Chapter 17
Nearly two months had passed since Carpen’s hanging, and the frost was finally beginning to loosen its grip on Duskweld. The mornings were still bitter, and the mud was still treacherous. It clung to the boots of every man, boy, and the occasional woman forced to march, run, or bleed in the yard, slick as lard and unforgiving. The training ground for the day was nothing more than a large patch of packed dirt behind the barracks.
Theron stood at the head of his squad with his arms loose at his sides, boots already soaked through from the morning inspection. He stared at nothing. Or rather, he stared at the blur of movement as other recruits sprinted the course as they ducked under frozen rope lines and vaulted the splintered hurdle of fallen logs before sliding on their bellies through the muck before circling back around and doing it all over again.
He’d thought of Wyrnhollow and Talla often these last weeks. The questions gnawed at him. Were they surviving the winter? How were they faring without him? Duty pulled him forward, but it did nothing to ease the weight in his chest. His thoughts drifted then to his friends, especially Rook. It hit hard that he would leave soon. The knowledge hollowed him out. For the first time in years, he’d found people he could speak with, people he could relax around, and now he would walk away from them of his own choice.
The trainers barked their timing cues, sometimes with words, sometimes with the lash of a reed. The entire morning was a race, a race with no finish line but exhaustion, and the only reward was the right to live another day as a not-yet-dead thing. Theron and his men ran through it three times before the sun had fully broken the haze, and every time their pace was faster, but still the trainers found something new to curse.
On the fourth run, a trainer called out. “Scarecrow, get your lot ready for the sparring ring. You’re up next.”
Theron nudged Sval forward with a jerk of the chin. “You’re first,” he said. “Try to keep your teeth this time.” Sval spat in the mud through a new gap in his teeth, grinned, and jogged to the front to collect the dull practice swords from the barrel by the wall. The rest of the squad followed behind, filling in the already crowded and battered circle in the center of the yard.
The air smelled of sweat and wood smoke, sharp with the tang of wet leather from the Brightwardens who stood and watched from the edge. Those men wore the better uniforms, the clean blue and silver of the Dominion, and leaned on their spears as if the entire business of training was beneath them. But they watched. Always. Nothing happened on Duskweld’s drill grounds without being seen.
Sval faced his first opponent, a thick-necked farm boy from one of the other squads, and they saluted and then set to work with the clatter of dulled metal on metal. Sval was quick, but the other boy was stronger, big-boned and untroubled by every move their sword trainer had embedded in their squad since the snows fell in earnest. The match ended with Sval sprawled across the mud and clutching his side. Theron helped him to his feet. “Better than last time,” he said, voice optimistic. Sval spat and managed a lopsided grin.
Rook went next, and Theron and the rest of the squad watched him closely. As usual, the way he moved was too slippery, with too many feints and tricks. He lasted longer than Sval, but in the end it was his opponent who sent him sprawling with a single ruthless sweep of the leg. She was a young woman who had enlisted alongside her brothers, with arms like a butcher’s and a stare that dared anyone to question her place. Rook popped to his feet and bowed with an exaggerated flourish. The girl rolled her eyes, but she gave him a smile.
Theron’s own match came last. He drew his practice blade and squared off against a man called Darion, a bear of a man whose chest was wider than some logs they used for the hurdle. The yard fell silent as the two of them stepped into the ring.
He heard Tyle’s voice in memory, flat and precise, offering the warning to stay invisible. That approach had carried him this far, yet the meeting with Houlis had been almost two months ago now, and Theron was getting impatient. A display of his skill might place him on a faster path out. However, there was something inside that told him to wait. Just a little while longer. He dipped his chin in a small nod and let his body fall into the habits of another life, feet light on the mud, hands loose, shoulders set in a way that suggested fatigue without inviting scrutiny.
Darion charged with an overhead swing so telegraphed it bordered on clumsy. Theron received it with the flat of his blade and stepped back, boots sinking deeper into the muck. The exchange continued in measured circles, and Theron allowed it. He let Darion push him through the ring, made no move to show the ease with which he could end the bout. The moment to change things had begun to form, but the time to reveal it had not yet arrived.
