Walk Through Fire (4 page)

“There’s more than one way to lead, Krytien. No one says he’s got to be like me. I think he’s got what it takes if push came to shove. Look deep into those cold eyes of his when he’s serious. A man with a stare like that won’t have to act a certain way, or say a whole lot for everyone to know what he’s about.” He paused. “You do make a good point about the girl though. I’ll have to talk to him about her and make sure she’s looked after before we leave Thurum.”

“You seem pretty sure of him then.”

Ronav shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I do. I think I’ll spend more time with him and then see how he responds to what I have to say.” He winked. “You know, just in case I decide retirement suits me after all.” Ronav placed his hands on his knees and stood up. He walked over and gave Krytien a playful shove, nearly sending the mage to the ground. “Don’t get all worked up now. Just cause I’m thinking about these things doesn’t mean I plan on going anywhere just yet.”

You better not, Ronav. We need you more than you realize.
“Changing the subject…so you think we shouldn’t have anything to worry about on the way to Asantia?”

As Ronav strapped his sword to his side, he seemed more like his old self, standing tall and confident, though Krytien still saw the tired look in his eyes. “Not necessarily. It’s probably nothing, but I worry about Effren’s son. Hezen seemed pretty upset that Effren didn’t want to keep pushing on to conquer more land. The fool thinks that they have the power to unite all of Thurum under one banner.”

Krytien laughed. “Does he think he is Aurnon the First come again?”

“You know how it is at that age. Just barely a man and he thinks he’s invincible. All we’ve done is butt heads since I took the contract. Arrogant little fart,” Ronav muttered.

“Did you express that to Effren?”

Ronav shook his head and smirked. “No. It’s never a good idea to insult a man’s son without cause. It’s just something I wanted you to be aware of, especially since Jonrell told me that he saw Hezen and Ahned talking at length the other day.”

“What purpose would he have talking to the general?”

“None—which was Jonrell’s point. Ahned is far from a tactical genius, but the men respect his prowess in battle. With our contract up, Ahned will lead Effren’s army.”

“So what would you have me do?”

“For now, nothing. I don’t want unfounded suspicions to lead to further discord. Until I say otherwise, this stays between you and me.”

And Jonrell, it seems. He is a sharp one.

Chapter 4

With darkness approaching, the army came to a halt. Just off the worn road, Jonrell tethered the mounts to a tree. Cassus had run off with Yanasi, leaving Jonrell to rub down the horses. As he put a feed bag on each animal, he whistled an old drinking tune. Never having had much of a taste for alcohol, he grinned at the irony. If someone had told him that he would become a mercenary, fighting and killing for money alongside a bunch of criminals, whistling drinking tunes to pass the time, he would have laughed in their face.

His mind wandered to the books he studied on the military in his youth. He chuckled about how many historians had no concept of what it meant to be in an army, let alone a mercenary outfit.

A mercenary group does not share the ideals historians like to romanticize about soldiering. Yet, few know warfare better. Mercenaries understand those ideals are useless when a man is trying to spill your guts or slice open your throat. Being rich is a far more reasonable goal than having honor.

In the past, Jonrell would have scoffed at such a barbaric notion. But living amongst the Hell Patrol had done more than change his opinion on the matter.

It’s changed my life.

“What are you in a daze about?” said Raker as he walked over.

“Just thinking that some of the great minds of the past I once studied weren’t really all that great after all.”

Raker spat. “I could have told you that.” He shook his head. “Man, I hated you and Cassus those first few months when you both joined up. All either of you did was quote garbage from a book.”

Jonrell laughed. “Yeah, we had little practical experience then. But still, you hate just about everybody when they first join.”

Through a mouthful of chew, Raker garbled, “That’s not true.” He nodded off to a tree where a man sharpened a knife. “Take Kroke over there. We picked him up not too long ago and I don’t hate him.”

“Really? That’s surprising since most everyone else does.”

