Page 3 of The Scouts

He’d been doing that often lately. Smiling, laughing—hell, even talking. Not a great deal, but enough to mark progress. Two winters after we’d joined the Scouts, I couldn’t have been happier with how everything had turned out.

Initially, the news of my altered career path had taken some getting used to for my parents. I’d deduced that much from their first letter scroll. Two lines of runes drawn in my father’s hand betrayed the heightened state of his emotions: Have you lost what’s left of your tiny fucking mind, son? Your Mother and I are proud of you.

Soon after, Lochan had received a case from Něssyr sealed with the Order’s Hawk emblem. It’d contained a set of magnificent throwing knives and a black, hooded doublet detailed with leather, which hid a thousand and one pockets. Seeing his cheeks colour with pleasure upon examining the gift, I’d gathered it must’ve held a special meaning to him.

Life was good. Rife with challenge and danger at times, but exhilarating nonetheless. It kept me sharp. On guard. Spirited. Just the way I liked it. And for a man who appreciated control, I’d soon learned to accept that unpredictability came with the territory for a Scout. I hadn’t minded it as long as one element of the equation remained constant—Lochan Féyes by my side and in my bed.

Two years in, I’d say we’d both achieved a fair degree of personal growth. For Lochan, it’d meant lessening the discomfort he’d felt around others, while for me it ran more along the lines of professional development. After a senior sharpshooter had taken me under his wing, I could hit a half silver coin dead centre from a hundred and seventy paces on a breezy day at dusk. Ten out of ten. Had my old hyoshie been able to witness my long-range shooting these days, I bet he would’ve said, “Not too shitty, Morryés.” There had been times I’d have eaten my best archer’s glove to hear Hélk offer me such praise.

Our unit of thirty attracted no attention as we moved around the Elven Country, sometimes venturing into the Imperial and Barbarian territories. Unofficially, of course, without triggering international incidents. We swooped in and got the job done. Afterwards, we dematerialised like wraiths. In and out. Never lingering in one place longer than it took to deal with loose ends or unwanted witnesses.

And everything had been going smoothly until we’d got stuck in Gwhwÿn on a cluster-fuck of a mission.

The informant whose intel we’d desperately needed hadn’t been forthcoming. Ordinarily, we had means at our disposal to turn even the most unwilling informant into a very enthusiastic one. Unbound by law or morality, the Scouts operated under one single rule—efficiency. To ensure it, Commander Heinnés had been authorised to act however he saw fit. Other than receiving a direct briefing and orders from the queen, nobody—Her Grace included—had ever interfered with how we went about producing the desired outcome.

But there had been nothing ordinary about this case.

For a time, we’d been after Freno Sigrunés, a prominent Creator from the capital. He’d vanished some time back, leaving behind a thriving business and persistent rumours of his involvement with the outlawed Magic Supremacists, the radicals who aimed to abolish the monarchy and transfer political power to an oligarchy of Mages instead. Almost unknown a few months before, the group had been growing in popularity and stirring up trouble.

Whatever nasty shit the Creator had got tangled into and why Her Grace wanted him alive and in full possession of his mental faculties—didn’t concern us. Our job involved locating the bastard and delivering him to Asirhwÿn. Regardless of how hard it was to track down a renegade Mage when they didn’t have a mind to be found. And Sigrunés really, really hadn’t.

The only person privy to his whereabouts, much to our detriment, happened to be Baroness Laeyés. That Ine Laeyés. A famed beauty from a powerful southern clan. An extravagant artist and patron of the arts. The woman known at one point as the Grey Eminence of Asirhwÿn—the former royal mistress. And she hadn’t been in a sharing mood.

That had made our position a little precarious.

Given Baroness Laeyés’ connections, the fact that she had access to information on a ring of subversives didn’t surprise us. She’d kept pretty shady company since ostentatiously leaving the capital three years prior—probably just to get a rise out of the palace. One thing, however, was perplexing. Despite the baroness’s refusal to spill the beans on Sigrunés, the queen had point-blank forbidden us to subject her ex-lover to our usual methods of persuasion.

The noble who had been amusing herself by playing the hot and cold game with us was not to be distressed in any way. Clearly, the torch on Her Majesty's end hadn’t burned out—something combustible must’ve still lingered there.

Romantic as it might’ve seemed, the Scouts had no business being sandwiched in the estranged lovers’ spat like apple between pastry. Having to treat the baroness like a turd wrapped in silk had left Commander Heinnés with a twitchy eye and heartburn.

On revoking Heinnés’ blank card, the queen had felt compelled to provide him with guidance. “Barter,” she’d said. “Ine will trade in the information if you offer her something she wants.”

Heinnés’ negotiating efforts notwithstanding, he had yet to determine what that was.

Time kept passing by. The commander’s bruised pride and frustration aside, no one in the unit had enjoyed the standstill, either. Restlessness had flared foul moods. Unaccustomed to festering within the city walls for so long, we’d all begun to feel on edge. It didn’t help matters that we’d been housed—or cramped—in the City Guard’s barracks. Boredom, tension and unit rivalry had led to daily bitching and squabbles. Six injured guards later, Heinnés had lost his shit.

He’d put his iron fists into use first. Then, he’d ramped up daily training. To ensure we would have no time left for fuckery and to smooth things over with Commander Gurreyés, he’d topped up our duties with bastion chores and repairs. The crappy jobs had added to the general sense of disgruntlement amongst the lads.

Everything considered, we needed out of Gwhwÿn. And damn soon.

My thoughts ground to a halt when Lochan reached the end of the corridor.

He waited for me to catch up, then rapped twice on the door of Heinnés’ temporary headquarters.

I winked at Lochan.

His blue eyes gleamed in the torchlight as his mouth tugged upwards in response.

We both hoped for the same—an urgent assignment outside the city to escape stagnation. Given that the commander wanted to speak to us together without delay, it seemed a reasonable assumption.

We would be, as it turned out, completely incorrect.

The commander looked oddly out of place, towering over his fancy serpentine bureau finished with rosewood veneer. In contrast with his tall and brawny physique, the dainty piece appeared to belong to a dollhouse furniture set. It seemed about to collapse beneath the bulk of his elbows alone. The fussy taste of the room’s previous resident must’ve gone together with a slighter frame.

“Take a seat,” Heinnés said by way of greeting, sounding as brisk as always.

Ignoring the creaks of the armrests, I squeezed myself into one of the delicate chairs opposite the desk, leaving the other for Lochan.