The Outcast (Summoner #4)(68)

“Sarge,” the sentry called. “You’d best come out here!”

In the scrying crystal, Arcturus saw the soldiers swiftly emerge from the barn, weapons drawn. Each one wore chain mail, with a red surcoat over the top. More crossbows were raised, their points all centered on Rotter’s chest.

“Says he’s from Tenth Platoon,” the sentry said. “But look, he’s…”

“I know,” one of the soldiers said, stepping forward for a closer look at Rotter. Arcturus saw the sergeant’s chevrons glinting on the man’s shoulder.

“I’ll get to the point,” the sergeant said, raising his sword and pointing it. “There’s bad business going on to the north. Agitators and rebels, all wearing black. So you had better explain your garb.”

“It was rebels who ambushed us,” Rotter said, his arms still in the air. “I had to dress as one of ’em to escape, took this off a dead body in the night.”

The explanation did not seem to please the sergeant. The crossbow stayed pointed.

“A likely tale,” the sergeant growled. “I’ve an inkling you’re on your way to join your rebel friends in the interior.”

Rotter shifted on his feet, and now Arcturus could see the worry on his face. They hadn’t thought this through.

“Now … let’s not be hasty,” Rotter stammered, his confidence evaporating as the reality of the crossbows hit home.

Arcturus cursed under his breath and began to etch the shield spell in the air. It was a complex spell, one that required both shaping and moving the substance of the shield itself, but he had to try.

Then a voice called out from the back of the assembled soldiers.

“Rotter, is that you, ye daft bugger?”

“Frank?” Rotter said, peering into the gathered men.

“Lower your weapons, lads, I can vouch for ’im.”

Frank stomped out of the group, and Arcturus saw he was a bearded young man with a lazy eye.

“I oughta let them put ye down; ye still owe me a shilling from that card game,” Frank said with mock anger.

“I thought it was the other way round.” Rotter grinned, slowly lowering his sword.

“This ugly mug is a scoundrel, and I wouldn’t let ’im within a ’alf mile of me wife, but he’s no rebel,” Frank said.

The pair embraced, slapping each other on the back with gusto. Arcturus breathed a sigh of relief and let the floating glyph on the end of his finger fizzle and die.

The sergeant grimaced and signaled to his men to lower their crossbows.

“All right, now, don’t overreact,” Rotter said, extracting himself from Frank and addressing the platoon. “But I’m not alone.”

“More survivors?” the sergeant asked skeptically.

“Something like that … it’s a long story,” Rotter said. “Just—don’t shoot anyone.”

He turned to the fields behind him.

“Arcturus, Alice, Elaine … you can come out now!”





CHAPTER

38

THEY WERE WELCOMED WITH open arms. Food was broken out as they settled around the campfire. The simple fare of cheese, bread and cold meats was like ambrosia to the half-starved group of summoners. They even provided some of the less appetizing cuts of meat to Gelert and Reynard, though they turned their noses up at the bread.

Still, Arcturus’s relief was stymied by Edmund’s continued unconsciousness, though the boy still breathed easily, even if his lips were a little chapped from dehydration. Alice busied herself by trickling droplets of water into Edmund’s dry mouth as Rotter told their story.

To Arcturus’s surprise, the man was a natural storyteller, and he felt himself strangely captivated by Rotter’s words, hanging on to every sentence despite knowing each twist and turn already.

By the time the tale was finished, the night sky above was pitch black, the stars obscured by the glow of the fire. Silence reigned as Rotter stopped speaking, and Arcturus shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Now that he thought about it, the sergeant had yet to say a single word, and had asked no questions before Rotter had launched into his story.

“You’ve come a long way,” the sergeant finally said, warming his hands by the fire. “I am Percival, and these are my men. You were lucky to have found us; most of the platoons in this area have abandoned their posts.”

Rotter frowned at the man’s words, but said nothing.

“We are thankful you were here,” Arcturus said, smiling gratefully. But his smile was not returned, and he felt a twinge of unease. The men sitting around them were grim-faced, and their expressions had only darkened as Rotter told his story.

“We’d heard rumblings of a rebellion from the local farmers,” the sergeant continued. “Rumors mostly, about men in black, burning buildings and disappearing into the night. And then we received this by carrier pigeon…”

He pulled a scroll from his jacket, and unraveled the tight roll to reveal a scrawled message.

“King Alfric is at war with the common people of Hominum, stealing their hard-earned livelihoods and starving our poor to line his pockets,” he read aloud. “This cannot stand. All men loyal to General Barcroft are to turn their coats to the black and march on Corcillum at the soonest opportunity. Further instruction will follow to those who take up the sword.”