Raker shrugged and then spat. “I didn’t say I particularly like the man either. I just don’t hate him. It’s not like I plan to share a bed with him. Every good outfit needs at least one cold-blooded killer like that. Besides, the way I figure it, if he does kill me and I was wrong about him, well, I won’t be alive to hear everyone gloat about it. And if I’m right that he’s ok, well, I guess I’m the one who gets to do the gloating.” Raker let out a laugh.

“I can’t argue with that logic,” said Jonrell, shaking his head.

The mercenary flashed a yellow grin and juice dribbled down the sides of his mouth as he spat. “Of course you can’t. It makes too much sense.”

Jonrell chuckled along with Raker before heading off toward the tree Kroke sat under.

He can’t be all bad. I just wish I could get the man to talk to me.

* * *

Kroke had second thoughts about his decision to join the Hell Patrol. A couple of months back, they ripped through battles, and bodies piled up by the thousands. It had seemed like the perfect place for him. A place where he wouldn’t have to worry about the repercussions for killing a man. But since then, Effren’s enemies wised up and sought truces rather than battle.

Now the campaign was over and the Hell Patrol would sail to Slum Isle for some rest. He didn’t like rest. He had his fair share long ago when he was locked up after killing his father.

His hometown had argued about how to conduct Kroke’s trial and pass judgment while avoiding notice by the governor of the territory. Kroke had known the trial would be a farce. If not for the fear of the governor, the town would have hanged him the same day they discovered his father’s mutilated body.

When the questioning began, Kroke learned his assumptions had been right. He tried to explain, but no one wanted to hear the truth about how his father used to beat on him, his mom, and his brother. Nor did they care to hear how his father raped his sister. No one wanted to believe the old farmer who had a kind word for everyone was really no better than the One Below himself.

But they sure listened to all the lies about me.

The town blamed Kroke for every foul thing ever to strike the small community. He shook his head, remembering that helpless feeling of disbelief.
They were wrong. It all started with the old man.

When the townspeople all had their say, Kroke knew that his mother or his siblings would come to his defense and set things straight. But they didn’t.

They never even visited me in jail. Easier to make me the villain than admit the horrors we all suffered.

He remembered that look of revulsion in their eyes—the way they had stared at him like he was nothing but an animal. Something died in him that day. He had tried to do the right thing, sacrificing himself so that his family could have a better life, but they turned their backs on him. From that moment, Kroke had decided that he would no longer do right by others.

Only myself.

By evening, the sentence had come. He was to die the next day at dawn for his crime. They threw him back in his cell, expecting him to spend the night crying or begging for his life. He did neither. Staying up the entire night, he crafted a crude weapon from a loose nail he discovered in the floorboard. It took him all night and come morning his hands bled from the effort.

When the guardsmen came around, Kroke saw he wasn’t expecting much from a boy of twelve.

Kroke killed him quickly. It was much easier than it had been with his father. There was no faint pulling at his heart or doubt in his mind. That had all gone away when the world turned its back on him. He killed three others before escaping the town.

Kroke had never been good at much in life, but killing… killing was different. He figured he could find a way to make a living out of that, at least until someone stuck a blade in him.

He found work as an assassin, trained by a guild he discovered. His size worked in his favor as they needed someone smaller. Kroke had used the time to hone his skills.

Eventually the guild got rich and so did he. Most retired and the guild dissolved. He could have done the same, but money never interested him. He later whored most of it away while trying to find the next thrill. But nothing could replace the kill.

Sharpening his knives and improving his dexterity helped calm his restlessness, but even that could only distract him for so long. He put one of his knives down and picked up another.
Perhaps it is time to move on.

Footsteps across the soft grass drew his eyes up, squinting into the glow of the setting sun. A man walked toward him, tall, square jawed, and with long reddish-brown hair. Kroke had talked to him on a few occasions. He liked Jonrell less after each conversation.

Always smiling. Too regal. Carries himself like he’s some noble.

But something prevented Kroke from fully hating the man.
Something about his eyes. A cold gray. Eyes like that are hard to read. You never know what he might do.