The crowd of recruits began to shout, some for Darion, some for the “Scarecrow.” Theron waited for the other man to swing, then he slid in, flicked his blade to the left, and found a glancing strike on Darion’s shoulder. Not enough to win, but enough to set the pattern.
They traded blows with little force behind them, but every time Darion faltered, Theron was there. Blocking, redirecting, never more than a hair’s breadth ahead. Sweat stung his eyes, and the air grew thick with the heat of so many bodies crowded close. Theron again heard Tyle’s voice in his head, and so on the next exchange he let Darion graze the front of his leather uniform with the blunt tip of the practice blade. The crowd cheered. Darion grunted and went on the attack, emboldened. But as he moved in for a finishing lunge, Theron stepped inside the thrust, caught his wrist with one hand and wrenched the blade free. Darion’s own momentum sent him stumbling forward, and Theron helped him along, using Darion’s own mass to send him face-first into the mud. He followed with a soft tap of his sword to the back, just for show.
The yard erupted. Some cheered, others cursed, and the guards by the wall only smirked and returned to their casual watch.
Theron tossed his practice sword aside and then reached down to help Darion to his feet. The man took his hand, wiped mud from his eyes and laughed. “Not bad, Scarecrow,” he said. “For a man with barely any meat on his bones.”
Theron gave a chuckle and then backed away from the ring, breathing in the cold and the sweat and the smoke, ever present.
The rest of the morning passed in drills and blocks, strikes and feints, and Theron kept his movements just short of graceful, careful never to appear more than slightly above average. Tyle’s advice was a good lesson, one that he’d had to absorb before. Those who stood out got noticed, and those who got noticed were either used or glorified, but never, ever left alone. He didn’t prefer either, so he blended in instead. For now.
When the trainers called a halt for the midday meal, the squads slumped in the mud and passed around hunks of rye bread and hard cheese and dried apples. Rook flopped down beside him, already talking. “I’d have had her, you know,” he said, nodding at the girl who’d beaten him in the ring. “If she hadn’t gone for the knees. That’s always been my weak spot.”
Theron’s mouth twitched. “I think the fact that she was a woman is your weak spot.”
Rook rolled his eyes. “Your match with Darion though, it looked like you were holding back. You could have dropped him in half the time.”
Theron shrugged, smiling now. “Wasn’t worth the effort. Besides, he could use the extra practice.”
“Yeah, you’re not wrong,” Rook said. “The war’s staring us right in the face.”
They sat there for a good while longer, wrapped in the damp quiet. City sounds drifted in on the cold air. Hammers rang out steadily from the forges. A cart rumbled over cobblestones somewhere down the street. Laughter carried from the guards posted at the gate.
Theron watched the yard as the squads mixed and drifted apart again, shifting like mud, never the same shape for long. He thought again of Rook and the others and how much he would miss them. He watched the green tips of new grass pushing up through the churned ground and wondered how many more months, how many more drills it would take before they reached the Endless War, or even worse, it reached them.
He thought of Redan Pass, and of the promise he had wrung from Houlis. He thought of the ringed hand that haunted his sleep.
When the trainers shouted for them to line up, Theron stood and stretched the stiffness from his shoulders and moved to join the others. The training day was almost finished, and so was the man he was pretending to be.
The swordmaster’s trial had been talked about for weeks, whispered among the men during long days in the training yards and in the barracks at night. The morning it arrived, a dozen veterans in polished steel replaced the usual trainers. Gray-bearded and grim, they bore the weight of a hundred skirmishes and a thousand lessons etched into muscle and scar. From a raised wooden platform at the edge of the training grounds, they watched the squads like statues, eyes tracing every twitch, every tremor. Above them, new Dominion banners fluttered in the chill wind, with their blues, whites, and golds sharp against the mud and grime below, a reminder that nothing about this day would be ordinary.
