow has promised to vouch for me, and with her patronage and a little luck, I’ll be cleared of wrongdoing and allowed to run for election again next spring.”

The uproar was immediate. Eberro crossed his arms and weathered the storm, jaw set, waiting for the reaction to wash over.

But Scorio, who had stood silent all this time, realized that more than a few of the men were glancing his way. Waiting for his words.

His opinion.

He’d never gainsaid his brother openly. Oh, in the privacy of their council tent, or on the march through stinging rain, or sleeping in the branches of more than one oak under the stars, he’d spoken his mind strongly, but always Eberro had dismissed his concerns.

But now. Now was the time. He could sense the weight of Harkan’s expectant stare. That of others, as they quieted, turning to him, waiting.

Scorio had become a favorite amongst the men. While Eberro schemed with mayors and sought the support of the Sea Baron’s League, while he’d courted and seduced the powerful Lady Farrow, Scorio had been out in the field with the boys. Helped with their training, taken patrols, listened to their grievances, and shared their meals.

But more than that, he’d manifested impossible powers ever since the day he’d saved Eberro from hanging. Talons that could cut through steel, scales that wreathed his arms and shoulders and which deflected any blade. He’d killed scores of men at Rump Moor, had cleaved through the ranks of the kingsmen with ease until he’d come against four of the king’s own Legendaries whose powers had forced him to run. He’d been the one to give the grim order at Golden Creek, and had led six successful raids against the kingsmen already, capturing prisoners, loot, and disrupting their supply chains.

It was because of him that so many despairing farmers and peasants had flocked to his brother’s banner. Word had spread like wildfire: a Legendary fought against the king.

Such a thing had never been heard of, and many refused to believe it till they saw Scorio approaching, eyes burning, claws flexing, his whole manner instilling fear in their foes and devotion in their allies.

But always he’d held his tongue and trusted his older brother. Bit down on his misgivings and openly supported him.

“What I want to hear,” said Velos, his voice cutting through the babble, “is what Scorio thinks of all this.”

Velos almost never spoke. He was a wiry, saturnine ranger who was as likely to go missing for a week as he scouted the enemy as he was to appear suddenly with a bottle of stolen wine in hand to share. He was greatly respected, and not just for his ability to string and draw his huge black oak bow.

All eyes turned to Scorio, including those of his brother.

“Well?” asked Eberro, his smile rueful, almost enigmatic. “What do you think, little brother? Will you trust me one more time? Shall we work together to avoid slaughter?”

Scorio rubbed at his jaw and leaned forward to study the map. Captain Prewitt’s little miniature was a half-day’s ride from Feldborough, who was denying them entry. Garvin’s archers were strung out in Wainwood, three days’ hard march to the west. And the bitter truth was that the beautiful Lady Farrow wouldn’t send out her knights unless success was assured.

Two hundred men and a rogue Legendary against five hundred kingsmen and who knew how many loyal Legendaries sent to destroy him?

A slaughter, surely?

But the alternative? To disband the men, melt away like shadows, and place their faith in Eberro’s political ploys?

The very thought rankled. But he had no illusions as to what it’d mean to gainsay his brother now, in open council, before every important man in their rebellion.

It would be his bid for power. To assert himself instead of acting quietly from the shadows.

To speak up, or to remain silent?

“We disband,” he said, the silence so profound it nearly ached. Groans immediately followed his words, but he pressed on. “But we reconvene in Wainwood with Garvin a week hence. Every man’s to secret himself through the marshes or down the Whitemilk as he sees fit.”

Eberro frowned lightly, as if only mildly confused. “To what end, brother? This was to be our final battle, remember, before the walls of Feldborough? The Sea Baron’s League has failed to bring its mercenaries to our side—you think they’ll suddenly have an attack of conscience and change their mind?”

“We should never have counted on them,” said Scorio, keeping his words quiet. “We’ve been going about this all wrong. We’ll not defeat the king with knights and mercenaries. We’ll only do it with the arms that have tilled this land and know it worth the fighting for.”

Voices rose in rough agreement, and Eberro’s eyes narrowed further.

“A worthy sentiment, but unfortunately it’s a foolish one. Peasants cannot stand against professional soldiers. We’d pay for each kingsman’s death with a dozen of our own. You cannot mean to win victory at the expense of every man’s life?”

Scorio rubbed at his jaw, grimaced, then shook his head. “See, that’s where you’ve also been wrong, brother. Rump’s Moor was our lesson, but you didn’t learn. We should avoid open battle at all costs.”

“Then how are we to earn the respect of the king, and with that change the taxation and inheritance laws?”

