“Do this right and we’ll be fine. Now go.”
They tracked the column until dusk, watching as it formed itself into a square-shaped encampment with the usual disconcerting speed and precision of Volarian slave-soldiery. Watching the way the entire battalion moved like one living beast made Frentis glad he had never had to face them in open field and wondrous as to how Vaelin had managed to beat so many at Alltor. Little wonder she thought they could conquer the whole world.
They left Dallin with the horses a half mile ahead of the Volarian camp and approached on foot, making for the northern picket line. He and Rensial wore their Free Sword mercenary garb, basically identical to the standard kit but slightly less uniform in appearance, the breastplates adorned with various scribblings in Volarian. Frentis couldn’t read the words but Thirty-Four had translated enough to indicate it consisted of various cynical and fatalistic slogans common to veteran Free Swords: free in spirit but a slave to blood, was a typical example. However, their garb was clearly sufficiently similar to the other Free Swords to allow them to approach the first one they saw without raising any sign of alarm.
“Fucking cold tonight,” he greeted them cheerfully, steam rising as he pissed against a rock.
Master Rensial didn’t speak a word of Volarian but repeated, “Fucking cold,” with uncanny precision before stepping close to cut the man’s throat. They hid him in the lee of a large boulder and moved on, making it all the way to the camp’s fringes without interruption. Varitai were posted at intervals of twenty feet, silent, barely moving sentinels who also offered no challenge as they made their way to the camp’s interior, picking out the large tent positioned in the centre. Frentis was dismayed to find two Kuritai standing outside the tent; the Volarian commander’s caution was proving ever more trying. They made their way to a fire a short distance away, hands hovering to catch the warmth and listening to the faint snatches of conversation from the tent’s interior.
“. . . every day we delay earns more criticism, Father,” a voice was saying, earnest with youthful impatience. “You can bet those bastards in New Kethia are making great capital of our misfortunes already.”
“Let them,” came a more placid response, the voice older, gravelled and weary. “Victory always silences criticism.”
“You heard the scouts yesterday, at least two hundred slaves have taken to foot in the last week alone. If we can’t crush this rebellion soon . . .”
“It’s not a rebellion!” the older voice snapped, a sudden anger banishing the weariness. “It’s an invasion by blood-crazed foreigners and you’ll not say any different. There has never been a slave revolt in the history of the empire and our family will not have its name sullied by the mention of one. You hear me?”
A pause before a sullen response, “Yes, Father.”
The older voice issued a tired sigh and Frentis pictured its owner sinking into a chair. “Get the map. No, the other one . . .”
They waited until the sun had vanished behind the skyline and a flurry of alarm sounded from the southern perimeter, Vinten following his orders with typical efficiency. Frentis filled his palm with a throwing knife and met Rensial’s gaze. “Don’t kill the son.”
They ran towards the tent, Frentis waving frantically at the south with his empty hand. “Honoured Commander, we are attacked!”
As expected the Kuritai both stepped forward in unison to block their path as a curse sounded from the tent’s interior, a broad grizzled face appearing at the flap, demanding, “What’s all this babble?” in a gravelled voice.
Not so cautious after all, Frentis decided as the knife flew from his hand, flashing between the two Kuritai to take the commander in the throat. Frentis danced aside as the Kuritai on the right lunged, his sword clashing with the twin blades as he spun, his own blade slicing deep into the slave-elite’s arm. It barely seemed to slow him, his good arm whipping around to slash at Frentis’s chest, their swords colliding with a flash of sparks before Frentis reversed his hold on the short sword, sinking to one knee, and thrusting up at the Kuritai’s head. The sword tip caught him under the chin, punching through into the brain.