Theron filed in with his squad, careful to keep his head at just the right angle, which was not so high as to show pride, but not so low as to be disregarded. All around him, the yard seethed with nervous energy, men cracking their knuckles, flexing hands, some muttering prayers to gods neither Theron nor anyone else truly believed in. Rook was already whispering commentary under his breath, silently mocking the swordmasters’ beards or the ridiculous codpieces favored by a few of the younger trainers, but Theron wasn’t fooled… Rook was nervous. Even Sval, usually a stoic presence, looked ready to vomit with anticipation.
At the bark of a trainer’s command, the squads formed themselves into two lines. Trainers paced the aisle, dividing men into pairs with a practiced flick of the wrist or a simple nod. Some matches drew murmurs from the crowd, rivalries or obvious mismatches or the rare pairing of friends who tried hard not to meet each other’s gaze. Each man would fight one to two separate bouts today, depending on his skill level.
He studied the blades as he waited, counting the pairs ahead and tracking how quickly the line moved. His jaw set a little harder. This was the moment he had been working toward, the one that would push him past the endless routine. It was time to unveil his skill with a blade.
A single master stood out among the panel, a man whose face looked as if it had been carved from the same stone as a castle’s ramparts and whose left eye was solid white from blindness. The man did not speak, but when he scanned the yard, even the trainers flinched away from his gaze. The man made a note on a slate with every bout, and never blinked.
The rules were simple: three exchanges, best two of three, unless the opponent was disarmed. In which case, the disarmed man was immediately declared the loser. The men who lost the most bouts then reported to the trainers for “supplemental training,” which every recruit understood meant hours of menial labor, guard shifts on the worst posts and double rations of humiliation.
Theron glanced up at the platform and caught the eye of the stone-faced master and immediately looked away. When his turn came, he moved to the rack and selected the least-obvious sword, neither the heaviest nor the lightest, and stepped onto the marked patch of earth.
His opponent was a stranger, an enlisted man from the city with a nervous smile and eyes that darted everywhere but at Theron. They saluted, and the swordmaster with the pearl eye raised a single finger. “Begin.” he said, voice like rocks underfoot.
The exchange was sudden and violent. The man pressed in too quickly and greedily, and Theron disarmed him with an easy twist that sent the sword spinning into the mud. He then finished with a quick, clean strike to the chest, hard enough to mark but not to bruise.
The stone-faced master raised a hand and made a mark on the slate. “Winner is Scarecrow,” he called and then waved them both away. His opponent managed an embarrassed smile, sheepish and grateful not to be embarrassed further. Theron nodded and then drifted to the side, the applause and jeers fading into the background.
All along the line, matches were played, some brutal, some beautiful. Rook lost his first but won the second with a flashy pirouette that had even the sternest of trainers smirking. Sval lost both exchanges, but landed a blow hard enough to leave his opponent gasping. The rest of the squad met with mixed success, and Theron watched them all, cataloguing each style, each weakness, each petty triumph.
When the last pair finished their fight, the masters conferred with low and urgent voices. The squads were dismissed, with the winners sent to the mess for a hot lunch and instructions to return in two hours for the continuation of the trial, and the losers sent to the far side of the yard for some of their supplemental fate.
Theron glanced up one last time at the platform. The swordmaster with the pearl eye met his gaze once more, and this time he did not look away. The man’s mouth twitched with a smile, and he gave a slight nod.
After eating, Theron and his fellow winners returned to the yard. Rumor had spread during their lunch that this morning had actually been a final test of sorts, and the best of each squad would be called to show their mettle directly before the panel. Theron knew his name would be among them and waited with cold impatience as the trainers assembled a shortlist, arguing in low, rushed voices.
When his name was called, he stepped to the rack and took up a fresh practice blade, but this one was heavier than the one before, closer to the real thing. The trainer paired him with Darion, the same bear of a man from a few days before. Darion grinned, wiped sweat from his brow, and gave Theron a conspiratorial look. “Let’s not make this last,” he said.
