28. The Medallion
Chapter twenty-eight
The Medallion
Dola’s voice washed over Imalroc like gentle ripples from the river.
He blinked far too slowly, trying not to drift off during her lecture.
Veshion’s harsher tones jabbed him into a bit more wakefulness, and he tried to prop himself up, but only listened half a heartbeat before he sagged back onto his elbows again.
It was dark; he’d been sweating and training all day, and the crackling warmth from the fire he, Veshion, and Dola sat around lulled him toward sleep. But he wanted to hear the end of the argument. If they ever reached one.
He’d been in River long enough to lose count of the days, and long enough to hear this exact conversation a dozen times. Even half-asleep, he knew their sides.
Dola would argue something about how fighting the Red Guard differed from fighting in the close quarters of a battlebox, and that even their best fighters did not have mastery of working as a unit.
Veshion would counter, with varying degrees of impatience, that she had little knowledge of battleboxes and the soldiers were inexperienced and untested and had nothing to teach people who’d survived much more than they had.
Almatra, when she finally joined them at the fire, would simultaneously bristle at Veshion for being snippy with Dola and then mutter to her gentle lover that he had a point.
And yet Dola continued to insist that the battleboxers should drill alongside the soldiers.
Veshion had nearly thrown a pan at her the first time she suggested it. The idea of battleboxers surrendering their hard-won freedom to take orders from the inexperienced Southern captains was too disgusting for him to stomach.
Imalroc yawned and swiped a hand across his face to hide it. Neither would give any ground. They seemed to think that if they repeated themselves often enough, the other would eventually agree.
What he never heard either of them get far enough to address was that they had no authority over the Southern soldiers and no way to even embark on the smallest test to see if more coordination could work. The real problem was the Medallion.
He had never actually seen the Medallion that everyone hated so much. Maybe the battleboxers loathed him simply because he was the most powerful person in camp. The so-called commander of the rally camp let them do as they liked, but had made no overtures to include the battleboxers in anything.
“What do you think, Imalroc?”
He jerked at the mention of his name. Dola smiled hopefully at him.
He’d never been good at being diplomatic, but something about Dola made him attempt it. He struggled out of his slouch. “I agree that we’re far less effective splitting our fighting force in half if we’re set against another army.”
Dola beamed.
“But?” Veshion prodded.
“But,” Imalroc conceded, nodding at the Easterner, “the battleboxers will not be commanded by people they don’t respect. And the Southern captains are greener than some of our Westerners.”
“Starting to look like it won’t matter anyway,” Almatra said from somewhere in the darkness.
She stepped into the firelight, carrying some sort of package, twine half unraveled and dangling from it. “I probably shouldn’t have opened this.” She dropped the package into Imalroc’s lap.
He worked quickly to undo the remaining knots, pushing all desire for sleep back to the recesses of his mind. Proper or not, he itched to get his hands on new information. When the packaging gave way, sheaves of thick parchment spilled onto the ground.
Almatra held a letter unfolded in her hand. “A runner delivered it to me, but it’s straight from Lady Arleth’s hand, and it was meant to go to Morbank. New commands from Sol Serene and news of the Red Guard.”
“What’s it say?” Veshion asked. Almatra handed him the letter.
The Easterner stared uncertainly at it, his gaze searching the page haphazardly. He didn’t seem to be actually reading it, and belatedly, Imalroc realized why.
“Can I see it?” he asked. “I’ve got better light.” This was a ridiculous excuse, with all of them arranged around the same fire, but Veshion gave him a relieved glance and passed the indecipherable paper over.
Imalroc read aloud. The contents were grim.
The Red Guard mustered in the uppermost reaches of the Eastern Felds, their numbers growing with every sunrise.
Their estimated numbers made Imalroc’s throat go dry, and that was just the foot soldiers.
What the fuck were they going to do when faced with a two thousand strong mounted cavalry?
“Keep reading,” Almatra mumbled, her face buried in her arms. “There’s more trouble on our side.”
“Challenges are further compounded,” Imalroc read, “by disagreement among the Southern Feld Council. There are concerns about our ability to garner the support of the Midlands and Northern Felds without just cause in our attack, and the alliance of these parties is essential to the creation of a force large enough to meet the Red Guard in battle. A large contingent of the Council believes that a treaty with the queen is the only way forward.”
