Leybound Chapter Forty-Two | Glory Indeed (Patreon)

Riot took his time dressing. He had wounds all over his body, but most of all, he felt weak. He had spent most of his life marching and eating meager army rations, and he had always been lean, but now his ribs were visible under the sallow skin.

Outside, the wind brought a chill, and he found most of the leybound huddled around a small fire where Rimmer was tending to a blackened cookpot. Someone told a muttered joke, and they all chuckled. Riot called Loic over and moved away so that their voices wouldn’t carry. 

“Sarge?” Loic asked. 

“How are they?” 

“Cold, miserable. It’s a lonely night to be had in these hills,” Loic said, studying the landscape around them absently. “Lonely for most anyway, that’s for sure.”

Riot realized that the laughter from the leybound had been directed at him and wondered if he should have been more discreet. There were always women in the army camps, but as a sergeant, he had never minded any idle gossip about who he spent his time with. But he was more than a sergeant now, if not in rank. 

“A warm bed is a draft of health, they say, and you’re looking much better today, sarge if you don’t mind me saying.”

"Yes, I bloody mind you saying. Knock it off, or I’ll put you back under arrest. Where did you go with Moran?”

“He took us out to the coast, made us keep watch while he went down to a fishing village with his priest.”

“He’s no priest; he’s a damn archanist.”

“Really? Funny, he looks like a dirty gnome.”

“Where are they now?” 

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair; the Commander’s keeping away from us, avoiding the men.” 

“Spit it out will you,” Riot said, sensing that there was something the young northman wasn’t saying. 

“Back at the ravine, Moran gave the order to leave, but the men wanted to look for us. Moran wouldn’t let them, and it seems they had words; he threatened to court-martial them.” 

“Who was it?” 

“All of them. Every man jack of them.” 

Riot looked around at the shabby, dirty leybound. Less than a week ago, they had circled around and cheered while Loic had tried to kill him, and now each of them had stood up to an officer for him, and Loic was here, joking about who he spent his nights with, talking to him like they were on the same side.

“If they were told to get ready to leave,” Riot began, not finishing the thought. 

“If you were standing at the front, I think you could lead them into the echo itself. They think you have the luck of the abyss.” 

“What about you, you think I have the luck of the abyss?” 

“I was never taken in by a lot of that last man stuff, but if you want to leave, I’ll go, or if it's a fight we're to be having, I’ll fight.” 

Quinn had been right at least about Loic; the northman had influence in the leybound company, and Riot was sure that it was him who held sway in who they followed. 

“Make sure they’re ready to move, but don’t make them look ready.”

Riot made his way alone to the main priory building and found Moran inside, pouring over a map. Beside him was the leather messenger pouch that Kerne had given to Riley, the one that Price and the Faelen had tracked them across the hills to recover. Whatever was inside was the key to the mission. 

“Ah, sergeant, good to see that you are on your feet. We have work to do; choose three of the leybound and wait for me at the gate.” 

After a moment, Moran seemed to have realized that Riot had not moved. “Is there a problem?” 

Riot indicated to the leather pouch. “What’s in the bag?” 

“The contents of that pouch are none of your concern. Three men, and wait for me outside.” 

“No.” 

“No?”

“We’ve come a long way for your mission, lost a lot of men. If you want us to go any further, we need to know why.” 

“This could be construed as a mutiny,” Moran muttered. 

“No mutiny, nor desertion. If you tell me what you want, then I’ll fight till I’m bloody to get it for you, and the leybound will come with me. But I won’t lead them into a slaughter, you’re not a soldier, but I am, and I’m bloody good at it. So tell me what you want, and I’ll help you get it. Thats my offer.” 

Moran clicked his tongue before seizing the leather pouch and tossing it to Riot. It was filled with thick parchment pages—at least a dozen of them. Riot pulled one out and saw that it was filled with flowery script, stamps, and seals. At the bottom were signatures from high-ranking wikkan, faelen, and arcanists, and at the bottom was the signature of Roveran Listor, the powerful Erudoran who had saved him from being hung.

“What's all this?”

“Deeds, titles, assurances, grants, bribes, promises of power,” Moran said, taking a seat. He looked older, the lines on his young face deep with exhaustion. “What I tell you cannot leave this chamber; you will not discuss it with the leybound, and, should she return, you shall not discuss it with Natalia Quinn. Those are my terms; do you accept them?” 

“I do,” Riot said, sure that whatever he was about to hear was fully known by Quinn. 

“The town of Morbian guards the ocean passage past the dragon's teeth.”