Theron agreed and, upon receiving the signal, he stepped forward, allowing the borrowed memory of old fights and training to surface again in his limbs. The first exchange was a blur. Darion pressed, aiming to overpower, but Theron slipped the blow, countered, letting the two blades shudder together before they parted. Darion feinted low, but Theron read him, letting the point slide past his side. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to move. To get past this yard, this city, this place. Darion lunged hard, blade directed at Theron’s gut. Theron pivoted and caught the edge, twisted his wrist, and in a flick of stolen time, the practice blade snapped from Darion’s hand and sailed across the dirt in a slow arc, clattering at the feet of the assembled swordmasters. Darion stared openmouthed, then let out a booming laugh.
The masters did not laugh. The stone-faced man with the pearl eye only raised a brow and said, “Again.”
Darion fished his blade from the dirt, shot Theron a sheepish look, and squared up again. They closed the distance, but the outcome was already settled. Theron moved with calm efficiency, conserving energy, letting the weight of the sword guide each parry and return. On his second pass, he swept Darion’s ankle, caught his wrist, and spun him. The blade flew free once more. Darion hit the ground hard, rolled, and came up grinning with his hands spread in surrender.
The panel took notes. A swordmaster in iron with a braided wolf-gray beard nodded once, then called, “Enough.” He squinted down at his hands, etching Theron’s name onto his slate.
Theron turned to leave, but the pearl-eyed master snapped, “Stay.” He took a step down from the platform, the yard growing suddenly close around them. The place went quiet, more so than before. The recruits, the trainers, even the guards at the wall. Everyone stopped to watch what happened next.
The swordmaster drew his own blade, shining, beautiful, and unscratched, and pointed it at Theron. “Face me,” he said, and the words were heavy as an oath.
Theron felt his blood quicken. He stepped into the circle, saluted with the blade, and waited.
The master advanced without preamble, wasting no motion. His first blow rang bright and sharp, steel on steel, and the impact left Theron’s arms trembling. An old man’s patience guided him forward at each step, never too fast, and never offered a rhythm that could be exploited. Every strike felt like a calculation. Every feint carried the weight of a lesson. Their faces drew close for a brief moment. “You are more than you show,” the master whispered. Then he shifted back and cut low at Theron’s legs.
Theron met him, parried with precision, adjusted his stance with each pass. The crowd receded. The world narrowed to the width of the circle, the sound of the blades, the sting of sweat in his eyes.
The master tried a quick flurry with a high slash, then low, then to the wrist. Theron blocked, countered, and on the third pass, stepped in and let the hilt of his sword catch the master just below the ribs. The old man grunted, but did not falter. He pivoted and returned with a slash aimed for Theron’s shoulder, but Theron ducked, and for a heartbeat their faces were close enough that he could see the lines around the man’s eyes, the color of the scars on his neck.
They broke apart, and the master nodded, just once, as if to say: Now.
The final exchange was brief, a test of nerves and memory. Theron feinted high, then swept low, caught the master’s shin with a light tap. The old man backed away and then came back with a thrust meant to finish, but Theron parried, spun around him, and then brought his own blade to the hollow of the master’s throat as he turned.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then the master smiled, a slow and private expression, and lowered his blade.
The yard erupted. The recruits shouted, stamped their feet, some calling Theron’s name, others just hollering for the spectacle.
The master raised Theron’s arm high, the gesture formal and final. “Well done,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Well done,” he said quietly to Theron.
Theron stood there, breathing hard, the world swimming in sound and sensation. But underneath it, something slow and steady unfurled in his chest. Redan Pass was calling.
The summons came a few hours later. He was to join Houlis for lunch. The officers’ mess was little more than a large bedroom, just wide enough for three tables and a sideboard stacked with old loaves and sweating cheese. When Theron stepped inside, the room was nearly empty. Only one figure remained at the far table, hands folded around a cup, hunched over a stub of candle. Houlis.
Theron hesitated a moment, then crossed the room and sat down. The air was still thick with the smell of grease and scorched bread.
Houlis didn’t look up. “So you won a match against Kuhryse. That’s impressive,” he said. His voice was softer than it should have been, almost tired. “Word’s already spread. You will leave with the next battalion.”
