Page 2 of King's Warrior

What happened? His head hurt too badly to concentrate, but he strained his memory. He’d been drinking in a tavern when locals started making themselves scarce.

Rufe raised his head. Another dead soldier, and another. Did the Craicians kill the entire company?

No pain except in his head. Rufe wiggled his fingers and toes, feeling aches and tingling, but no genuine pain. No pain in his limbs, either. He rolled to his side, taking in the carnage. They’d started with sixteen soldiers and the captain. He’d been the twelfth member assigned to the scouting party. Some of the fallen lay partially covered by snow. All the surrounding buildings smoldered, but no dead villagers lay among the fallen. How long had he been out to have missed an entire village burning to the ground?

Betrayed. The villagers had betrayed Rufe’s comrades—and apparently paid the price with their homes, if not their lives.Who burned them out if we lost? Accident? Double-cross?

He staggered to his feet in a daze, gripping his sword by his side and fighting a wave of nausea. This was his first mission. His company was only supposed to scout for rebels—upstarts who fought against Draige joining the empire—and keep trade routes free of brigands. How had a simple assignment gone so horribly wrong? Had Dragan rebels cooperated with Craice against them?

Old Cleke lay on his back, eyes closed, white beard drenched in blood. Rufe checked for life signs, anyway. Dead and cold. BesideCleke lay Girard, a newly married man. He’d never see the child his wife carried. Images came to mind of these two men, laughing and playing cards in the tavern mere hours ago. His gorge rose as he struggled to his feet, staggering to the next fallen soldier. Blood matted Jeofy’s dark curls. He’d been so young.

Rufe checked every single body, hoping against hope that someone still lived. But no. Tad lay with his throat cut. Charo, blood soaking his entire front. Vic. Danni. Nate, his ready smile a battered, splintered mask. Kit, missing an arm. All dead. For the first time since starting this mission, Rufe found himself alone. He rubbed a wrist across his stinging eyes.

The remaining enemy soldiers were lifeless, too. He should check them, search for clues, but his heart wasn’t in it, and dusk was falling.

I can’t stay here.

No sounds emerged from the smoldering ruins of cottages, many with no walls left standing. He trudged down the road, clutching the bearskin. No horses remained. The sun would soon set, and he’d been drinking in the tavern during the late evening on what must have been the previous day. Had he been unconscious for an entire day? The dead had been noticed, judging from the buzzards circling overhead. He didn’t have the means to bury his comrades.

His fellow soldiers came from many lands. There was no telling which gods or goddesses they prayed to. “Deities of my comrades, take the dead unto yourselves.” May his simple prayer be sufficient.

Rufe trudged through empty streets searching for shelter, keeping to areas less likely to show footprints. If any enemies returned and found they’d left a soldier alive, they’d finish the job. He shivered, both in fear and from the cold. Snow fell in light drifts. How he’d delighted the first time he’d seen the cold, delicate flakes. Now, he’d give his most prized possessions to be home again in Cormira, feeling the warm sea breezes on his face.

The farthest dwelling from the battle remained relatively intact. Rufe hunkered down against one wall, leaving the door open to watch the main road. The inhabitants wouldn’t mind if he borrowed a blanket, would they? The threadbare wool barely provided any protection, but kept him warm enough when covered by the bearskin.

He dozed throughout the night, hungry, thirsty, and too terrified to move. He’d barely seen nineteen summers. A few seasons ago, he’d been training with his closest friend, excited to begin life in the military, but now, he might never see Draylon again. Dray would never know what happened.

Morning’s first light brought the lowered clouds of more impending snow. Rufe shivered. Goddess, he hated the cold. Survival depended on food, water, and warmth. He ventured out of his hiding place to search the bodies of the fallen for anything useful. None carried a sword as fine as his, but he took Captain Anjoix’s knife with a silent word of thanks, since the captain would never need it again. One of the fallen Craicians wore boot sheaths with matching watered steel daggers. Rufe took those, too.

No beasts remained near what had once been stables. He dug through the rubble. Ah, a saddlebag. Wow! Bits of cheese, dried meat, and dried fruit. He crammed the offerings into his mouth, washing them down by melting snow in his mouth, all while trying not to think about whose supplies he raided. Another charred saddlebag rendered more dried fruit.

A hoof stuck out of the ashes. Some poor horse trapped in the inferno had likely screamed in terror, unable to escape. Rufe squeezed his eyes shut. Black leg, white sock, white hoof. Could this poor animal have been his horse, Rainfall? An invisible hand twisted his heart. Even if this wasn’t Rain, it belonged to someone and deserved a better death.

What should he do now? Where should he go? Would Cormiran troops search for survivors before the enemy returned? Rufe couldn’t take the chance.

Two days of steady walking should put him at the nearest reasonably sized town where he might find other Cormiran troops. Two days. He only had to last two days…. He eyed the remaining food, his belly still cramping with hunger, but in the end, he stored the scraps for later and slipped through the woods to the road.

Snow seemed to muffle all sounds and had already begun filling any footprints. Whichever way the Craicians had gone, he saw no tracks. The rustling in a bush might’ve been a small animal. Peaceful. So unlike the nightmare he’d left in the village. He should disappear into the forest instead of sticking to the main road, but any other survivors might be on this road, and with the sun hiddenbehind a gray sky, he had no accurate guide and would become lost.

He'd just have to keep a close watch.

After only a few minutes of walking, a man stepped out on the path ahead, wearing a wide grin and a green and blue Craician uniform. He pulled a broadsword from the sheath at his waist. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he asked in Cormiran.

Fuck! Rufe’s heart slammed into ribs. He turned to run. Four more soldiers in frayed uniforms and wearing a motley assortment of armor—if they wore any—blocked his escape. Were they actual soldiers of the Craician army or deserters?

Five against one. Rufe drew his sword. He might be tired, in shock, and with a wounded head, but if he died, he’d take at least two of these mangy curs with him as presents for the God of War.

The man behind Rufe approached, boots ruffling fallen leaves beneath a layer of powdered snow. “Where did you get such an exquisite sword?” he barked in Cormiran.

Rufe turned to the side to watch all five men and lifted his chin, clutching his sword tighter. “I didn’t steal it. It’s mine.” It wasn’t the first time someone noticed the superior workmanship of his blade and how the quality didn’t match the young bastard gripping the hilt.

The man spoke to his comrades in Craician, of which Rufe couldn’t understand more than a few words. Then the man, apparently the leader, spoke to Rufe again in Cormiran. “How lucky for you that you might be worth more to us alive than dead.”

One soldier lunged. Rufe parried the blow, only to face another opponent and another. None sought to push an advantage. They were tiring him out. What did they mean by him being more valuable alive than dead? He was no one important and knew no military secrets—only a duke’s bastard son. If they planned to ransom him, they’d be sorely disappointed when no one replied to their demands.

One man grinned, approaching from the left as another came from the right. They both attacked. Rufe threw off the bearskin and blocked one blade aimed for his sword arm before whirling to block another. He could only defend himself, unable to go on the offense. There were too many of them. He imagined himself a stag surrounded by wolves. Eventually, his strength would fail—the predators would close in.

If only he’d been wearing plate armor instead of his uniform, which barely offered protection from the cold, let alone a sword. He parried a thrust, arm heavy and vision fuzzy.

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