The Steel Remains

“Not one soldier in a thousand is chosen for the Emperor’s guard,” he stated, as if reciting it. “It was my duty, nothing more. The throne of Yhelteth is eternal, life in service to it must reflect that eternity in honor. Death is a price that must sometimes be paid, like any other honorable debt.”

“Glad to hear that,” said Ringil breezily. “Very uplifting. Hang on to that attitude, you’re going to need it.”

Rakan turned a frosty eye on him. “We have not had your name, sir.”

“Oh, I?” Ringil raised one hand to mask a sudden, jaw-creaking yawn. “I’m Ringil of the Glades house of Eskiath in Trelayne. You may have heard of me as well.”

Rakan’s face changed once more. It became abruptly impassive.

“Yes, I have heard of you,” he said shortly.

Ringil nodded. “Gallows Gap, no doubt.”

But the Throne Eternal captain shook his head. “No. That name is not familiar to me. What I have heard is that Ringil Eskiath was a traitor to the imperial peace in the northern provinces, a corruptor of youth, and a faggot.”

Egar bounced up off the curve of the upended boat back, face darkening. Archeth saw Ringil’s hand fall on his arm, and felt a pang of relief. The distribution of weapons in the room did not invite brawling.

“Fascinating, Eg,” Ringil’s tone was light and soft. Only someone who knew him well would have spotted the steel edge sheathed in it. “Don’t you think? What they must be teaching in history books down south these days. I’ll bet we find the Empire won the war against the Scaled Folk all by itself. And that the good people of Ennishmin and Naral were so grateful they spontaneously vacated their homes to allow imperial settlers to live in them.”

Rakan lifted a finger. “I will not hear you—”

“That’s enough, Rakan.” Archeth stepped between the Throne Eternal captain and the others. “Gil, Egar, you told the militia you were running from dwenda, is that right?”

Ringil and Egar exchanged a glance. Ringil looked grim.

“Actually, I wasn’t that specific,” he said quietly. “What do you know about the dwenda, Archidi?”

The pounding in her chest seemed to be subsiding, settling to something colder and more patient that she recognized from the war years.

“I know they’re here,” she said. “In Ennishmin, in the swamps.”

Ringil bent her a hard little smile.

“That’s not the half of it. By tonight, they’re going to be right here in Ibiksinri, walking the main street and knocking on doors.”

THEY HELD THE COUNCIL OF WAR IN THE GARRISON HOUSE, AWAY FROM prying eyes. No point in alarming the locals, Faileh Rakan said. No, Ringil agreed, they’d only gather up their children and flee for their lives. Can’t have that, can we? Not in a border province. The Throne Eternal captain fixed him with a baleful stare, but by this time Ringil had back the Ravensfriend and his dragon knife, had breakfasted heartily, and wore a faint, inviting smile on his face that Rakan knew well enough how to read.

Archeth put out the flames again, kept the two of them apart. They put Sherin with Elith in an unlocked cell downstairs, one of those the village administrator had been prevailed upon to equip with a few comforts when Archeth and her men were forced to stay the night before. They sent the administrator and his men away with some simple tasks to perform, told them there was nothing much to worry about, really, and locked themselves in the tower room. They got down to business, got up to date on the varied paths that had brought them to Ennishmin, which in itself was a lengthy business—and not without its awkward moments.

“Impossible! This is heresy.” Halgan, one of the two Throne Eternal lieutenants Faileh Rakan had detailed to sit in, was not dealing very well with Egar’s tale of his encounter with Takavach. “There is but One God and He has made himself known to us in the One True Revelation.”

Ringil rolled his eyes. But Darash, the other lieutenant, was nodding agreement, and even Rakan’s ordinarily impassive face was turned toward the Majak with a frown. Archeth couldn’t be bothered; she let them get on with it. She stared out of the window and wondered why the mention of Takavach’s leather hat and cloak seemed so familiar. Meanwhile, Egar grinned and poured himself more coffee. He was used to this sort of thing, had in fact always derived a rather childish satisfaction from scandalizing the imperials when he lived in Yhelteth. He lifted the callused blade of a hand at Halgan.

“Look, mate, I saw this Takavach take a crossbow bolt out of the air in midflight with his bare hand. Like that. He summoned an army of demons from the steppe grasses the way you’d call your children in from play, and he brought me the best part of seven hundred miles southwest to Ennishmin in the time it’d take you to snap your fucking fingers. Now—if that’s not a god, then it’s a pretty good imitation.”