Page 131 of Cursed Shadows 5

‘EAMON’S’

32

DAXEEL

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The legionaries are skilled, formidable warriors not of the true positions of the military, but sourced from other fields, such as extractors, spies, assassins—but the legionaries come with a rank high enough to behold a steed.

Daxeel dismounts that very steed he is allotted in the unit. His boots smack down on the packed dirt.

The path ends some steeds ahead of him, then transforms into a stone bridge arching over the rushing waters of a moat.

His rank affords him a kelpie and status, but a legionary is still just a warrior. He is not given the rank closest to the general, and so there are at least a dozen steeds and warriors between him and the stronghold.

His gloved hands creak as he fixes the reins over the saddle. His kelpie stands, unfazed, in the drizzle invading the Breeze. He reads the time of phase in the light winds that weave through the unit.

Daxeel touches his chin to his shoulder and casts a look back at the rest of the unit.

The exhaustion wears on them, on their weathered faces, on their cold and bloodied hands, but the defeat is in their numbers.

The unit embarked with a hundred but returns with just half of that.

The length of the year has been weary—and has cost lives. More than expected.

And still, as though he will find him there amongst the common foot-warriors, not with his fellow legionaries, he scans the faces for familiar eyes, one gold, the other blue. He looks for the brother he won’t find there.

“Daxeel Taraan.” The bark of his name carries over the bridge.

He turns his back on the foot-warriors and lands his gaze on the male rushing over the bridge.

A parchment official, by the looks of him, with his woollen coat pinched at the waist, the crispness of his blouse, and the emblem stitched onto the sash that’s fastened around his breeches in place of a belt.

His leather boots, glossed and not a scratch on them, clop over the stone bridge before the terrain changes to packed dirt, and little clouds of dust are kicked up on his way to Daxeel.

The official jolts to a brisk stop, a proud lift to his pointed chin. He extends his gloved hand, an offering of parchments ribboned to a wooden board.

Daxeel spares him a dark look, one that lingers with the unspoken word,coward, a male to hide in darkness as an official, despite his able-bodied condition.

He snatches the parchment-board into his grip and casts a fleeting look down at the inked lines and scribbled words.

“General Agnar delegates the duty of the kuri count to you,” the official tells him. “Once count is complete, they are to be held in the stockade—” His hand sweeps in a crisp gesture to the wooden prison over the bridge and some steps down from the entrance to the stronghold. “—and recounted. Note here,” themale reaches over to curl the edges of the parchment, then peels them back to reveal the fourth layer of paper, “the kuris lost in the journey, their blood strength by freckle count, and the causes of their deaths.”

Daxeel runs his tongue over the bite of his teeth. The look he lifts to the male is glaring and unkind.

“As I understand, much of this unit has been lost,” the official goes on, undeterred by Daxeel’s gaze. “I will need these forms returned to me within the hour,” he adds, then offers a second parchment-board, this one only slightly different in that it is headed with ‘DECEASED WARRIORS’, not ‘KURIS’. “The names of each lost warrior, breed, origin, the cause of death, and—on the third page—the same for the list of any forsaken warriors.”

Daxeel’s sigh is long and weary as he steals the second parchment-board into his gloved grip.

That is all, and so the official gives a sharp nod before turning on his unscuffed heels and marching back to the stronghold.

Without turning to look at the male dismounting the steed behind him, Daxeel extends his hand and offers the second board, the one of lost warriors, dead and forsaken.

“Did you get all that?” Daxeel asks, monotonous.

Cadwyn grunts. He takes the parchment-board with a mutter, “They are already impatient. We should be quick.”

Daxeel turns a swift look on him, the mint-leaf eyes that gleam against a complexion as white as milk; and he casts those gleaming eyes down the path to the foot-warriors.

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