Scout- The Complete Scout Box Set, page 4
part #1 of Scout Series
Go, I order myself, forcing my body into motion. The din gets louder with each step, and soon I can smell the reek of sweat that clouds the keep like a blanket. Spotting a pair of boys walking in Holy Guard scarlet, I quicken my steps to come alongside them. Time to go to work. “Can you tell me where new trainees are to report?” I ask.
The holy guardsmen stop in unison. Posture rod-straight, they touch their fists to their hearts before the taller of the two looks from the blue diamond sigil on my uniform to my eyes. “To the Dark God’s underworld.”
“Good to know we all get along,” I say under my breath, ignoring their shoves as they move past me.
Down at the main courtyard, I find a jeering crowd of trainees watching four men with practice swords square off against each other. Three shirtless men—full guardsmen, judging by their ages—stand together, sweat running down the muscled grooves of their backs. The fully clothed fourth man, I recognize from my arrival.
Wearing a pale-blue shirt that clings with sweat to shifting muscles, Trace moves with lupine grace as he herds his opponents around the ring. Behind his dark eyes, the world shimmers with violence that sends a shiver through me. I wonder whether the man ever relaxes.
The squat guard closest to Trace cuts his blade so fast that I cringe at the inevitable crack of Trace’s collarbone.
Trace spins smoothly, his silver-blond hair streaming behind him, and parries the blow before it touches flesh. The clap of wood on wood is loud as thunder, and the guard who made the attack stumbles from the impact.
Trace seizes the moment to dip the point of his sword toward the man’s sternum and lunges in.
The bare-chested guardsman gasps, bending double over his abdomen. Trace grabs the back of the man’s head and shoves him face first into the sand. A heartbeat later, a second guardsman falls to Trace’s foot sweep, slapping the ground with his palms to dispel the impact of the fall. Trace finds the fallen man’s eyes and the two exchange quick nods before Trace steps away to square off against the last man left standing, this one with mussed red hair and a fox-like grin. They circle each other, Trace sparing a moment to brush sweat off his forehead. His movements are unlike the other guards’. Unlike anything I’ve seen while training with Lord Gapral. Wherever Trace trained, it wasn’t in Dansil.
Tucking that thought away, I turn my back to the fray, find the guard master’s door in the larger of the four buildings surrounding the central training field, and let myself inside. The man grunts in annoyance at my appearance in his dusty study.
“Your tuition buys your useless carcass a space in the keep,” the guard master growls at me, shoving a key and a paper for me to sign in front of my nose. “Whether you spend your time training or scrubbing latrine troughs with your bare hands is entirely up to you. The rules are simple. One: You will train with the other diamond boys until one of the full guardsmen condescends to sponsor you, and then you will train with him. As that is as likely as you shitting flowers, you should get used to the sound of my voice. Two: Get caught fighting with any roses—the holy guardsmen—and you answer to me. Three: Bring a female into my keep, and you’ll regret your own birth. Finally, the armory and black powder are off limits. I guarantee that whatever idiotic idea you have for explosives will leave you missing limbs. Any questions?”
I shake my head mutely. The guard master indulges in several wet coughs before standing up and lumbering to the door. “Luca! Get your hide in here.” For a man who seemed too occupied to breathe properly a moment ago, the guard master has a voice loud enough to summon the dead.
A few moments later, the red-haired guardsman that I last saw circling the sparring ring with Trace sticks his head into the room, assesses the situation, and crooks one finger at me. By the time I’m outside, he’s busy using his shirt to wipe sweat off a very clearly defined abdomen.
“Pleasant, isn’t he?” Luca says, jerking his chin at the guard master’s closed door.
I hesitate a heartbeat, giving Luca a chance to clothe himself—only to realize the man has no intention of doing so, being fully content to walk around shirtless and glistening with sweat. About the same age as Trace, maybe twenty years old, Luca is tall and leanly muscled, with the aura of an easily amused, overgrown puppy. His auburn bangs are long enough to cover his right eye and too short to stay tucked behind an ear, despite his ongoing attempts to make them do so.
