The Outcast (Summoner #4)(85)

“Seize them,” Crawley cried out, throwing himself to the floor.

But the heavy doors of the room had been closed just in time, and his voice did not filter into the atrium. Even so, the soldiers, who had been sitting cross-legged in groups of three or four, struggled to their feet and stared at the new arrivals with surprise.

“I said seize them,” Crawley shouted. “Or there will be consequences!”

He was rewarded with a quick kick to the face from Sergeant Caulder. Arcturus lowered his hood and stepped forward.

“Where are Rotter and Sergeant Percival?” he asked.

Rotter shouldered his way to the front of the crowd and hurried to join them. He ruffled Arcturus’s hair, and Arcturus grinned, even if it made him look less impressive to the onlooking soldiers. Then Sergeant Caulder and Rotter shook hands, and it seemed to Arcturus that their military ranks were the only thing preventing them from a relieved embrace.

“I’m here,” Percival announced, crossing his arms. “Here with the Thirty-Eighth.”

He motioned at the men around him, the soldiers Arcturus did not recognize.

“They wandered in here, just like us. But Barcroft doesn’t trust the men who didn’t head for Corcillum as ordered.”

“Nor should he,” Crawley snarled, his voice muffled from where he was holding his injured nose with his hands.

“Why did you come here?” Arcturus asked, pointing to a second man with a sergeant’s chevrons on his shoulder. “To join the rebels?”

The man simply shook his head, as if he did not know the answer.

“We want no part of this,” Percival said, his voice almost despairing. “We didn’t start this war.”

“You’re in this,” Crawley hissed. “Whether you like it or not. And it’s time to pick a side. This pack of fools and their forlorn hope, or an organized army of rebels with the imprisoned heirs of the nobility as insurance.”

“The heirs have escaped and are waiting on the top floor,” Arcturus said. “We need you to escort them out of here, as if Crawley had ordered you to take them to a new secure location.”

Crawley began to speak, but a warning growl from Rotter silenced the man. Arcturus turned to Percival. It seemed the other sergeant was deferring to him, and the men were watching Percival’s face expectantly.

“That is a lot to ask of us,” Percival said.

“Help us, and the rebellion will be over. You could go back to your old lives,” Arcturus argued. “Give us to Barcroft and you’ll have joined them. Then you’ll be trusting men like Crawley to do right by you … if the rebellion even succeeds at all.”

He knew his argument was weak, but he spoke with all the conviction he could muster. The fact was, right now the rebels were winning, and he was asking the soldiers to risk it all for the losing side.

Still, Percival hesitated. Doubt was written across his face as clearly as if on a page from a book.

“You all know me,” Sergeant Caulder said, stomping in front of Arcturus and addressing the crowded soldiers. “We’ve fought together. Lost friends together. Stood shoulder to shoulder while the baying hordes of orcdom advanced to take our lives.”

Arcturus could hear murmured agreement and see nods of approval from the watching soldiers.

“But why do we fight?” Sergeant Caulder said. “It’s not for honor. Not for money. Not for the love of battle.”

He paused.

“It’s for our families. For our homeland. Our way of life.”

Scattered applause echoed through the summoning room. Though Arcturus sensed a change in mood, he did not dare to hope. Not yet.

“But the rebels do not stand for that,” he said, pointing at Crawley. “They threaten you for your obedience. They do not ask; they demand.”

He sighed and stepped closer to them, bringing himself into the light of the torches in sconces on the walls.

“They may call themselves our saviors, and preach freedom from tyranny. But would a savior do this?”

He lowered his hood and held up his hands, displaying his bruises and mutilated fingertips.

“This is the work of tyrants in the making. These are not good men. They are men who want power for themselves.”

“But King Alfric is no better!” shouted a soldier from the back. Men nodded, and Arcturus’s heart fell. “Why should we risk our lives for that bastard?”

“Don’t do it for him,” said a voice from behind Arcturus. “Do it for me.”

Prince Harold stepped out of the shadows and threw off his cloak and hood. He stared out at the assembled soldiers, letting them see him, see the conviction on his face.

“My father is a bad king,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Hear, hear,” a soldier growled.

“He taxes the poor to build his palace—a temple to his own vanity. He underpays Hominum’s brave troops who fight for his safety. He drinks and gambles while the country starves. But I will not be that king. So I make you a promise now.”

Harold took a deep breath, and Arcturus with him—he had no idea what the prince was going to say.

“I will replace him as ruler, as soon as I am free. I will feed the poor, bolster the army and cease construction on that damned monstrosity of a palace. This, I swear. Upon my honor.”