Chapter 13
Bastion pressed the journal into Ulla’s hands, knowing it was far more useful to her. She took it slowly, her eyes lingering on his chest. She left him to bathe and dress, the suspicion she’d arrived now replaced with curiosity and, maybe… something else.
Finally clean and dry, Bastion listened to his stomach and followed his nose downstairs. All his own thoughts dissipated as soon as he stepped into the Great Hall.
It vibrated with people, their eyes darting this way and that, like stones skipping over water. Fear hung in the rafters with the chandeliers, empty of light.
Most of the chairs and long tables had been tipped against a back wall.
Those that remained lined the center of the room, with regular breaks between clusters.
Scattered along their length sat pitchers of water and bowls filled with baked goods and winter apples.
To either side, hundreds of makeshift beds crowded together in neat rows with a precision he knew had everything to do with Nesrin.
Kitchen staff tended two of the four oversized fireplaces, roasting pigs.
Despite how warm and inviting the Great Hall felt, people looked lost and afraid.
Through the crowd, Bastion spotted Nesrin talking to someone.
He made his way towards them, nodding to the guards scattered along his path. As he reached the table, the heat of the nearest fireplace chased away the cold clinging to his fingers and toes.
“When this is over,” Nesrin was saying to a young boy, “you and your father will be taken care of. You have my word.”
Her attention lifted to Bastion, and the boy turned. It was Rowan.
Loose curls the color of wet sand floated around his head, giving him a permanently windswept look. Bathed and dressed in clean clothes, he resembled the son of a wealthy merchant or lesser noble.
He’d been hunched in his chair, as if no warmth could reach him, but his eyes lit up when he saw Bastion. He leapt to his feet and lunged, throwing his arms around Bastion's waist.
Bastion stood there, stock still, with his arms out like someone had thrown a bucket of water on him. Then, slowly, he let them drop to Rowan’s back in a light hug.
Rowan looked up at him through wispy curls, his sky blue eyes bright with concern. He whispered, “I thought you died.”
“What?” Bastion asked. “Who told you that?”
“Ulla.”
“How?”
Rowan pulled back and slapped his hands against his skull, his expression serious. Bastion’s heart sank like a ship at sea. He forced a smile onto his face.
“I’m hard to kill,” he told the boy.
“Rowan,” Nesrin said softly. “Why don’t you go see if Mistress Rose needs any help?”
The boy tucked his chin and stuck out his bottom lip, his eyes disappearing beneath a fringe of hair. Nesrin tilted her head. “Go on.”
He looked at Bastion, who nodded encouragingly. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
Slowly, Rowan slumped and made his way across the room to the kitchen. Bastion watched him go, breathing through the lump that had settled in his throat.
“You’re the first person he’s spoken to.” The words snapped Bastion’s focus back to Nesrin. “I’ve been trying to get him to open up all morning.”
She went to the nearest table and tossed Bastion an apple with a grim smile. Bastion caught it, pressing his palms against the smooth, cold skin. He couldn’t help but remember how a similar apple had looked in Ulla’s hands, before everything went to shit.
“Come on,” Nesrin said. “Let’s get you armed.”
He stuffed the apple into his pocket and grabbed a couple of biscuits before following her.
They walked in silence while he ate, leaving grander halls for narrower ones devoid of decor. Moonwatch should have been bustling with activity. Instead, the emptiness made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, as if the keep were haunted.
Down a smoky, torch-lit hall, Nesrin stopped before a heavy oak door, banded in iron.
“Help yourself,” she told him. “I’ll see you up top.”
She turned on her heel and strode away.
A dozen or so men startled as he entered the armory. They had the look of townsfolk, their weathered faces tanned, their clothes worn and faded from sun and salt. A cloying scent hung in the air.
Fear.
It put him on edge. Bastion nodded to the bored-looking guard supervising the room and went to the nearly empty walls. There were slots for swords, spears, bows, daggers, maces, and axes, but the lack of selection told him everything he needed to know.
Aware of the men watching him, Bastion reached for a long knife.
He didn’t necessarily need one with Taro’s sheathed at his waist, but he didn’t want to give it up.
A macabre part of him wanted to keep the blade that had almost killed him.
Like a trophy. Something that proved not only his words to Rowan, but his eerie proclamation to Buck.
Thinking of the pirate captain gave Bastion pause. Trophy or no, more than one blade would come in handy. He slid the long knife into his belt.