Giving up the hair battle, Luca motions for me to follow him to the barracks. “I’m Luca, as I imagine you’ve put together by now. One of the guards on the king’s personal detail.”
The king’s personal detail? The puppy must have more teeth than he shows. I grunt in a manly way. “Kal Cassidy.”
“Novan’s replacement. I know.”
I see. “I apologize for interrupting your training.” I debate adding “sir” to the phrase, as Luca is both older than Kal and a full guardsman, but the formality so poorly matches Luca’s demeanor that I can’t manage the word.
Luca waves off the apology, the crumpled shirt in his hand dripping with sweat. “It’s no trouble. I can get a beating from Trace anytime I wish.”
With Luca walking in front of me, I let my eyes scan his torso. I saw little of the match between Trace and him, but the lack of severe bruises speaks to Luca’s well-placed parries. Unlike the meticulously technical Trace, I suspect Luca’s skill is rooted as much in natural athleticism as in practice.
“This is you.” Luca stops by one of the doors in a long stone building and turns aside for me to work the key into a rusty lock that I could pick with my eyes closed. Luca and Trace wouldn’t need to do even that, as either could take the whole door down with a good shoulder shove.
Lock conquered, I step into a stone closet that has the gall to call itself a room. The narrow cot takes up most of the space, and Luca shows me how to lift the top of the cot up to access the chest beneath. There is no space for a table, but a shelf bolted to the wall holds a pitcher of water and a washbasin. “Are all the rooms so . . .”
“Spacious?” Luca offers. “Very much so.”
I run my fingers over the stone wall. Except for the size, it is not so different from the space I shared with Leaf at Lord Gapral’s estate. The tougher part will be simultaneously maintaining the illusion of residence in both Lianna’s and Kal’s chambers. Sleep will be hard to come by. “I thought most keep trainees came from posh families.”
“The keep takes some pains to remind you all that you are no longer living with those posh families. I’d be lying if I said that the cot is comfortable for a tumble, but you can manage it with the right girl.” He grins and I turn my face into the shadows to conceal the hint of a blush. “Not that I recommend you bring one here, mind you,” Luca adds, scratching the back of his head. “You’ll pay with your hide if one of the guards catches you.”
I lift a brow. If Leaf were here, she’d be ordering Luca to quit his nonsense and go to the baths by now. “Aren’t you one of the guards, Luca?”
He shrugs and frowns at his balled-up shirt, as if unsure of what to do with it now that its service as a sweat rag has run its course and my whole room has taken on its scent. “Where you stick your prick is not one of my priorities.”
“That’s . . . good to know.” I clear my throat and nudge my weight forward to try and crowd Luca out of the room before everything in my pack absorbs his smell too. “And what are your priorities?”
He cocks his head in thought but doesn’t move. “The royals. Firehorn is bat crazy when it comes to William and Violet, though the princess is easy to deal with. Just smile at the lass and she’ll be happy enough. The other one . . . I think Trace might snap one day and wring the hellion’s head clean off his shoulders.”
I aim my shoulder at Luca’s ribcage and contemplate ramming the man out of my room. Glad as I am for the diarrhea of information, having someone—anyone—between me and the door is bloody unsettling. Especially a half-naked man who is as likely to make use of my chamber pot as he is to offer unsolicited advice on handling females. I finally settle on nudging Luca over with a hand on his shoulder, the way I’d move aside a horse, and sliding past him back outside. “When does training start?”
“Easy there, cub.” Luca, thank the stars, follows me out. “They’ll sweat you to your heart’s content at dawn tomorrow. The rest of the day varies by duties, and it will take you a while to get anything worth looking forward to. Except dinner. You will always look forward to dinner, which, I regret to inform you, we are in danger of missing right now. Do you want to go to the mess hall, or stand here wagging tongues?”
