Leybound Chapter Thirty-One | Sour Grapes (Patreon)

The small camp was used by the shepherds that drove their goats up into the hills in spring, and the jutting cliff face above them kept off most of the rain. Riot found Walden Moran sitting alone on a log, staring morosely into the flames. As Riot approached, the Arcanist forced a well practiced smile onto his face.

“Sergeant Riot! How unexpected. Come and sit; can I offer you a drink?” Moran produced two fluted crystal glasses and a silver wine decanter as Riot took a seat. “I must say, I don’t care much for the regiment's traditional divisions at a time like this. The evenings have been frightfully lone- ly.” He offered Riot a small glass with a thimbleful of red liquid inside. “Why do they keep the rank and file and the officers separated?”e3Riot's eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know, really. That's just the way it's always been. We don’t know much about fancy drinks and wine.” The red liquid was tart and sour, and he finished it in one gulp. It confirmed what he’s always suspected: wine was a waste of good grapes.

“I will admit, I wasn’t sure what to bring on such an excursion. Aside from the occasional hunting trip, this is rather out of my comfort zone. In hindsight, an extra blanket would have been the more astute choice. The men are settled?”

“Yes.” Riot had set sentries as best he could, though he had to use Moran's men. Over the last day of hard travel, the sullen stares of the Leybound had returned, and they had stopped laughing at Moran's jokes.

“As usual, I will leave it in your capable hands. I spoke to Loic today. It seems there has been a misunderstanding. He thought that you killed a friend of his. I wanted to let you know that he has apologized to me, and I don’t expect to hear any more about the matter.”

Riot remained silent. It would take more than that for him to sleep soundly anywhere near Loic.

“He appears to have a dislike of Erudorans, and I must say I too was surprised to see an Erudoran Leybound,” Walden said, his eyes flicking briefly to Riot's pale gray eyes. “Do you miss your homeland?”

The man had such an easy way of asking questions that Riot found himself answering them automatically.

“I was born in Fallow; I’ve never been to Erudor.”

“An immigrant then? Eager to serve the new fatherland, you joined the regiments.”

“We were hungry; the regiments paid a silver gilder for signing up.”

“It seems that not all of the other Leybound share your sense of civic responsibility, a curious tendency of the guild to seek Leybound recruits from the prisons and the courts.”

Riot shrugged. “Soldiering strips the good out of most men; take a criminal and make him a solider, and he’s already most of the way there.”

Moran fished out a thin cigar and a tinder box from his inside pocket; he offered one to Riot, but he shook his head. “What about the officers, the noble class? What does soldiering do to them?” Moran asked.

Riot shrugged. “Same camp, just a different fire.”

“Come now; I'm told that the officers conduct them- selves with honor. Without them, the regiments would be little more than tavern brawlers or barbarians.” Moran took a delicate sip and swirled it around his mouth, making a small noise of satisfaction. “Serving is a sacred duty; who better to lead men than those who realize that war is more than just killing the enemy?”

“Killing is all that really matters, perhaps knowing when to retreat.”

“So you believe that everything else is just pageantry, a smoke and mirror show to justify one group placing them- selves above another, using a moral argument to exert their frail superiority, something like that?”

Riot blinked, and Moran gave a satisfied smile. “You have possibly noticed that I am not very learned in the ways of war. But thankfully, I possess limited intelligence enough to see things for what they are. The system of command is far from perfect, but it is a practical form of organization. The noble families pay for the regiments, and in return, they bolster their positions in their own society. Honor and glory as much a currency to them as the silver gilder is to you.”

“Is that what you are doing out here, looking for glory?”

“Ah, we reach the crux of the conversation. I am conducting yourself and those men to safety, and not a moment too soon.”

“I don’t think so; I think it’s us that are conducting you across these bloody hills.”

Moran smiled, his cigar clamped in his teeth. “You appear to have a theory, sergeant. Let’s hear it.”

“Riley had a package with him when he left Helgan’s Rest, a couple of commander's chains, and yours looks brand new.”

Moran plucked at the heavy chain, his mouth twisting slightly in a wry smile. “A good observation, but I am a rich man with a fondness for accoutrements. Leaders have to uphold certain standards,” Moran said, glancing pointedly at Riot’s ill-fitting, dirty uniform.

Riot ignored the slight and plowed on. “The man who killed Riley also killed a friar. I don’t know if the poor bastard had any information to give them. But I think you do.”

“You plan to torture me, sergeant?”