“No!” Veshion slapped his hand against his own thigh. “Ending the battleboxes will never be part of a treaty.”
Imalroc glared at the letter. Signing a treaty with Kuraya was giving up the fight.
Kuraya had turned against her own people, but no one in the South seemed to know the full extent of it.
He needed to tell the Feld Council that Kuraya had attacked and intentionally weakened the Eastern Felds.
If they would believe a battleboxer, that should be enough to convince them Kuraya was beyond redemption.
But Prentia Tythe was no fool. If he came forward with that information, she would know where he had gotten it.
And she would know that Etiana and Rerdas had tracked down more information about Uralta’s work than either of them had confessed.
Tythe would go after them immediately, in hopes of more.
Or worse, she’d go after them and find Uralta.
He cleared his throat and looked back at the last few sentences on the letter.
“The Advocate is not yet resigned to a treaty and is still evaluating possible opportunities for progress. It is of paramount importance that the existing rally camps demonstrate their ability and strength. We will send as many new recruits as possible. A powerful Southland Army may be enough to move some of the Councilors to war. Eternals aid you in this endeavor.”
No one spoke when he finished the letter, and there was only the crackle of the fire consuming the last of the wood.
“What else did they send?” Dola asked.
Imalroc spread the remaining stack, unfolding several large sheets of paper and laying them out.
They were clearly maps, but far more detailed and complex than anything he had ever seen.
There were tiny red and green dots everywhere, accompanied by jumbles of numbers, arrows, and lines peppering every inch of the paper.
“Tactical maps,” Veshion muttered.
“These maps... they’re about troop movements?” Imalroc touched the red dots.
Veshion nodded.
Imalroc folded them, returning them to the stack. “Then they have to go to the Medallion.”
“Morbank will know we looked at them,” Almatra said. “He won’t be pleased.”
“It’s not our fault that the runner made a mistake.” Imalroc stood. “This information is our only hope of a chance to fight Kuraya.”
That last bit was not entirely true, but the guilt of withholding couldn’t quite outweigh the other guilt he carried. He’d already given his huntmaster a reason to hate him. He couldn’t charge into a plan that risked taking anyone else away from Rerdas.
“Are you going to Morbank now?” Dola scrambled up. “I’ll come with you.”
Almatra shot up too, glaring at Dola. “You’d willingly go near him again after what happened last time?” Her voice climbed. “We agreed it was best to stay clear of him.”
Imalroc wasn’t quite sure what hornet’s nest he’d just kicked over, but from the rumors around camp about how the Medallion spent his time, he could guess. If the commander ever made any sort of unwelcome leer in Dola’s direction, Almatra would not forgive it.
“Darling, he won’t actually do anything.”
“You don’t know that! If he decides he’s going to pursue you, he—”
“You shouldn’t go tonight,” Veshion spoke over their argument, looking up at Imalroc. “Bring it to him in the morning. He’s either drunk or already snoring by now.”
“Alright.” Imalroc shrugged. It was an easy way out of having to decide whether Dola should come.
“I’m half asleep, anyway. I’ll take care of it before we go to training tomorrow.
” He looked intently at Almatra, hoping she heard the unspoken by myself at the end of his statement.
He would not risk putting Dola in any kind of danger.
***
In the morning, Imalroc slipped out of the little space Almatra and Dola had sectioned off for him in the back of their patchwork of rooms. They’d been the best of hostesses, but he was craving a space he could properly claim.
He inspected the new scabbard he’d found for the Draalish sword. The wood was scarred but sturdy, and it was the proper length for the long blade. He looped it over his shoulder, testing the strap he’d attached to it.
A flutter of noise at the tent’s front had him wheeling around. Dola emerged, blinking in the sunlight.
“Fair morning!” Her smile waned when she saw the sword dangling at his shoulder. “You’re not bringing that with you to see him, are you?”
“What are you doing awake?” Imalroc resisted the urge to look nervously at the entrance to the tent, half expecting Almatra to burst out yelling.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Dola.” He sighed. “If Almatra is worried, don’t you think—”
“We talked about it last night.”
He couldn’t imagine Almatra giving in. “And she said you could come with me?”
“No. But it’s my decision, and I won’t be alone, and nothing is going to happen.”