PROLOGUE


Among the troops, the Autillian mercenary stood out like a stray wolf among hounds. His seal-brown skin, seamed with old scars, drew constant stares amidst the paler Aregese soldiers. Other Autillians fought in the war—many young men from the mountains turned to selling their blades, when their own country had no place for them—but most mercenaries had been hired by the Tadreisian commanders instead. That this one was not ignited curiosity and speculation.

"I’ve got a soft heart for underdogs," was Cade's undiplomatic explanation. "I join the Tadreisians, they've already got the advantage of numbers, so what's the fun in that? I'm just one man, but as long as I’m here, maybe I can change the odds a little."

Field Marshal Griffin Inovar did not trust his mercenary. He did not understand a man eager to bleed for a stranger’s cause, and he did not like what he did not understand. His men fought for their homes, their wives, the dimming hope of peace. What did a mercenary fight for but money alone, which left no imprint on the soul?

Inovar's distaste for the concept, however found little fodder in the man. For six full months, Cade fought alongside the Aregese soldiers, swift, steady, and true. The mercenary's mild temper and ready laugh made him disarmingly likeable. A greater appeal came in his rate of pay, blessedly light to an employer whose coffers had been drained by four steady years of war.

"You're a father, Field Marshal, aren't you?" Cade asked when Inovar first discussed wages.

"Yes, I have a little son. He turned five just this winter. Why?"

"How much does it cost you in a year to raise him?"

He calculated, mentally subtracting the damages caused by a rambunctious toddler, and named the sum. Cade considered it and nodded. "Offer me twice that, sir, and I'm your man as long as you're in this war."

The total was comparable to what Inovar paid midranking officers: generously low for a trained swordsman. He hired Cade.

Now, six months into the mercenary's employ, Inovar ruminated on that conversation. After one day's workout, he summoned Cade back to his tent. He had kept Cade close, at first out of mistrust and then out of genuine appreciation. Until Cade's arrival, Inovar had lacked a worthwhile sparring partner; few other Aregese used longswords, leaving them to the northmen.

Their matches often drew a crowd, fascinated as much by the mercenary’s dark-skin and wild-looking furs as Inovar's reputation. Inovar made no attempt to disperse the attention. It was good for his soldiers to see their commander as a capable warrior, fighting at their side. It was also good for him, simultaneously sharpening his mind to combat while numbing it to all outside concerns, which were many. The weight of a country's future woke him every morning—if he even slept—already exhausted from nightmares of catastrophe.

"Got something on your mind, sir?"

Cade's easy camaraderie tempted Inovar more than he admitted. He reminded himself that friendship counted among none of his duties. This time he declined to explain.

Inovar placed himself behind the large desk that dominated the tent’s interior. "Cade, you have served in my army for six months," he began. "Are you satisfied with your wages?"

"I am. I'm a simple enough man, sir. I don't need too much."

"No more than the cost of taking care of a young child, for two years, if I recall."

Cade nodded. "Or the cost of two for one year," he said.

"It's an odd measure of pay. Should I assume you have children of your own?"

Strolling to the entrance of the tent, Cade glanced out. "Yes, I do, sir. Two boys."

"What ages?"

Cade could have been as much as fifty, hardly a young father. It intrigued Inovar that a man so seasoned pursued such bloody employment.

"Growing," was the ambiguous reply. "But yes, they're the reason I asked for my wage the way I did. I always try to make things even."

Inovar cleaned his sword and sparring armor. Normally his aide would assist, but he did not feel like sending for him. Cade ran his callused thumb along the edge of the blade carefully. "Was that what you wanted to know, sir?" he asked.

"You are an anomaly in my army," Inovar said, taking it from him to polish the hilt. "Excuse my curiosity."

The mercenary's teeth flashed white. "You command an army and will rule a country, sir. Who couldn't excuse you anything?" He chuckled. "As far as I can see, this country couldn't get anywhere without you—if I may say so, Field Marshal."

Inovar set down the sword. The crowds at their sparring matches often came not for the Field Marshal's fame, but for the heir apparent. Inovar had worn the title of Prince since childhood. His royal uncle, childless, primed him to lead, to command respect and obedience. The war became his proving grounds. Now the military title fit him more comfortably than the royal one.

Aregeist weighed heavily on his shoulders; when the lord died, he would carry that burden alone.

He did not flinch. "Some are of the same opinion."

"But not you, I take it."

Cade took the polished sword from the table and sheathed it for Inovar. Then he drew his own and measured the length against the Field Marshal's. "You know, sir, the one thing I want my boys to grow up believing in is responsibility."

Inovar kept his voice level. "Are you calling me irresponsible, Mister Cade?"

"Oh! Hell. Pardon me, Field Marshal, I meant no offense." Cade grimaced. "All I meant to say is that right now, you're responsible for the fate of Aregeist. But you don’t seem to feel you’re the one."

Inovar carried his gambeson to its storage chest, taking the moment to compose himself. The damned Autillian had hit devilishly close to the mark of his nightmares. There lay the trap in familiarity. "That is an interesting observation, and one I would thank you to keep to yourself," he said coolly. "Perhaps we can speak of it another time."

"As you will, sir." Behind him, the mercenary sighed. "I'll leave you to your duty." Then he paused. "Let me compliment your swordplay, though. I don't often see men who can fight like that. You've got no doubt in yourself with a blade in your hands."

A blatant attempt at appeasement, but it sufficed. It was difficult to stay angry with Cade. Inovar closed the chest and laid his sword on top. "Compliment accepted."

"Blazes. I've forgotten already. You're right-handed, aren't you?"

"Yes. Why do you…?"

As he stood, the half-expected betrayal came--with the ice-cold bite of steel into his right arm. If he had not turned, the blade would have gone into his ribs. The surprise, more than the pain, robbed Inovar of breath. He reeled away, fumbling for his own sword.

Cade's silhouette blocked the light, a mountain of nightmare. The mercenary drew back his sword again, but delayed the assassination.

"Sorry, Field Marshal," he said. "You’re not the one."

His sword still sheathed, Inovar swung at full strength. The scabbard cracked into Cade’s knees. He staggered sideways against the desk. Inovar thought he might have broken bone.

As Cade clutched his shin, swearing, Inovar circled toward the door. He held the sword awkwardly in his left hand, the right dangling and slick with blood. "Guards!" he shouted. "Guards!"



[to be continued in Ch 1]