26. Twenty-Three

"Is it true you defeated a Runecleaver in single combat?"

I turned away from the water barrel in front of me. Ruith had been asleep for hours and I was desperate for a bath. Since slaves weren't permitted to bathe in tubs, I had found one of the wash barrels and a mostly deserted area of camp to take care of myself. That it was tucked near the slave side of camp was incidental. I never expected one of them to speak to me.

The man that approached me was older than me by a decade and had the build of a laborer. I'd seen stone masons with arms like that, and he had the air of someone who had at least some education, but he did not know me.

Not knowing what else to say, I simply nodded. It was true.

The man's keen eyes widened. "And you live." He gave me an appraising glance up and down. "It was you they put on the post, wasn't it? Those scars on your back. That's what they're from?"

I nodded again.

"Is he dead? The Runecleaver, I mean."

I hadn't killed him, but Vinolia had said she would execute him. Whether she had or not, I didn't know. We hadn't stayed long enough to find out. As far as I knew, however, that was the truth, so I dipped my head in affirmation.

"Good." He grunted and yanked his shirt over his head. Heavily calloused fingers dipped into the water barrel in front of me and the man began to wash the sweat from his body, just as I was doing. "I saw you fight in the pit that first day against Jandor, too. You're good. Don't know where you learned to fight like that, but I'm damn glad you're on our side. You are, aren't you?"

His eyes lifted, and he searched my face.

I nodded firmly.

"Good," he repeated and scrubbed under his arms. "You know, I hear what they say about you. That you're just that brute's pet, but I don't think it's true. If you were, he wouldn't have torn up your back like that. I know a pet when I see one. Like that Nessir. Now, there's a pet. Spoiled brat. You'd never see Mirza Ieduin put him to the post. That Nessir doesn't know the meaning of hard work. Not like you. I see you sweating and getting your hands dirty like the rest of us. Seen you bleed and fight them. And the overseer they assigned to you? Boy, they gave you the worst one. Senna's mean as a badger and twice as tough. You're not one of them. You're one of us, and that makes you all right in my book." A brief pause. "Will you have a drink with us? It's swill, but it'll do the trick if you've got the stomach for it."

Before, these people had spat on me and called me a coward. Now, they wanted to drink with me? I could hardly afford to say no.

The man smiled, showing he was missing a front tooth. He extended a hand over the barrel. "My name's Hawk."

Hawk wasn't lying when he said the only drink they had was terrible. It burned all the way down, too. There was a group of slaves who, having finished their tasks, had found time to pour a drink and enjoy it with a stranger. They asked me briefly about the battle, but the collar meant I wasn't good at conversation. The men didn't seem to mind, inventing facts about it that I simply nodded to or shook my head.

Hawk, I learned, had been a mercenary once, in his younger days. When he tired of the sword, he found the hammer a decent replacement and turned from slicing off heads to smashing rock. He'd overseen the East Bridge project a few years ago, one of the last great works completed in my father's lifetime. I remembered it was a fine bridge, and no one in Ostovan had any complaints about the men who built it.

"A pity about the king," Hawk was saying.

"Which king?" The second man drinking with us was named Luthar, who had previously been a journeyman woodworker. Now, he spent his days hammering posts, pulling up stumps, and felling trees for the elves.

"The only king there is. Michail's no king of mine." Hawk spat on the ground. "He killed his own father and brother. I'd rather serve these elves than him. Least they've got some honor."

"Heard he did more than that." Luthar refilled our cups. "Heard the prince was tortured. Torn apart and flayed, they said."

"A pity." Hawk shook his head. "Prince Elindir was one of the good ones."

"As good as a spoiled palace bastard can be," Luthar agreed.

"At least," said Hawk, "we won't be there to see Ostovan destroyed by that madman. They say the Rot is in his brain. They say he's mad."

Luthar stared at the fire burning between us. "They say a lot of things."

After two cups, I was already starting to feel a bit lightheaded, and I still had work to complete. Hawk clapped me on the back before I made my exit and said that should I ever need anything, I should seek him out.

It took Ruith a day to recover. The morning after, he was a little pale, but otherwise seemed well. If he had any trouble moving around, he didn't show it.