The thought of food in a crowded mess hall turns my stomach. Asking Luca to go ahead on his own, I go back into my room—locking the door behind me this time—unpack the few things I brought, check my throwing knives, and tighten my laces for an easy jog around the palace grounds. Heading north along the tree line, it’s a twenty-minute run from the keep to the palace proper. The map of the underground tunnels that King Firehorn showed me rolls through my memory as I visualize the passageways running below the grassy earth. Breathing evenly, I focus on the light pattering of my feet, pushing the drowning crowd of the keep from my thoughts.
The barracks and training fields on my right yield to the manicured palace courtyards and the stone grandness of the castle itself. Unlike the main south entrance, which welcomed Lady Lianna, the back north entrance is utilitarian, with a small courtyard for supply carriages to stop and turn easily and well-packed dirt ground instead of rich beds of tulips. In place of a sweeping staircase perfect for displaying the latest fashions, the back door is fitted with a ramp to wheel up goods and remove refuse. The palace sides are of the same gray stone here as in the front, but the harsh rock now hides behind winding grapevines.
Guardsmen patrolling the perimeter give me a passing glance, though I suspect more are stationed up high to watch the forest. They bloody have to be, since the forest is all that lies north and west. The back of the castle tapers into rough undergrowth, the North Wood rising to my left in a wall of leaves and bark. A choice: Continue east to stay along the palace perimeter and head toward the royal stables, or veer north into the wilderness I’ve no business exploring just now.
The woods win, the call of the trees too alluring to resist after the crowded keep. Like all plants in Delta, the foliage is lush and thick enough to block some of the sun. This close to the palace, the path is well worn—though wisely narrow, so as to prevent a wagon from passing. An enemy force might send hostiles through the forest, but it won’t be moving an army through here, not without a way of hauling supplies along.
Effective against the likes of Everett. Less effective against Viva Sylthia terror mongers, who do their bidding in small isolated units. If—
My observations break off mid-thought as an explosion of breaking branches and pounding hooves echoes through the forest.
6
Kali
Hooves pound dirt in concert with a horse’s frantic whinny. I spin, surveying the thicket around me. Maple, basswood, and the occasional pine stare back at me, holding the line. Finding no opening, I blow out a breath and forge my own path through the dense foliage toward the sounds of trouble. Branches slap my face and tangle in my clothes, bruising my pride—but the growing noise suggests that speed needs to trump stealth. Within minutes, I emerge onto a parallel trail, where, a short distance to my right, a bay stallion is rearing high enough to reveal the full extent of his reproductive assets, his rider clinging fiercely to the saddle.
The horse stamps his front legs back on the ground, only to get purchase and buck with his rear. The violent thump finally dislodges the rider, and I wince as the young man—a lad of about Kal’s age and build—falls hard against nearby stones.
The stallion spins frantically, the whites of his eyes shining in the evening sun. His muscles bunch in preparation to bolt, which he does a heartbeat later.
Straight at me.
I throw my arms out wide, blocking the horse’s path. My heart speeds but the low “whoa” I call out is steady enough. Generally speaking, horses dislike ramming into things. I hope this particular beast is aware of the generalities common to his species.
The stallion barrels forward. Five paces left. Four.
I hold my ground.
Three paces.
“Watch out,” the boy calls, as if I simply might have overlooked the sprinting beast.
The stallion lays his ears flat against his head and glares. His nostrils flare and foam slips down his scar-marked flanks. Chunks of earth and debris scatter from beneath his hooves.
I hold my ground. And my breath.
An arm’s length short of trampling me into the dust, the stallion skids to a sideways halt, his sides heaving and his muscles so tense, they tremble like the leaves.
Moving with more calm surety than I feel, I grab hold of the dancing animal’s headstall.
His nose dips in subordination, and I finally let out a slow breath. That was more dangerous than I intended.
