Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

She blinked up at him. ‘Toras Redone will return to command the Hust, sir.’

‘I think not.’

‘Her husband will see to it.’

Galar Baras studied her briefly, and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But we cannot rely upon that. The Wardens are no more. I am attaching you to my staff, elevating your rank to captain. You will command a company, Faror Hend.’

‘Sir, I cannot. Calat Hustain is my commander still.’

‘He has lost his command. Faror, I have word – there are survivors from the battle. Not many, but some. Seen on the south tracks. They are fleeing here, captain.’

Oh, gods below. ‘Sir, send a rider to Yedan Monastery. Captain Finarra Stone is there. She will be the ranking officer, not me.’

‘Until then, it will have to be you, Faror Hend.’

‘Sir, I do not want a Hust sword.’

Galar strode to the woodstove. He kicked the latch so that the grilled door opened, and then crouched to fling in handfuls of dung-chips. ‘There was a time,’ he said, ‘when the Hust Legion was a name spoken of with pride. For all the tales of cursed weapons and such, we stood against the Forulkan. We saved not just Kharkanas, but all of Kurald Galain.’

‘I am not a soldier, Galar Baras.’

His shoulders shook in silent laughter, ‘Oh, have I not heard that said enough yet?’

‘How can you hope to resurrect the Hust Legion?’ she asked. ‘To what it once was? Where, sir, will you find glory in these men and women?’

He straightened, but kept his face averted. ‘I can but try.’

* * *

‘Nothing downtrodden in yonder peasants,’ Prazek observed.

‘Nothing peasantry in them either, brother,’ Dathenar replied.

Ahead upon the track stood a score or more figures. They had been hurrying from the west, bundled under gear wrapped in blankets and furs. Upon spying the two approaching riders, they had drawn up in a clump, barring the way.

Clearing his throat, Dathenar said, ‘Lacking a king, they merely await your first and, one hopes, most stirring speech, Prazek.’

‘I have speech to stir indeed.’

‘Emotions to churn, thoughts to swirl, but save your last handful of spice, Prazek, for the final turn.’

‘You invite a burning hand, Dathenar, to give bridling sting to my slap.’

‘Shall a slap suffice? I see not the yoke of drudgery before me, but loot collected in the dark, and in haste. And see how they are armed, with cudgels, spears and brush-hooks.’

‘Forest bandits, perchance? But then, why, their zeal with said brush-hooks is unequalled in the annals of wayfarers, for not a tree stands to hide their hidey-hole.’

‘Zealotry has its downside,’ Dathenar added, nodding.

Three over-muscled men had stepped out from the crowd. Two wielded spears made of knives bound to shafts, while the one in the centre carried a pair of brush-hooks, one of which appeared to be splashed with frozen blood. This man was smiling.

‘Well met, sirs!’ he cried.

The two riders reined in, but a dozen or so paces distant from the three men.

‘Met well indeed,’ Prazek called back, ‘since by cogent meditation I conclude you to be recruits of the Hust Legion, but it seems you travel without an officer, and perhaps have found yourselves lost so far from the camp. Fortunate for you, then, that we find you here.’

‘For this day,’ Dathenar added, ‘you will see our lenient side, and rather than tangle your mob’s many legs with something as mentally challenging as a proper march in cadence, you can scurry back to the camp like a gaggle of sheep.’