Rylan Holbrooke fit his dragonskin mask over the lower half of his face, pulled his hood down over his forehead, then padded along the gully in a half-crouch, scanning the forest of citadel trees and the occasional oak and poplar for imperial patrolmen. The scent of a campfire was strong and growing stronger.
Though the birdsong and the noise from the camp were loud enough to cover his approach, Rylan took care to make no sound as he climbed the edge of the gully and hid behind a stand of lilac bushes. Through the branches, he spied a contibernium, a tent group of eight legionaries. Three of the soldiers were gathered around the fire. One was a senior officer, a husky centurion in his late thirties. He sat on the ground, back against a fallen yew, legs stretched toward the fire. His helm and chest armor, brightsteel lorica segmentata, lay on the grass beside him. His dark hair was cut so close to the scalp Rylan could see the scar running up his forehead and over the crown of his head. He had a smug look about him—natural for a centurion, Rylan supposed, but it made him all the more eager to take back the jewelry he’d stolen from a hapless caravan.
The officer sitting cross-legged beyond the husky centurion was a rangy man of a similar age with lank brown hair, deep-set eyes, and a bent nose. The badge on his scale mail, lorica squamatae as they called it, marked him as a surgeon, but he likely doubled as the contibernium’s second-in-command. He was stripping bark from a freshly cut sapling with a hunting knife, likely carving a crossbow bolt to add to the quiver leaning against the trunk next to him.
The soldier kneeling beside the fire, roasting a pair of pheasants on a spit, was barely a man at all. He had bright orange hair, freckles, and saucers for ears. Nestled in the fire was a wide-bellied pot. Steam puffed out from under the lid, scenting the air with garlic and rosemary.
The centurion was regaling the other two men with a tale of his winnings at a gambling den in Glaeyand. “The final game of the night, it was down to me, a fat miller, and his son. We reached the last trick. Whoever took it would win the pot. I threw down a tower. The miller, fucked, tossed the river. And what did that beshitted son of the sawdust collector do but throw down the mountain and screw me?” The centurion chuckled and scratched his chin. “I could’ve sworn it’d been played seven tricks earlier.”
“Might your lack of perfect recall”—the surgeon sent a shaving of wood flying through the air—“not be explained by the fact that you were deep into your fifth flagon?”
The centurion barked a laugh. “Fifth? I can still stand on my hands and whistle an ode after five! The kid was cheating.”
Rylan shifted to get a better view beyond the fire. Two more soldiers were pounding stakes and righting a large canvas tent. Near the tent were eight saddles and two pack harnesses, any one of which might hold the overly burdensome fines Rylan had come to retrieve. Beyond the tent, the Salt Road, the ancient trading route from Glaeyand to Gorminion, the port city at the mouth of the Diamondflow, was deeply rutted. On its far side, three more legionaries were tending to the horses in a clearing. With all eight soldiers accounted for, Rylan breathed a bit easier. The last thing he needed was a legionary stumbling upon him before he could make his move.
“Hold on,” the surgeon said, “you said you won, but if the miller’s son played the mountain . . .”
The centurion leaned toward the young, saucer-eared soldier and said in hushed tones, “Never let it be said Two Step isn’t the sharpest spear in the sheaf, eh, Balish?” The centurion regarded the surgeon. “I never said I won the game. I said I won the pot.”
The surgeon went back to whittling his crossbow bolt. “Stole the pot, you mean.”
“Stole . . . Won . . .” The centurion shrugged. “Any day I enter a den with forty stags and leave with two hundred is a good day to my mind.”
“I merely want it known,” the surgeon called over one shoulder, practically shouting to the other legionaries, “that you are a thief, a ruffian, and a no-good liar.”
Chuckling, the centurion interlaced his fingers behind his head and shifted against the tree trunk. “Show me a legionary who isn’t.”
The surgeon pointed his knife at the young legionary. “What about Balish here?”
“Balish is a bloody recruit, barely out of his nappies.”
They laughed heartily as Balish’s ears turned bright red.
Rylan had known the sort of men he’d be dealing with from the moment Hollis had described their shake down of the caravan. They felt entitled to the things they took, the centurion especially. It would be a pleasure to see the scales of justice righted, even if only for a few stags.
With the tent nearly pitched and the horses staked and blanketed, it was time to send his dragon into the fray, but Rylan paused, feeling watched. He stared through the trees around him, gazed at the bridgeboughs above. High overhead, on a branch near the canopy, he thought he saw a shape, someone squatting among the green needles, perhaps, but he couldn’t be sure. He waited for the shape to move. When it didn’t, he reckoned it was just his imagination.
Focusing on the forest beyond the camp, he took a deep breath and released it slowly. The bond he shared with his viridian dragon, Vedron, brightened in his mind. She was two miles away, resting on the broken limb of a citadel tree above the pond where Rylan had unsaddled her in preparation for their heist.