The thought gave him pause.
So, what does he want now?

“You mind if I join you?” asked Jonrell.

Kroke picked up a long serrated knife and twirled the bone hilted handle in his hand. “That depends.”

Jonrell sat across from him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it worth your time.” He unstrapped a dagger from his waist and laid the weapon on the grass. “I want your opinion on this.”

Kroke eyed him. “Why me?”

“You’re the expert.”

Kroke put his weapon down and picked up the one Jonrell had presented. He drew the dagger and examined it closely. The jagged blade curved in a wicked manner—sharpened to a paper thin edge that sliced his thumb at the slightest touch. The intricate hilt and guards took the shape of an eagle’s body and wings. The blade was unlike any he had ever seen before.

Imagine the damage I could do with this.

After several moments, he forced himself to resheath the dagger and set it back down. “It’s a fine blade. You must be better with a knife than I thought.”

“Why?”

“Because of the balance, only someone who really knows what they’re doing could use it properly.”

Jonrell laughed. “Figures. It belonged to my brother long ago. He was pretty handy with the thing, but I’ve always favored a sword.”

“Most people do.”

“What would you say it’s worth?”

“A lot,” admitted Kroke.

“Enough that you’d be willing to trade one of yours for it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Kroke thought a second. Something didn’t seem right. “Why? I don’t have anything comparable to its worth. And you said it was your brother’s. To most people that means something.”

Jonrell shrugged. “It’s mine to do with as I please, and truthfully, I’d rather have a knife that maximizes damage with the least amount of effort.” He pointed to the serrated dagger Kroke had twirled earlier. “Something like that.”

He held back a curse. “That’s actually my best blade. It’ll cut through anything. I’ve killed more men with it than any other.”

“So, I guess that’s a no on the trade?”

Kroke eyed Jonrell’s dagger before looking at his own.
Who cares about sentimentality? He sure doesn’t. That weapon’s wasting its potential with him.
“No. If you’re serious, I’d say it’s a deal.”

Jonrell held out his brother’s old dagger. Kroke didn’t hesitate as they swapped weapons. He immediately drew the blade again to feel its weight in his hand. He looked away from it only as Jonrell stood and strapped Kroke’s old dagger to his side.

Jonrell drew the blade and grinned before resheathing it. “I like it. Maybe you’ll have to show me a couple of simple tricks I can use if I’m ever in a bind.”

“Maybe.”

“Alright. I’m going get some chow. You want to come along?”

Kroke blinked. “No. I’m good.”

Jonrell nodded and walked off. Kroke stared after him, confused.

What was that all about?

* * *

Already close to a hundred men long, Jonrell entered the back of the chow line. He usually made it a point to arrive early, but that wasn’t the case today. He looked over his shoulder to where Kroke stroked a curved dagger across his whetstone by a tree. The menacing blade glistened in the nearby torchlight. Even though he could no longer see the knife’s details, he could still envision its black hilt with silver etchings, cross guards shaped into the wings of an eagle. It had been Jonrell’s most prized possession. Yet he had never cared for it in the way Kroke now handled the weapon.

He’ll use it better than I ever will.

“Uh, so do we need to find a way to get your knife back?”

Jonrell looked back to Cassus who took a place in line behind him. “I gave it to him,” said Jonrell, smiling at Yanasi as she snuck in front of him.

“You what?” said Cassus, louder than intended. He lowered his voice. “Your brother gave you that knife,” he whispered. “It’s been in your family since Aurnon the First.”

“And?”

“I haven’t seen you without it since we were boys. And you just
gave
it to Kroke?”

“Well, traded him is more like it,” said Jonrell gesturing to the knife at his hip. He now wore a dagger some ten inches long with a serrated edge. The hilt of the weapon came from bone. Jonrell didn’t ask what sort of bone.

Better to leave well enough alone.

“This was his favorite blade,” continued Jonrell. “Said he had killed more men with it than any other.”

“So you’re going into the assassination business?”