34. Masks On #2
I kept my expression bored. “Get some rest when you can.”
“Always do.”
I made two more casual stops, checking on our gear, exchanging meaningless words with the quartermaster about saddle conditions.
Then I settled into my bedroll near the command fire, close enough to respond quickly if trouble came but far enough to avoid looking like I expected it.
The waiting was the worst part, and it always had been.
Trouble came an hour past midnight.
The first crossbow bolt slammed into the tree above my head with a crack like breaking bone. Blunted tip, training bolt, but it would have cracked ribs if it had hit center mass. Maybe worse.
“Contact!” someone shouted from the perimeter. I rolled behind a supply crate as more bolts whined through the camp, thunking into wood, canvas, and flesh. In the chaos of shouts and scrambling guards, I caught movement in the treeline.
Figures in wrapped mail, faces covered with dark cloth, moving with the discipline of people who’d done this a hundred times. Six shooters. Maybe eight. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire. They knew exactly what they were doing.
A guard screamed as a bolt took him in the shoulder, spinning him around before he hit the ground. Real pain in that scream. Real blood darkening his sleeve. Whatever this was, the consequences felt genuine enough.
I spotted my team through the chaos. Maise had rolled behind the water barrels, her sword already in hand, her eyes tracking the bolt trajectories to find the shooters.
Perrin had slipped between the wagons, probably already moving to flank.
Grit flowed low and fast toward the horse lines, circling wide to come at the attackers from behind.
We’d trained for this. Different circumstances, same principles.
A crossbow bolt punched through the side of my supply crate, close enough that I could smell the fresh wood splinters and feel the displaced air against my cheek.
Time to move.
I grabbed my spear and sprinted toward the treeline, keeping low as more bolts cracked overhead. The Knight Brand burned between my shoulders, flooding my muscles with the heat that sharpened instinct and drove me forward.
The first attacker stepped from behind an oak, cranking his crossbow for another shot. Hands occupied. Eyes on the loading mechanism. Throat exposed. I drove my spear point through his chest before he could raise the weapon.
He staggered backward, mouth opening in surprise, and dissolved into gray smoke. The spear punched through nothing, momentum carrying me forward into empty air.
Constructs. Magical training dummies. Expensive ones, by the quality of their movements.
But the knowledge didn’t make the next crossbow bolt any less dangerous. I twisted aside, felt the wind of it passing my ribs, heard it thunk into the oak behind me.
Two more figures rushed me from the left, moving in coordination.
One high with an overhand strike, one low sweeping at my legs.
Standard pincer, trying to catch me between their blades.
I swept the spear in a wide arc, forcing them both back, then reversed and thrust at the closer one’s throat.
The point took him clean through the neck. Another puff of smoke.
His partner pressed the attack, a curved sword weaving patterns that would have impressed any weapon master.
Quick combinations, good footwork, the kind of technique that came from thousands of hours of training.
But he telegraphed his strikes just enough to mark him as artificial.
Real fighters had tells. Constructs had patterns.
I feinted high, watched his guard rise, then dropped low and drove the spear into the meat of his thigh.
He crumpled into smoke before he hit the ground.
Across the camp, I heard Maise’s shout as she engaged two more constructs near the supply wagons. Her blade work had improved since the Palisade, three precise cuts that left both attackers dispersing into nothing. No wasted movement. No hesitation. She was getting good.
Perrin appeared behind another crossbowman, driving his dagger between the construct’s ribs from behind. The thing turned to regard him with what might have been curiosity, if constructs could feel curious, before dissolving into gray mist.
The last two attackers didn’t retreat even when outnumbered. Whatever their design, surrender wasn’t part of it. I put my spear through one’s back while Grit closed from behind the other and tackled him down, blade flashing once, twice. Over.
The camp went quiet, sudden and heavy after the noise.
Guards tended wounds and counted gear. The man who’d taken the shoulder bolt groaned as someone pressed cloth to the injury, but the bleeding had already slowed to a trickle, the shallow wound more painful than dangerous because training bolts were built that way.
Danzing stepped into the firelight as if he’d been watching from the trees all along.
“Pathetic,” he said.
His hand cracked across the face of the guard who’d been slow reacting to the assault. The man stumbled but didn’t fall, didn’t complain. He knew better.
“Fifteen minutes from first contact to last kill,” Danzing continued, walking among us like a disappointed father surveying failed children. “The other camps in our convoy finished in eight. Eight minutes. You took almost twice that long.”
He kicked at the scattered remains of crossbow bolts and gear that hadn’t quite dissolved with the constructs, the evidence of our failure littering the ground around us .
“You.” He pointed at a guard still fumbling with his sword belt, hands shaking. “When someone shouts contact, your ass needs to already be moving. Not waking up, not looking around, not asking questions. Moving.”
His eyes found mine, cold and assessing. “Your team performed well enough. Don’t get arrogant about it. Constructs follow patterns. Real enemies adapt.”
He turned a slow circle, taking in the camp, the wounded guard, the scattered gear. “Real enemies learn from watching you fight. Every technique you used tonight, assume someone saw it. Assume they’re already planning how to counter it.”
Maise lowered her sword slowly, absorbing what he wasn’t saying. Perrin stepped into the open, no longer hiding his movements. Even Grit straightened from his combat crouch, letting the readiness drain from his frame.
“Clean this mess,” Danzing ordered. “We march at dawn. And pray the real tests ahead give you more warning than this one did.”
He walked back into the darkness, leaving us with the smell of smoke and the cold understanding that every moment on this road was being measured and failing wasn’t permitted.
No one argued or complained. Danzing had a way of making his displeasure felt without raising his voice, and the disappointment cut deeper than any shout.
I found my bedroll again, brushed off the wood splinters from the bolt that had nearly taken me, and lay down with my spear within arm’s reach. Sleep came eventually, but the Knight Brand kept burning, warm and hungry, eager for whatever came next.
◇ ◆ ◇
「Hel’s Ledger」
Vessel: Danarre de Blaise | Year 828 | Age 13
House de Blaise | Status: Bastard (Unacknowledged)
Location: Road to Hemmrich
「Knight of Swords」 — Burning
「Emperor」 — Sleeping
「Magician」 — Sleeping
Active Charge: Find the Hierophant. End what was begun.
The vessel wears silk over steel and plays the lord’s game on a lord’s road. The pack keeps pace at arm’s length. Wolves need room to hunt.