While I helped tighten the straps of his leather armor, I couldn't help but stare at the way his long hair fell over his shoulders. I hadn't touched it since that first time, except by necessity when I grabbed it to save him in the boat. He hadn't spoken of it, either to reprimand me or invite my help again, so I stayed away, but I thought of it. More often than I should have.

The tent packed in, I reported to the column for another long day of walking. Instead, I found Senna next to Ruith, holding the reins of a chestnut mare.

The old Savarran grunted and shoved the reins at me. "He says you're to ride. Conduct yourself with some honor, slave. Remember, the rod has enough length to reach you, even in the saddle."

"She's called Lijot?," Ruith said, once I was seated in the saddle. "It means stubborn little princess."

I glared straight ahead, refusing to look at him, while Ieduin and Katyr chuckled behind us.

Aryn gave a whistle on Ruith's orders, and we rode north.

The southern tip of the Elven Isle was mostly lush grassland and rolling hills, all dotted with farms. Ancient stone walls rose, moss-covered and sun-bleached, and great hillsides tilted like waves in a storm, crested by white wildflowers instead of sea foam. Barefoot elven boys carrying long sticks sat on rocks while black and white sheepdogs ran in circles.

The army took up a marching cadence with someone tapping sticks instead of drums. The wind was chilly, but the sun was warm, making the ride far more pleasant than expected. Everything was perfect, good enough that I was almost able to forget I was a slave in a foreign land and not out on a pleasant ride through the countryside with a few attendants.

That peaceful illusion was shattered just before midday. A black horse came galloping down the column. The rider was elven and wearing familiar colors, but there was some immediate concern when he was spotted.

"Ride with me," Ruith instructed, and we peeled away from the column with the other commanders to go meet the rider. "What news?" he called when we came close.

The rider pulled his horse up short. "A force waits at Scarness, three hundred strong. They fly the blood oak banners."

"Runecleavers?" Ieduin said, frowning.

"Scarness marks the border," Katyr said. "We could detour to the west and go through the Bone Forest."

Aryn shook his head. "The terrain is too rough, and that territory is claimed by the Spine Tribes. If we march an army through there, we will not march out."

Ruith said, "Who commands the force?"

"Heskir," replied the scout.

Everyone exchanged a look. Apparently, Vinolia had not executed him as promised. Instead, she'd given him three hundred men and sent him to the border, probably with the order to achieve victory or death.

I eyed the column of soldiers and slaves, trying to guess at our numbers. We were more than three hundred, but a significant number of our people were not combatants. We were tired, running low on supplies, and on enemy land without structures to fall back to. While we had mages, we certainly did not have three hundred fresh mages. I was no tactical expert, but Heskir Runecleaver undoubtedly had the advantage.

"Is she stupid?" Ieduin mumbled to Ruith. "Attacking us is treason. Tarathiel will take it as an act of war."

"She will disavow the whole thing," Katyr said coldly. "She'll claim Heskir was a rogue agent without her blessing, a rebel." He looked hard at Ruith. "She's arranged it so she can wash her hands of the whole thing. Once again, she wins either way. If we fight and lose, she'll say we attacked first, and it was an act of self-defense. If we flee, we look guilty and will be called cowards."

Ruith's expression was stoic as stone, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Then there is only one option. We must fight and win."

The slaves and non-combatants were quickly rounded up and cleared from the field along with all the carts and goods. I didn't know how many elves there were, but it was fewer than I thought. It was the first time I realized that the slaves probably outnumbered the elves, though many of them were women and children.

Though I was initially sent with the rest of the slaves, shortly after arriving, I was called away again. The sun was high, the sky bright blue and the wind picking up steadily as I was brought back before Ruith. He stood in a small group of elves, including his officers and others of rank. When Senna approached with me in tow, the elves parted. With all eyes on me, I went to my knees, as was expected when a slave was summoned into a room full of important elves.

My slate and a slab of chalk landed in the grass in front of me.

"For the record," Aryn said, "I'm against this."

"Your objection is noted," Ruith replied, and to me he said, "If I give you a sword, slave, will you fight with us?"

I could say no. I could stand back with the other slaves, far from the danger, and let two elven clans kill each other. Perhaps that would even serve me better, letting them die. But if the Runecleavers won, they'd claim possession over me, and all the other slaves. I doubted we would be treated well.

I picked up the chalk and slate, writing my reply. "It would be my honor to fight at your side."