Leybound Chapter Thirty-Nine | Fra Odred (Patreon)

Riot hissed as Loic wrenched the crossbow bolt out of his back.

“Can’t do much till we get to the others, but it didn’t hit anything important,” Loic said. 

Riot gulped at the water in the flask, spilling most of it down his chin. The ley power pressure was reduced now, leaking out painfully slowly, leaving black stains on his skin.

The sun had risen sluggishly into the sky, and Natalia Quinn had taken the first watch, but Riot still kept his voice down. He didn’t know how she did it, but she could move like a ghost when she wanted to. 

“Price?” he asked Loic. 

“He fell in, same as you. If he survived he’ll be looking for us. He’s not the type to forget; worse than the Faelen when it comes to honor and revenge,” Loic murmured, looking around at the trees as if Price were about to stride out, sword in hand.

He’ll be in the city, waiting for us.” Riot said. 

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what he wants.” 

Price had hunted Riley down and checked the saddle bags before he had killed him. He had trailed them through the hills. He wanted Moran and whatever was in the pouch that he carried. 

“He wants to settle scores, and now we’re at the top of his list,” Loic said. 

Could he trust the northman? He had fought against Price with him. Fought him with something powerful enough to knock himself out. Loic still looked like he was slightly in pain, his skin slack and his breathing ragged. 

“I saw the charge up the ridge. You’re a mad bastard; they should have killed you,” Loic conceded. 

“What would you have done?” 

“Nothing wrong with it; I’m saying I’m sorry I missed out. The lads will be talking about that one for a long time.”

Loic gave a sheepish kind of smile. Perhaps he was trying to be friendly, trading war stories, but too much bad blood had passed between them for him to want to be friendly with the younger man. But he had come back for him. So, that was something. 

“I think Price is after Moran, you know; the archaist is hiding something if you ask me,” Loic went on in a more conspiratorial tone. 

“He didn’t tell you? I thought you two were close; what was it, ‘three cheers for the commander’?”

Loic at least had the decency to look uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you. None of us did. But we do now. You’re a tough bastard; I can still feel my liver bruised from where you hit me.”

Riot could still feel the sharp pain in his knee, like a shard of glass was stuck in it. “I should have hit you harder and put you down for good.”

“Perhaps you should have, but you didn't, and we’re here now, so what are we doing next?”

“As good a question as any,” Quinn materialized out of the bushes. If her wounded shoulder troubled her, she didn’t show it, striding as she always did, always composed. 

“How do you do that?” Riot asked. 

“Hard work and training. How do you think Loic can break walls down? Even though he apparently knocks himself out in the process.”

“Only some of the time,” Loic muttered. 

“Price is after you, not Moran. Don’t deny it. He told me I could leave if I let him take you,” Riot said. 

“And you refused? How very gallant of you.” 

The northman finished with the fire and stood, picking up his pack. “I’m taking watch, but I’ll say this. You stood toe to toe with Gerrard Price and lived, so if we're seeing this through, I’ll follow you.” 

Loic loped off, leaving a silence that held only the soft crackling of flames.

“He doesn’t know you saved me from Price, does he?” Riot said. 

“Not a clue; he was completely incapacitated. The legend of the last man grows. He wanted to respect you; you just had to give him a reason.”

“If this is another speech about leadership,” Riot began.

Natalia smiled and moved closer to the fire. “You don’t need any speeches. I know that you’ll want to go and find Gerrard Price, and if you want to beat him, you won’t be able to do it alone. Now you have the support of Loic, and through him, the support of the leybound. So I rather think that my work here is done. You have impressed me.” 

“Tell me about Price; what do you know?”

“He is the son of a general from the Black Peaks who made his name in the orc wars.” 

Riot stared at the flames. The orc wars are generally mentioned in hushed tones. Everyone was friendly now, allies now against the Faelen, but it wasn’t always that way.

“Price is a student of war,” Natalia continued. “When he was faced with the possibility of defeat, he did what he needed to do to win. Terrible things, mostly.” 