Riot nodded. It was the source of the town's wealth; all ships had to pass through the passage or risk a treacherous, month-long sail around the rocks that they called the dragon's spine.

“The town has its own ships and a small garrison, but its true defense is the arcanist tower in the middle of the city. It is called the Sun Tower and is capable of destroying any ship that passes through the channel. If it were used to aid the Arcanum, it would ensure that the Erudoran fleet can sail freely to Helgans Rest in the spring, without it, the Covenant blockade continues and the regiments will likely perish.”

Riot had heard of the sun tower before, weeks ago, when Price begged Myam-tal to protect him. He told this to Moran, who nodded, his expression sombre. 

“So you see, the Covenant has an interest in ensuring that the Sun Tower is not activated. It’s master is a powerful arcanist and, at present, is allied with the Covenant. I hope to change his mind.”

“These bits of paper will persuade him?” Riot asked. 

“This is what we must hope. If we fail, the Erudorans will not come, and the arcanum forces will be destroyed. So, sergeant, can I count on you?” 

The truth was that Riot wanted more than ever to complete this mission. If the Erudoran fleet arrived in Helgan’s Rest, then it was likely that Roveran would be its general. This is what Kerne meant when she told him the army was about to change. Roveran himself was leybound, so perhaps he would help Riot turn them into a respected company.

But more than that, Riot knew that if Gerrard Price had survived, then he would be in the city, and he had to pay for Riley, Fitz, and the villagers in the Castemere hills. 

“I’ll help you.” 

“Good, now let’s go and formulate our plan of attack.” 

The march to the coast took half the day, and as the sun reached its zenith, the small group huddled in the shadow of a hill. Moran, Odred, Riot, and Loic crept up to the summit and looked down on the harbor town of Morbian. 

The town was built on a small, flat island that was attached to the mainland by a narrow land bridge. The harbor had been carved into its southern end, and Covenant flags fluttered from the two huge ships that were docked at the stone quayside. 

At the single entrance to the town, the gate had been ruined and a crude barricade had been erected and even from this distance, they could see the red and yellow uniformed Faelen patrolling it. Even as they watched, a file of horsemen exited the city and headed off into the surrounding hills, likely looking for them or perhaps a routine patrol.

Moran peered through a telescope and outlined his plan. “I propose a distraction at the gate. You have the leybound and my guardsmen, and you can lead them close to the walls to tempt a sortie from the gate. While the eyes of the occupiers are turned toward you, I shall enter the city covertly from the harbor.”

“We might as well just walk up to the gate and stab ourselves; save them the trouble,” Loic murmured. 

“If we time the activity correctly, when my work is done, the city will see that the tower stands with the people; they will rise up, and the occupiers will flee the city.”

“They’ll be fleeing right into us, on horseback, at speed,” Riot stated.

“A desperate plan indeed, but there is glory to be won for those who are daring. What do you think?” 

The arcanist had the bright stare he had seen on other fools who chased glory. Fools like Riley. “I think that if I lead someone into a fight, I want to give them better than even odds that they are going to win walk away from it,” Riot said. 

“Why would they leave the city?” Loic asked, his eyebrows furrowed. “The Faelen, I mean?”

“Because the citizens will rise up,” Moran explained calmly. 

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’ve seen a fair number of rising ups in my time, and your average ironmonger doesn’t last long against a unit of soldiers,” Loic continued. 

Next to him, Fra Odred chuckled. “You are correct, barbarian, they’ll be massacred, Myam-tal is very angry with Waldy already.” 

“Silence, Odred,” Moran snapped.

“Myam-tal's down there?” Riot asked, keeping his eyes locked on Moran, who kept his face carefully blank. 

Odred continued. “Oh yes, he’s in Waldy’s house, wearing his clothes and eating his fancy food. He is very jealous of Waldy. It is so sad when family fall out.”

“Odred,” Moran warned. 

“Family?” Riot said, his voice hard. 

“Half-brothers, actually,” Odred continued, blithely ignoring Morans murderous glare. “But they hate each other; even if you could get them in a room together, there would likely be bloodshed.”

Loic gave a low whistle, then spoke so that only Riot could hear. “An arcanist dueling a high faelen would be a sure way to empty a city.”

“You want our help?” Riot said, addressing Moran. “Then you go down there and call out your brother, and we’ll take Odred to the tower to make your delivery. What was it you said? Glory to be won, for those who are daring.”

He expected him to wilt, gibber some excuse, or perhaps take a superior tone and explain the concept of chain of command, but instead the young arcanist set his jaw, his eyes locked on the high walls of the citadel. 

“Glory indeed," he murmered. "You have a deal, sergeant.”