“Not . . . bad.” The fallen boy pushes himself up, pressing his sleeve against a bleeding gash over his right eye. About sixteen and more beautiful than handsome, the boy has golden hair, a slender waist, and long, dark lashes. His breaths come in ragged gasps, which he attempts to conceal behind a cocky smile. “Maybe . . . you should . . . be wearing a horse master uniform . . . instead of a guard trainee’s.”
I survey the boy from head to toe. He’s bloody fortunate to have survived the fall with his head and bones intact, but whether the damage he did take is superficial remains to be seen. Preferably by a healer.
“I’m all right,” he says. The words come quicker and sharper than they have any right to be.
“You’re a decent liar, I’ll give you that.”
The boy laughs. “What’s your name?”
“Kal. First day.”
The boy nods but offers no return introduction, and I wonder if I’ve overlooked one of the many unspoken rules of male etiquette. Maybe I should have cursed and questioned the boy’s lineage. Too late now.
I stroke the stallion’s nose, watching as his heaving chest calms under my touch. “Spirited, aren’t you?” I murmur to the horse, who snorts into my shoulder and digs the ground with a hoof. A shoeless hoof. I run my hand down the horse’s legs, checking all four feet. “He threw a shoe,” I tell the boy over the horse’s back. “That probably set him off.”
“I know.” The boy shrugs, wobbles precariously, and braces a hand against a tree. “Saw it fly off when we left the stable. It was a good ride until that final dismount, though.” He grins as if this was all an amusing prank instead of a near bone-breaking disaster—for him and the horse, both.
I keep my silence. If getting thrown failed to enlighten him to the problem of taking a horse with a missing shoe for a gallop through stone-filled woods, my words will do nothing but waste breath. Between Firehorn and the keep, I’ve enough to contend with just now. For a heartbeat, I consider taking the horse back and leaving the boy to the consequences of his recklessness, but I thwart the temptation. We are too deep into the woods for my comfort—especially now, with Viva Sylthia actively demonstrating its displeasure over the Everett ceasefire. “Can you mount up?” I ask. “I’ll lead you back to wherever you are going.”
He cocks his head, examining me curiously, and I once more wonder what I might have said wrong. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. “The palace grounds, please. The stables.”
Holding the horse steady, I help the boy mount, and with a click of my tongue I start us into a walk. With an injured rider and a three-shoed horse, it’s half an hour before the palace grounds shimmer between the trees.
“Hold up,” the boy orders as we approach the forest line. Looking ahead from his high vantage point, he curses under his breath and speaks quickly. “If anyone asks, you saw me abusing the horse, all right? That’s why he threw me.”
“What?” I frown up at him.
The boy squares his shoulders, trying to appear less injured than he is. “They can put down the horse—they can’t put down me,” he says quickly, his gaze tracking someone’s approach. “I’ll try to talk around the fall altogether, but if I can’t . . . please. He’s a good horse.”
Before I can reply, a girl of thirteen or fourteen, as pretty and long-lashed as my companion, steps into our path and grins like a lioness. Her golden hair is curled into a complex set of locks that cascade over the shoulders of her velvet gown, orange as the fruit. “You are in such trouble, Wil.”
“Shut up, Violet,” the boy hisses at her.
Violet’s grin broadens, a dusting of freckles dancing along the bridge of her nose. “Father!” she screeches. “I’ve found Wil! He went out alone again!”
Wil. Violet. The names hit me like a lance in the gut. My head jerks to the boy in the saddle, who gives me a look of rueful apology before straightening his spine to face his father, King Firehorn.
7
Kali
King Firehorn, flanked by a team of guardsmen that includes Luca and Trace, strides into the clearing and glares at Wil and me with a mixture of relief and fury. The prince. Of all the people I could have entangled myself with, I managed to find the royal prince. No wonder Wil paused a moment too long when I didn’t know his destination.
Luca’s attention darts between Wil and me as he no doubt wonders how Kal could have gotten into such a mess when Luca had just left him less than two hours ago. Trace, standing behind the king, is thunder incarnate as he quietly instructs one of the other guards to call off additional search parties.