Theron nodded. “That’s what you owe me.”
Houlis’s mouth twisted, something between a sneer and a smile. “I owe you nothing, Scarecrow. You earned it. But the favor still stands.” He tipped his cup toward Theron. “Redan Pass. It’s a slaughterhouse. Our garrison was almost completely wiped out, and only a few survivors remain. The Sylphar occupation is strong. You sure you want this?”
“I’m sure,” Theron said. He thought of Carpen’s noose, the long winter, and the days spent pacing circles in a world too small for what he carried inside. “When do I go?”
Houlis eyed him, weighing something behind his gaze.
“The battalion is scheduled to leave in three days. At dawn. I arranged for you to join them, with some reluctance from some of the officers. But after today’s news with Kuhryse, they look forward to having you.”
He paused, then continued with the weight of inevitability.
“Lord General Jarkeb has ordered this advance battalion to move north with all possible haste. Your battalion will act as both the spearhead and the distraction. Your Lieutenant Colonel, Roberic, has orders to retake the Pass at any cost. At the same time, Jarkeb will lead three more battalions through the Divide to strike the Mountain Temple from the southeast.”
Theron nodded as Houlis continued.
“The hope is that Roberic will reclaim the Pass and begin an advance toward the Temple. Jarkeb intends for his forces to hit the valley below the Temple from two directions and split the Sylphar line. If the plan works, the enemy will focus entirely on your battalion, and they will never see Jarkeb’s primary force coming through the Divide.”
He leaned in slightly, voice low.
Houlis leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper that carried the weight of too many battlefields. “Roberic’s got orders to seize Redan fast. No drawn-out siege. Just storm the walls and take it.”
He paused, letting the words sink in, his eyes fixed on Theron as if he were measuring the man’s soul. Theron nodded slowly, the motion heavy with understanding.
“You and I both know what that really means,” Houlis went on, his tone bitter as old blood. “Throwing waves of men at a fortress built to bleed armies dry. It’ll be a slaughter. Bodies piled high enough to climb the walls on their own.”
The captain’s jaw tightened, the lines on his face deepening in the dim light. “Roberic holds it, digs in deep, and makes the Sylphar think that’s our first big push, and then advances. With any luck, they’ll hurl everything they’ve got at him. And while they’re busy grinding his force to dust, Jarkeb slips through the flanks. Clean advance straight into the Temple valley.”
He fell silent then, the words hanging between them like smoke from a fresh grave. Theron felt the chill of it settle in his gut, the kind of cold no fire could chase away. Sacrifice on that scale wasn’t strategy. It was a gamble with lives as the stakes, and men like Roberic were the bait.
Houlis straightened, his expression unreadable.
“Personally, I think it’s a suicide mission. But it’s what you asked for. You’ll get Redan Pass.”
He turned away.
“Begin your preparations. And keep your head down. And good luck.”
The morning of departure arrived cold and clear. Duskweld’s walls loomed black against the gray, their stones rimed with frost that shimmered pink in the first slice of sunlight. Outside the gates, chaos churned. Soldiers huddled with their squads while the quartermaster barked last-minute orders. Packhorses shifted and snorted, already tired of a journey that had not yet begun.
Theron stood at the edge of it all, pack slung over his shoulder, and waited for the last call. He carried his new sword with him, given to him personally by Kuhryse, the swordmaster he’d faced off against. It was a priceless gift, one he didn’t feel he deserved. “This was given to me by my master,” he had said, “the first time I defeated him in the ring. It is yours now.” He then clapped Theron on the shoulder, stared him directly in the eyes with a knowing look, and left without another word.
He studied the faces around him, some familiar and most not. Sval, Brune, and Danill had come only to wish him a proper farewell. Their group of recruits still had months of training left before they would be sent anywhere. Sval chewed a strip of dried meat, working his jaw like it was nothing, but the disappointment in his eyes gave him away.