Go, Rylan urged her, now.
Rylan felt a brief flash of vertigo as Vedron dropped from the limb. He felt her spread her wings and soar through the forest, felt the rush of air over her sleek back, her legs held tight to her body. Vedron’s giddiness echoed Rylan’s edginess as they prepared to take action.
Three days ago, the same patrol of legionaries had stopped a Kin trading caravan heading toward Glaeyand on the Salt Road. They’d searched the wagons, which was perfectly within their rights, but when they found a tiny bag of contraband—a rheumatism medicine made from ground dragon barbs—the centurion had used it as an excuse to fine every trader in the caravan. The caravan master lost not only his medicine, but his signet ring purchased years ago at great cost, which granted him and all who traveled with him favorable rates at the great auction houses of Gorminion and a discount on tariffs as well. The ring was immensely valuable.
The traders had argued the fines were too steep, but the centurion had taken it in his stride, telling them that if they were so displeased with the fines, they could register a complaint with the trade board in Glaeyand. The centurion and the traders knew that the chances of the board bringing formal charges against the patrol were slim. And even if they did, the traders would need to admit to the contraband. They’d decided the risk of their master being sentenced to months of quarry work in some distant corner of the empire wasn’t worth it—he’d likely die before his sentence was up. They’d paid the centurion’s fines, but given that all their coins had been leveraged to buy goods in Gorminion, they’d done so in precious jewelry.
On reaching Glaeyand, they’d discussed the incident with Rylan’s friend Hollis. Hollis, among other things, traded in antiques, a common item on caravans, and knew the caravan master well. He also acted as a middle man for missions that resulted in, as he put it, “a fairer distribution of wealth in the Holt.” Knowing the sorts of capers Rylan liked to take on, Hollis had told him about it the following day: collectively, the caravan were offering a reward for the signet ring’s return. Rylan had hardly waited a beat before accepting.
When Saucer-ears signaled that their dinner was ready, the legionaries began to wander back toward the fire. The only other sound besides their conversation was the intermittent rattle of a woodpecker, which ceased when a long, blaring note sounded in the distance. The long blare sounded again, then rose in pitch, ending in five staccato notes.
The horses nickered, a few tugged at their reins, which were tied to iron stakes. Every last legionary, from the centurion down to young Balish, stopped what they were doing and peered into the forest.
Beyond the clearing, Vedron swooped down through the citadels. Her extended wings were teal with veins of forest green. Her eyes were vivid emerald in the shadows of the trees. Two curving horns swept back from the ridge bones above her eyes. Measuring five horses from nose to tail, Vedron was hardly the largest dragon in the Holt, but the acid she breathed could melt a man’s flesh from his bones, and the legionaries knew it. They scrambled for their crossbows, and their horses tugged on their reins, stomped their hooves, reared, and whinnied.
“Secure the horses!” the centurion bellowed, even as a dappled stallion broke free.
A roan mare bolted after the stallion. Three more horses scattered in opposite directions. Black earth sprayed up as the stakes holding them in place were torn free.
Vedron swept across the road, raising needles from the forest floor in her wake, and shrieked, a raucous, high-pitched noise that made Rylan’s sternum itch. Worried Vedron would chase the wrong horse, he focused his attention on the dappled stallion heading away from the camp. As they’d practiced, using elk instead of horses, Vedron veered, followed the stallion, and slowed so as not to overtake it too quickly.
By then the legionaries had several crossbows loaded. The tips of the bolts were coated in black coryza, a poison made from the venom of the yellow-backed wyvern. If a bolt managed to pierce Vedron’s scales, it could kill her, but they’d practiced for this as well. Before the legionaries could so much as lift their crossbows to their shoulders, Rylan sent a warning to Vedron, and she bent around the trunk of a citadel and disappeared.
The legionaries stared into the trees until the centurion shouted, “Well, get a fucking move on!” Then he loped toward the nearest horse.
The legionaries left the camp in a loose group. When they were far enough away, Rylan crept from his position and headed for the two pack harnesses. Rifling through one bag, he found dried meat, hardtack, spices. The other was filled with bags of oats for the horses. He eventually found the caravan master’s rheumatism medicine and the jewelry box in the bags of the second saddle he searched. Why the centurion hadn’t sold them in Glaeyand, Rylan wasn’t sure—perhaps to avoid proof surfacing of just how much he’d taken from them. He must have been planning to sell them in Gorminion, far from the watchful eye of the imperial inquisitors.
Still, the caravan master’s signet ring was missing. It stood to reason that if the centurion hadn’t sold the other effects, he wouldn’t have sold the ring, either. The centurion hadn’t been wearing it, but he might have had it on his person, perhaps on a necklace or in his pocket. Banishing the thoughts, Rylan kept digging. There were sealed letters, imperial communications destined for Gorminion or beyond, plus a battered dulcimer and a bag of dice. At the very bottom of the bag, he found a heavy chest, likely filled with money imperial patrols were allotted for daily needs. He deliberated taking it, but it was simply too heavy and would jangle if he tried to run.