Walden Moran was of a slight build, and it didn’t matter that he was an Arcanist; Riot was more than close enough to close the distance if he needed to. But there wasn't the barest flicker of uncertainty; Moran met his gaze with steady confidence.

“They killed thirty Leybound and Riley and Fitz, but they weren’t after us. They were hunting you, and we just got in the way. Riley had a package on him when he left us; it wasn’t on his body, and those bastards are looking for it.”

“An imaginative hypothesis, and where do you think this package is now?”

“I think he gave it to you; I want to know what it was and what you’re doing out here.”

“What you want, sergeant, is of little import.” Moran tapped the chain around his neck.

“Then I’ll leave you in this pile of rocks and take my men to the coast and find a boat to take us to Helgan’s Rest.”

“That would be a gross dereliction of duty. I could just ask them to arrest you. There was a wonderfully gnarled tree back in the pass; I think it would hold your weight.”

Riot knew as well as Moran did that Loic and a handful of the other Leybound would be more than happy to see the order carried out.

Moran continued. “How about a compromise? I will give you my word that my actions are for the greater good and will help to defeat the Covenant forces.”

“Out here, your words are about as good as a toilet paper boat in a shitstorm.”

Moran chuckled. “How delightfully provincial! If you want to leave, sergeant, then go, but I am sure at this point that you will be making the journey alone.”

Riot knew it was true. “You turned the men against me so that they would follow you.”

“I didn’t have to, sergeant; those men were never with you.”

There was pity in Moran's voice that angered Riot far more than the fact that he knew he was right.

“My need for them is greater than yours; I promise you that,” Moran continued.

“What do you want them for?”

“I told you, we were going to my ancestral home, the citadel of Morbian.”

“Why?”

“Our destination is all you need to know; assist me, and I will reward you and them. Once we arrive, you will have your chance to desert if you still feel inclined. There are always ships looking for fighting men.”

“I’m no deserter.”

“Then I can look forward to the pleasure of your company. If in the meantime I can be of any service, you just need to ask.”

Moran held out his hand, and Riot felt bile rise up from his gut where the ley power was churning. He need only ask Moran, and the pressure could be released. The poison of the ley line leached from his aching bones and muscles. He could even rebuild the crumbling barrier. Moran might know about spellcraft.

“No, there’s nothing,” Riot said.

Moran smiled and withdrew his hand. “One more thing, sergeant. Our companion, Natalia Quinn, works for the wikkan. I realize that you do not like my methods, but I think you will agree that the wikkan place even less value on our lives.”

“You don’t trust her?”

“I do not. You and I are on the same side, and we want the same thing, which is to reach safety with as many of our men alive as possible. As for Miss Quinn, who knows what she wants? Perhaps you can find out.”

“You want me to spy on her?”

“How wonderfully ironic, spying on the spy! You may have noticed her nightly disappearances; I would like to know what she is doing, and there appears to be no time like the present.”

Moran indicated to the neighboring fire where the Leybound were gathered, and Riot saw Quinn stand and make her way through the trees.

Riot left Moran by the fire to follow Quinn but he had barely made it a half dozen steps before Fletcher, the old boatman, hurried over and blocked his path.

“Sarge.”

“Not now,” Riot said, looking past him. Damn, he’d lost sight of her.

“Just wanted to say, sarge. I was Leybound for a year before I got my spell craft. Damn near killed me.” The shorter man scratched at the scar on his neck. “So you know I thought what with you–“

Riot pushed past the older man with a curse and jogged into the darkness, straining his hearing.

The two sentries in green and white stood in the middle of the path. Both of them saluted; one of them dropped his crossbow and it clattered to the floor.

“Sir, ah, sarge.”

“Rest easy. Anything to report?”

“All quiet.” Another salute.

“You don’t have to keep saluting. Which way did Natalia Quinn go?”

“No one has been past.” The guard's arm raised slightly before dropping. “Sir,” he mumbled.

Riot walked further down the rutted trail. Before him was only silence, but there was a darker shape hidden in the rocks.

“Crease?” Riot hissed.

“Didn’t think you’d see me,” Crease sniffed.

“Anyone been past here?”

“Nothing doing. Quiet as the grave, sarge.”

If Crease hadn’t seen her, where in all the hells had she gone?

“Go get some rest; I’ll take the watch,” Riot said, handing out a small flask of wine. “Here take this.”

The cork popped gently in the darkness, and Riot heard a sniff.

“Gods, sarge what is it?” Crease asked.

“Expensive,” Riot replied, settling down in the shadows.