Hrengar, also there to say goodbye, and now with a shiny fresh scar gracing his cheek, was trading insults with the city guards, already rehearsing for the brawls they’d have later at the tavern. He came up to Theron and clasped his forearm, the grip firm, eyes shadowed with unspoken worry. “You’ve always had a good heart, brother. Don’t lose that.” Beside him, Sval’s voice was quieter, but no less steady. “Next time I see ya, you’d better have stories, not scars.” Theron managed a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. The rest of his men, his friends, each said their goodbyes. Of all of them, only Theron was leaving today on a new assignment.
He was about to ask Sval where Rook was when a voice called from behind. “What, you thought you’d be leaving without me?”
Theron turned. Rook stood there, coat buttoned to the top, sword belted at his hip, and a grin too wide for the frosty morning. His pack was perfectly square, every strap cinched tight. Theron tried to think of something clever to say, but Rook beat him to it. “I figured you’d need someone to keep you honest. And besides, it’s not like you ever had a knack for making friends.”
“Jac’s balls, man! What are you doing here?” Theron finally asked, delighted.
“To be honest, I’m not so sure myself. But Houlis said I didn’t have a choice. Said he owed ya a favor or somethin’,” Rook replied.
Theron shook his head in disbelief.
“Don’t worry, brother. I’ll keep you breathing long enough for you to owe me a proper drink when we get back.” Rook clapped him on the back with a grin that cut through the morning chill, then fell in step beside him. “Already said my goodbyes to those lazy fools back there,” he added, jerking a thumb toward their old squad. “Made them swear not to breathe a word to you.” The two of them moved forward with the rest of the battalion.
Above them, at the top of the gatehouse, Houlis watched, arms folded. He nodded once when Theron caught his eye. No salute, no farewell. Just the faintest flicker of approval. Theron nodded his appreciation.
The line shuffled through the archway, boots scuffing against the stones. Beyond the walls, the world opened up to icy fields, the thin ribbon of road, and, somewhere far beyond the horizon, Redan Pass.
Theron and Rook walked in silence for a stretch. The clamor of Duskweld faded behind them, swallowed by the steady crunch of boots on frost-hard ground and the low murmur of a hundred voices marching in rough rhythm. The wind carried the bite of coming snow, sharp enough to sting the cheeks and clear the mind.
“I’m glad you’re here, Rook,” Theron said at last. The words came out quiet, almost lost in the wind.
Rook glanced over, a crooked grin breaking through the chill. “Huh. Give it a couple of months on this gods-forsaken road, and you might change your tune.”
Theron let out a low chuckle, the sound warming him more than his coat ever could.
They crested a small rise, the path dipping into a shallow valley dusted white. Rook kicked at a clump of frozen grass, watching it shatter. “You ever been?” he asked after a while. “To the front, I mean.”
Theron shook his head. “Not for a long time.”
Rook shot him a sidelong look, suspicion flickering in his eyes like a spark in dry tinder. “Guess it’ll feel like old times for you, then.”
Theron tilted his face to the pale sky, feeling the cold bite deep into his skin. For the first time since the snows had fallen on their march from Wyrnhollow, something stirred in his chest. Not joy, exactly, but a quiet spark that might have been anticipation and hope. He started laughing, a rough sound that surprised even him.
Rook stopped short, staring. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Theron said, still chuckling as he wiped at his eyes. “Just that I must be the only fool alive who feels hope marching straight toward almost certain death.”
Rook barked a laugh of his own, clapping Theron on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “You’re a strange one, Scarecrow. But I’ll take strange over boring any day.”
As they crested the next hill and paused to look back, Duskweld sprawled below them like a jagged crown against the mountains. A shout rang out from the distant gates, sharp and carrying on the wind. Houlis’s voice, unmistakable even from afar. “Stay alive, Scarecrow!”
Theron raised a hand, not quite a salute, more a quiet acknowledgment of the complicated thread between them. Then he turned his face to the biting wind and walked on. The past fell away behind him with every step, lighter now, like shedding an old skin. Redan Pass waited ahead, and beyond it, the duty he had run from for too long. For the first time in years, the road felt like it led somewhere worth going.