“I saw some of his handy work in the ravine; he sliced a Faelen captain to ribbons.” 

“‘The Weeping Peak’, they called it. A thousand orcs chased two hundred men into the mountains. Fifty men were led out by Price, and only three of the orcs managed to crawl out. Blinded and crippled. The mountains are haunted now; even the Faelen didn’t bother to try to go through them.”

“He told me he’d been betrayed by his own officers.” 

“Price was forced to leave his home; that was the price of peace with the orcs. First he fought the Faelen, the Erudorans, anyone he could, until he joined the regiments here. The officers were jealous of his skill, his leadership, and how the rank and file loved him. They set him up to kill another officer, and when he was tried, he chose to be made leybound.”

“You sound like you admire him.” 

“He is quite brilliant, and his control of the ley power is unparalleled. But he is bitter.”

“What about you and Moran? What are you working on?”

“Moran and I have our own goals; both will help fight the Faelen. Just know this: Moran will stop at nothing to accomplish his goals; he does not care how many lives it costs, including the leybound.” 

“You're saying you would choose my life or Loics or any of the others before getting what you want?” 

Natalia gave a grim smile. “No, I would also let you all die to achieve my ends.” 

“Then how are you different from Moran?” 

“I don’t need you, dead or alive, to achieve my goals. You should sleep; we’ll move as soon as night falls.”

Natalia moved slightly further away and settled down on her own bedroll, turning her back to him. Riot knew he wouldn’t find any sleep, so he sat and forced himself to cycle the ley power. It felt like an almost solid substance in his veins, but he cycled anyway, using the burning sensation to restock his anger and rage as the sun set. 

The Priory sat on the route of an ancient pilgrimage, and for hundreds of years it had offered shelter and sustenance to those who wished to travel from the heathen lands of Taria through the Castemere hills to Helgan’s Rest, the holy seat of the Prior in Parthenea. 

Though now it sat in ruin, sacked by the Faelen like so many of the great religions on the continent, its riches stripped away, and its guardians fled for the safety of the nearest castle or stronghold. The early morning sun picked out the crumbling masonry of the main Priory building and the collection of dilapidated outbuildings. 

Crease, the skinny cutthroat, was on sentry duty, and at the sight of them, he ran back up the track. 

Riot leaned on Loic, sparing no thought for looking weak; he was long past that point. He could barely see anything in front of him as the ley power flooded his vision with gray light. The only part of him that remained free from the aching pain was the hedron scar on his hand, and he was desperate to rip down the fragile barrier that had been placed there and let the pressure out. 

Fletcher, the old boatman, led the group of leybound that hurried over to meet them. “Good to have you back, sarge,” the sold boatman leybound said, handing Riot a small flask. “For your rehabilitation.”

“You drink on duty, Fletcher?” Riot asked.

Fletcher looked nervous, but Riot unscrewed the flask and took a deep draft before handing it back. 

“I’ve left some; be careful; if you sober up too fast, it might kill you,” Riot said, and Fletcher grinned and touched his forelock. 

The rest of the leybound greeted them warmly. Riot was thumped on the back, and he winced at the pain from the crossbow bolt that had struck his shoulder as his hands were wrung by each of them. 

Of the sixty that had left the camp two weeks ago under the command of Captain Riley, only twelve leybound remained. Their mission should have seen them back in the army camp before sunset, but instead they had traversed the length of the Castemere hills, pursued by their fellow condemned man, Gerrard Price. 

Of the twenty guardsmen that had traveled with Walden Moran, pristine in their tabards, only six remained, now battle-hardened and filthy, their stares as hard as any veteran.

Many of them spoke excitedly of the mission of madness that Riot had led them on, up the side of the ravine to clear the ridge. Even those like Rimmer, who had complained each step of the journey and questioned each of Riot's orders, saluted him, proudly proclaiming that he had been right behind Riot in the charge and retold the story of how he had personally killed a Faelen who would have claimed Riot's life. 