“We don’t need his respect,” said Scorio. “We need his fear. Not of us, but of his barons and dukes. If we bleed them, harry them, burn their estates, kill their livestock, and refuse, always, to meet them in battle, they’ll feel the pain where they’re most sensitive—in their coin purses. And the more they lose coin, the angrier they’ll become with the king, till at last he’ll be forced to sue for peace.”

Eberro snorted. “He’ll sooner come after you with the entire royal army than meet you at a table.”

Scorio smiled and spread his arms. “Let him. Let him chase us from Wainwood to Goose Swamp. Let him march his legions across wine country and feed them at ruinous expense. We’ll melt like mist before him. His coffers are already low. He can’t sustain an endless campaign. We need but wait him out.”

Murmurs of agreement, more pensive this time.

Eberro shook his head. “That’s not how one wins wars, little brother. That’s how you turn the very people against you. They want to look up to their leaders. To know we’re worthy of them. You don’t do that by setting fire to farms and skulking in the bushes.”

“You won’t win this war by trying to make wealthy allies, either,” said Scorio. “They’ll never play their hand till they know it’s safe to do so. Where’s Lady Farrow with her knights?”

Eberro scowled.

“Where’s the Sea Baron’s League with their three hundred Caprisso mercenaries?”

“Pah,” said Eberro, and made to turn away.

“We’ve wasted months chasing your dreams,” said Scorio. “I’m sorry, brother. We won’t give up the rebellion. We won’t ask the king for another chance. We’ll not work with his rotten system. We’ll force him to meet us at that table, or die trying.”

Another rough round of agreement, and Harkan clapped him on the shoulder.

“Then you’re a fool,” said Eberro. “All of you. You cannot defeat the system. This kingdom is far greater and more powerful than you could ever understand. Our one chance was to earn the king’s respect by presenting a unified front against him composed of peers and the powerful. Alone? You’ll die in ditches like dogs.”

The air in the tent turned surly.

“We’ll take our chances,” said Scorio softly. “In the meantime, you’re free to go to the king and plead your case.”

“Maybe I will,” said Eberro, raising his chin, twin spots of color appearing in his cheeks. “I’ll go to Lady Farrow and ask her to present me at court. And despite this betrayal, brother, I’ll ask for clemency for all of you as well.”

“We don’t need clemency,” said Velos, voice tight with anger. “We need a chance to feed our families without being crushed by taxes.”

“Aye,” said Rawn, his one eye burning fever bright with passion. “Piss on clemency! Piss on the king, the kingsmen, Captain Prewitt, Lady Farrow, Sir Kuragin, and the whole poxy lot of ‘em!”

Raucous cheers met these words, to which Eberro could only shake his head.

“Fools,” he said at last. “Then I bid you the best of luck. I will do what I can from afar.”

“We’ll wait with bated breath for that miracle,” growled Harkan as Eberro turned to leave.

“Good luck, brother,” Scorio said. “Don’t make the mistake of trusting the king or his men.”

“I know my way around court,” snapped Eberro, pausing at the tent flap. “Better, it turns out, than I did this tent. Don’t you fear for me.”

And with that, he was gone.

For a moment, everyone stood, stunned by the magnitude of what had just happened. Scorio stared at the tent flap, unable to quite believe he’d finally spoken his deepest, most dangerous thoughts aloud.

Rawn hocked, spat, then turned to the map. “Well then. Good to finally have a man in charge who talks sense. Enough with licking the boots of those who wouldn’t piss down our throats if our hearts were on fire. What do you say, Scorio? Wainwood in three days?”

The other men clustered back around the table to study the map, and with a deep breath Scorio dragged his attention back to the miniatures.

“Yes,” he said, reaching out to tap his finger beside the wooden carving of Feldborough. “Through the marsh is our best bet. We’ll break out in groups of five and aim to follow the currents down here to Trappin Bay. From there, everyone’s to head north, avoiding Calcote, and meet at the blasted oak in Wainwood, seven nights hence. Get the word out to your men. They’re to carry what they can and leave all else behind. Understood?”

“Aye,” said everyone around them, and the crowd broke into conversation as the men began to argue the best way to travel. Their voices became a murmur, indistinct words that Scorio didn’t register. Instead, the reality of what had transpired washed over him: by raising his voice, speaking his words, he’d both taken control and assumed responsibility for the rebellion.

It was his fight now. These men would live and die by his command. The thought chilled him, yet lit a burning desire in his heart.

He’d do anything to lead them to victory.

And with that thought, the world went dark, and Scorio found himself kneeling once more in the dark upon the bloody flagstones of the Gauntlet.

He blinked, raised his head, then the realization hit him: By the ten hells, I’m a damned Tomb Spark.