The Warlord's Legacy by Ari Marmell Read Free Book Online Page A

it?”
    “It keeps certain traits,” he said, hoping now that her memory wasn’t
too
precise. “It’ll have runes and figures adorning the head, blatant no matter what it looks like. If you stare at them long enough, they’ll even seem to move.”
    She nodded, though her expression remained doubtful. “All right. And if I find out who has it, what then?”
    An hour and more they spent in discussion, making arrangements, suggesting adjustments to each other’s plans. Night was pregnant with the dawn by the time they’d finished, and Corvis—with a lingering “Thank you” whispered in Irrial’s ear—had just enough time to recover his stolen uniform, make his way back through the gates, and sneak into his bunk, where he waited to rise—exhausted but newly determined—with the guards’ morning summons.

Chapter Three

    T WIN COLUMNS OF HORSEMEN , clad in burnished steel and draped in iron-hued cloths, wound along the highway, a single armored centipede scurrying across rolling coastal hills. Every tabard, every shield, sported the hammer-and-anvil emblem of the Blacksmiths’ Guild—as though the sheer quantities of quality armor and mail weren’t evidence enough of that particular loyalty. Although they moved at a stately, even staid, pace, the drumming of a hundred hooves shook the earth, melding with the distant waves into a single endless, rolling percussion. The ocean’s tang filled every visor, and each soldier knew with a sinking certainty that, though his armor gleamed brilliantly
now
, he would spend many an hour this evening polishing and scraping, lest the coming rust dig too deep.
    Between the columns rolled a carriage-and-four, rumbling and thumping over every rut in the road. It, too, was painted iron grey, and it, too, bore the hammer-and-anvil. The driver, a narrow-faced, leather-clad man with sandy hair, held the reins idly in one hand, content to allow the horses to set their own pace. Beneath him, the passengers were concealed from view by curtains of golden cloth.
    Another rise, another dip in the road, and the column drew to a halt as the men took stock, their destination finally in view. For most, whohad never been so far from Mecepheum, nor come anywhere near the sea, the sight of Braetlyn was an exotic wonder.
    Sprawled along several miles of meandering coast, the province consisted primarily of fishing towns. Trade and travel flowed constantly among them, by land and by sea, and those largest communities in the center had begun to meld, early signs of what might one day sprout and blossom into a sizable city. Many a sail fluttered and flapped out atop the waves, nets draped over the sides. The scents of an economy based largely on the fish caught by those nets, day after day, staggered several of the riders like a physical blow.
    Above it all, perched atop a low hill, watched a sturdy keep of old stone, surrounded by a palisade of sharpened stakes. From its towers flapped the peculiar ensign of Braetlyn, the crimson fish on a field of blue too dark to accurately portray the sea it was intended to evoke.
    The polite thing to do—the
safe
thing to do—would be for the riders to wait, perhaps after announcing themselves with a trumpet blast, for knights of Braetlyn to come and escort them the rest of the way. Instead, after their moment of examination had passed, the soldiers of the Blacksmiths’ Guild resumed their march, wending their way into Braetlyn proper.
    Citizens poured from their homes, unaccustomed to visitors making so grand, so ostentatious—and indeed, so militant—an entrance. Faces roughened by life in the sun and by the salty spray of the sea stared at the armored forms and the carriage they escorted. On the fishermen, the craftsmen, the carpenters, and the bakers, those faces twisted into expressions of distrust, and occasionally even fear. The local men-at-arms, however, showed little expression at all, despite the caravan’s failure to await a proper escort. Some