“Find cover!” a legionary called in the distance. “It’s swingin’ around!”
The legionaries had managed to corral three of the horses, but they were so busy tracking Vedron’s movements they paid the camp no mind.
Rylan hefted the chest and set it on the ground before him. He ducked low as the young legionary, Balish, fought with one of the horses, drawing it toward the clearing. From the hollow in his right boot heel, Rylan retrieved his lock picks. He slipped the picks into the lock, worked the tumblers. In the short span it took Balish to calm the mare, Rylan picked the lock and opened the chest lid. There was money inside, but not as much as he’d expected, and no signet ring. He might take the coins in recompense, but the total was well short of what it would cost to replace the ring.
Vedron roared and swept through the trees well beyond the reach of the patrol’s crossbows.
Rylan knew the caravan would be grateful for anything he brought back, but he hated how the empire preyed upon the weak. He’d sooner lose another finger than let the centurion win if he had any choice in the matter. He was closing the chest when he remembered the centurion’s boasting. Any day I enter a den with forty stags and leave with two hundred is a good day to my mind.
He crept across the grass to the saddles. The centurion’s was easy to spot—it had steel embellishments and a spear design worked into the saddle horn, an indicator he’d once served in the empire’s cavalry. Rifling through the smaller leather bags, Rylan found a coin purse.
He tugged it open and found two hundred scepters, or thereabouts, and at the bottom, the caravan master’s signet ring. He clutched the ring in his fist and stood . . .
And found Balish standing on the horse path staring straight at him.
“Hey!” Balish said.
Rylan spun and sprinted toward the lilac bushes.
“Hey, you bastard, stop!”
Rylan heard footfalls pounding over the earth behind him as he crashed through the bushes and dropped into the gully. He ran pell-mell down the slope, glanced back and saw Balish bursting through the lilac bushes pointing a loaded crossbow at him.
Rylan bid Vedron to fly away from camp and circle back to a glade he’d spotted earlier. Then, he reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out two paper packets, each the size and shape of a plum. He tossed one of them onto the ground as he ran, and it struck with a sound like breaking glass. Pounding onward, he heard the packet sizzle behind him and glanced over his shoulder. White smoke billowed into the air, an alchemycal reaction between an acid Rylan had harvested from Vedron’s saliva and some powdered mold he’d collected from a dying citadel tree. Largely harmless, the smoke would irritate the eyes and nose of those who came into contact with it. More importantly, the cloud was thick and impenetrable. Rylan threw the second packet down and cut to his right around a citadel tree, hoping to catch Vedron at the glade and fly away.
As the glade came into view, Vedron broke through the trees, circled down, and landed with her back to Rylan. Rylan ran up her tail, and Vedron launched him through the air. He landed on her shoulders with a leg on either side of her neck. He gripped the spines along her neck and urged her to fly to the pond where they’d hidden her saddle.
“Halt!”
Rylan glanced back and saw Balish at the edge of the glade pointing a trembling crossbow at them.
Vedron spun to face Balish and uttered a deep growl.
“A single—” Balish coughed, blinked tears from his eyes. He sniffed loudly and aimed the crossbow at Vedron’s chest. The bolt’s black-slathered steel head glinted beneath the bright sun. “A single beat of a wing and I let fly!”
Rylan had no time to reason with the man. He told Vedron to fly. The moment she spread her wings, Balish, blinking fiercely, shifted his aim toward Rylan and pulled the trigger.
The bolt streaked through the air and tore through Rylan’s left sleeve. A pinch of pain followed. He looked down, certain the bolt had grazed skin—it would take barely a nick for coryza to kill a man. His heart pounding, he inspected his sleeve and found the bolt had caught the leather and frayed his homespun shirt beneath it, but thank the ancient powers of the forest, it hadn’t drawn blood.
Vedron drew her head back like an adder, preparing to spray Balish with acid. In that moment, her desire became Rylan’s. There was real danger in allowing Balish to live—the stories the legionary would tell could very well lead back to Rylan—but when he realized his thoughts were not wholly his own, he took a deep breath and calmed Vedron through their shared bond.
Vedron cocked her head to one side, peered at Rylan, then gazed down on Balish once more.
I’m fine, Vedron, Rylan told the dragon, and his friends will be here shortly. We have to head home.
Vedron snorted and pounded her tail, refusing to budge, but she didn’t spray Balish.
Rylan leaned over Vedron’s side and hollered to the saucer-eared legionary, “Turn around and go or get an acid bath. Your choice.”
Balish stared up at them. For a moment, Rylan thought the idiot was going to try to take another bolt from his quiver, but he spun on his heels and sprinted back toward camp. Only when he was lost behind a citadel did Vedron lumber over the ground, spread her wings, and leap toward the sky.