28. The Medallion #3
From one of the tent’s other rooms a young man emerged, tripped over a pillow on the ground, and caught himself on the corner of a low couch.
He slid onto the cushions and lay there as though the effort had exhausted him.
With one hand clutching his forehead, he looked up at them with a rueful smile.
“Too much brandy,” he offered, waving his free hand.
His smile was as broad as his shoulders, and his close-cropped hair glistened gold across his scalp.
“Listen, if you’re going to wake me up early, the least you could do is send the pretty one to lean over my bed.
” He winked at Dola and chuckled in the silence.
Imalroc had to work to keep a sour expression off his face.
Dola cleared her throat delicately and placed the packet on the table before him. “This was mistakenly delivered to our camp, my lord. It’s quite important. Several tactical maps and a letter from Lady Arleth.”
“I can only assume you know the contents because you’ve already looked through it.” Morbank’s polished fingers drummed the edge of the couch.
“As I said, my lord, there was a mistake in the delivery.” Dola’s voice had never sounded so soft.
“I see.” Morbank propped his feet on the table, his hands folded in his lap. “I’d have preferred you use your brain, Dala. These should’ve been taken to Tefka. It’s his job to interpret the maps. But since you’ve already woken me, I had to send the ugly one off to get him.”
“It’s Dola,” she muttered, voice still straining for gentleness.
Morbank smiled and fluttered a hand as though brushing her correction aside. They were being dismissed. Dola shifted back toward the entrance.
Imalroc did not move. “Aren’t you going to look at them?”
Edim Morbank stared at him with blank amazement. “I just told you, Tefka reads the maps.”
“There’s also a letter.”
“My lord,” Morbank tacked on for him, his eyes narrowing.
It took him a beat to understand that the Medallion was reminding him to use the honorific. Imalroc desperately wanted to mimic Morbank’s dismissive hand wave, but he kept his arms at his sides. “I think you’ll find that—”
“Say it properly.”
For a moment, no one breathed.
Imalroc forcibly loosened his jaw. Not worth it to get into a fight. Not with this spoiled little brat in his stupid fucking tent-palace. “There’s also a letter... my lord.”
“Who are you? I’ve met Dala before, but you... You’re new.”
“My friend’s name is Dola. I’m—”
“Of course!” Morbank’s feet came off the table and landed with a thud. He grinned. “You’re Wester’s champion! I saw you at Iffroa once. You did this flip thing that broke the other one’s neck. Very impressive.”
Either the tent swayed around him, or Imalroc was suddenly losing his balance. A stain of heat spread from his chest, and its tendrils climbed his neck and rose into his face.
Dola jerked into action beside him. “Now that we’ve made our delivery, we’d best be on our way. Fair day to you, my lord.” She tapped Imalroc’s shoulder gingerly and leaned toward their escape route.
“Earthbound gods.” Morbank continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Wester will lose his head when he hears you’re in the rebellion. I half want to send him your portrait. Insufferable man. Perhaps I’ll have you sit for one if I can find a decent paint—”
Imalroc slammed his palms flat on the table, sending a bowl of shells flying all over the rug. “Listen, you little piece of—”
Dola snatched at his wrist. “We must go!” She yanked his arm with both hands. Imalroc nearly twisted loose, but the look on Edim Morbank’s face stopped him.
The Medallion smirked up at him, his blue eyes glittering and unafraid. He’d probably never been hit in his life, the smug brat, and he knew he wasn’t about to experience it now.
Morbank was still talking, even as Imalroc let Dola drag him backward.
“You don’t know how pleased I am to see you still have some spirit. My father always says it’s a good thing to have a few wild ones on your front lines.”
The rest of the Medallion’s parting shots were mercifully blocked by the fall of the cloth entry flap. Imalroc wrenched out of Dola’s sweaty grip. His cheeks burned. The young guard still posted outside kept her eyes firmly averted.
Dola herded him a few paces from the tent, and then Imalroc doubled over.
His vision warped. The hard-packed dirt of the parade grounds felt like uneven drifts of blood-clumped sand.
There was no sun, only the heat of overhead lights and hundreds of bodies.
Their clapping and screaming assaulted his ears.
Their cries for blood, for death, bade him move, and move he did.
He cringed when Dola touched him.
Her expression twisted with distress. “Gods, if I’d known that was what he was going to do... I’m sorry I walked you into a mess. I’ve never seen him go after someone like that.”
Imalroc pulled in a breath, tasted the lush warmth of the surrounding jungle and smoke from newly kindled fires. The red earth beneath him was stamped with thousands of boot-prints.
“Not your fault,” he managed.
Dola pressed her lips together tightly. She set her hand on his shoulder and glanced around at the soldiers stepping from their tents. “Come on. The rest of them are waking up. Let’s go back to our side.”