“We heard about Price too, sir, the bastard,” Rimmer said. 

“All those poor people in that village,” Fletcher said. 

“We’ll get him, right sarge?” Lehan asked. 

“We’ll get him; I promise you that,” Riot replied. 

He had thought them scum of the rank and file, reviled, ridiculed, and feared. But they had fought like tigers when he had led them up to the ridge, and he imagined what they could be if they had their pride restored. 

“Where’s Moran?” Riot asked.

The mention of the commander drew dark looks from the leybound. 

“What’s happened?” Loic asked. 

“He’s in there, with some friar,” Lehan said. 

“That man’s no friar.” The usually stoic Crease wore a scowl. 

As if summoned, the doors of the priory swung open, and Moran strode out, a wizened figure in a brown cassock trailing behind him. 

“Loic, go with this lot; find out what’s been happening while we were away,” Riot murmured. 

“What are you going to do?” Loic asked. 

“I’m going to get some answers,” Riot replied.

Loic called to the leybound to follow him, and the small group made their way back over to the small campfire. Natalia Quinn remained close, but she wasn’t looking at Moran as he approached; her eyes were locked on the smaller figure that accompanied him.

“Who’s that?” Riot asked under his breath.

“It looks to be a holy man,” she replied.

“Sergeant Riot, I must say your penchant for survival borders on the divine, though you look to have tested the very limits of their faith this time,” Moran declared as he approached. “Miss Quinn, I am grateful to see that you too have returned unharmed, though I expect we will not have the pleasure of your company for much longer. Unless you wish to involve us in your little enterprise, I feel it would be best if we parted ways,” Moran gave a small bow in her direction. 

As Moran spoke, the smaller man glanced up rapidly at Natalia from behind his back, and the look that the noble woman shot him was glacial enough that he immediately resumed his close study of the moss-covered stones. 

“I will leave before first light tomorrow morning. I thank you for allowing me to travel with you this far,” Quinn said.

With that, she turned and strode off in the direction of a trail that led between the tumbles of buildings. 

Moran treated Riot to a dashing smile. “Well, that’s taken care of; perhaps the first order of business is to make you more comfortable, sergeant.” The archaist led the way into the crumbled Priory, where a small desk had been set up amidst the half-collapsed ceiling.

Moran stepped closer and peered at Riot. “The ley power you are holding must be exceptionally uncomfortable; it would be better to be extracted piecemeal, otherwise I fear the shock would be quite alarming.” Moral said, holding out his slender hand.

Riot kept his arms by his sides. “Who’s this?” He asked, nodding to the shorter man. At least he supposed he was a man; his ruddy face was so filthy he looked more like a gnome, though it was rare enough to see one of them outside of the wilds in the west, and even more so wearing a cassock.

“This is Fra Odred,” Moran supplied.

The wizened figure remained silent, and Moran gave him a perplexed glance. “What is the matter with you, Odred? No snide remarks for Sergeant Riot? No lightly veiled insults or sudden spasms of phlegmy coughing to revolt us?”

The smaller man's gaze flickered to the doorway, and Moran shrugged before continuing. “At any rate, Fra Odred has agreed to let us use the priory as a staging area from which to launch our assault on the citadel. If you feel you are ready to resume your duties, sergeant, then I would appreciate your input, and I will admit that the men have been difficult since you left us.” 

“They finally figured you out, then? It’s about time,” Riot said.

“I am pleased that you have returned, sergeant. But nothing has changed since you left. I am still in command, and you will obey my orders.” 

Riot felt his anger rising, and his hands balled into fists. “Listen–” Riot began. 

Riot felt a small hand clutch his own, and the words died in his throat as all of the ley power was torn from him in a pain-filled second, leaving him an empty husk. He tried to speak, but didn’t even have the strength to form the words and instead fell to the floor in a heap. 

“Odred, what has gotten into you? That was certainly uncalled for,” Moran said. 

“I done him a favor; he was 'bout to melt,” came the grated response, accompanied by a phlegmy cough.