He went to the swords next. The attention of the men bled down his spine. The weight and tang of the blade he picked up were so foreign in his hand that he grimaced. Bastion swung it, testing the heft. It was shorter than he was used to, but not enough to hinder him.
He resheathed it with a snap.
A few of the men were selecting bows, and he joined them.
“Do you know how to choose a bow?” he asked.
Their eyes bore into him, fear warring with fervid hope. They shook their heads. He gave the nearest man an encouraging smile and picked up a bow.
Angling so they could see what he was doing, Bastion strung it and then drew it to the anchor point on his chin. He inhaled deeply. His back and shoulder muscles protested the movement.
“Test the draw. If you can’t comfortably hold it for a count of thirty, it’s too much.” He handed his bow to the questioner. “You try.”
The man took it and mimicked Bastion’s inhales as he pulled the string. He counted to thirty under his breath. When he relaxed, Bastion smiled.
“Good, right? Now do that a few more times. If you strain too much, you’ll tire easily and lose accuracy.”
The guard at the door scoffed, his chainmail clinking as he shifted.
Bastion turned sharply and leveled a hard look at him. He recognized the type from the way his chin jutted out and the way he looked down his nose. “Something to add?”
The guard rolled his eyes. “It don’t matter if they know how to draw a bow. Won’t do ‘em any good.”
Annoyance crept into Bastion’s voice. “You don’t want them to be prepared?”
“Somebody shoulda thought o’ that before leaving us with an unblooded commander,” the guard sneered.
Bastion’s sword was in his hand before he could cross the room.
The guard jumped, fumbling for his own blade. He failed to free it before Bastion’s hit the stone beside his ear. The room stilled.
“Watch your mouth.” Bastion didn’t raise his voice, but he leaned in, letting every fiber of his fury show.
The guard shrank, all the bravado leaving his posture. Every platoon had a few men like this. They talked a big talk, but the instant they were challenged by someone with more mettle, they cowed. The last thing Bastion needed was someone sowing discord through the ranks.
A mumbled apology fell from his lips. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.”
Bastion eased off, resheathing his sword. Then, he clapped the man on the shoulder, nodded to the others, and left in search of Nesrin.
The walk helped shake off his anger, and it didn’t take him long to find a set of narrow stone steps that deposited him onto the ramparts.
Moonwatch perched over the bay like a tortoise, stubbornly clinging to the cliffs with a perpetually grouchy eye on the sea.
It lacked the flourished turrets and ornate windows of some of the other keeps he’d spent time in.
Instead, two stout watchtowers, one to the north and one to the south, rose above the practical angles of the fortified walls.
Bastion looked out over the empty sea as he walked. The sky had cleared, leaving the air cold and damp–a harsh contrast to bright sunlight casting bold shadows across the headland jutting out to the south.
Sheltered within that arm of land, the bay spread before him, eerily empty. It should have assuaged some of his fears, but the sight chilled him. It felt too convenient.
Or well-planned.
He continued on, silently tallying the guards stationed along the ramparts and in the central courtyard below. His heart sank as he passed the southern watchtower.
Eventually, he came upon Nesrin on the east side of the keep, her eyes trained across the bluffs. A man spoke quietly beside her.
They both turned as Bastion approached.
“Captain Hywell,” Nesrin said, “may I present Sir Bastion.”
She may as well have sucker-punched him.
Hywell bowed, black braids falling over his shoulder. Full lips spread into a mirthless smile as he straightened. “Lady Nesrin’s second-in-command. I’ve heard so many stories, Sir Bastion. It's a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Bastion returned the bow.
“Just Bastion,” he said. “I’m not a–”
Nesrin cut him off. “He’s being modest. Sir Bastion just recently completed his Trial. The title hasn’t sunk in yet.”
She gave him a look, her upper lip twitching.
Hywell’s eyes darted between them, a measure of discomfort plain on his tawny face. He cleared his throat. “I’ll leave you to make the preparations we discussed.”
He saluted them and walked away.
When he was out of earshot, Nesrin returned her attention to the sea of grass before them. A muscle ticked in her jaw.
“I counted more gulls than guards,” Bastion said. “By my calculations, it looks like we only have a hundred men.”
Nesrin frowned, eyes still straight ahead. “Two platoons. Not even a hundred,” she confirmed. “The best we can do is barricade the gate.”
They stood in silence, listening to the wind weave invisible fingers through the tall grass. To the west, the ocean beat the cliffs with a dull, persistent thrum.
“Did Lawrence find anything in the library?”