Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Jace & Isabelle

“Someone got you this time, I see.”

TALABRAY

Jace stood in the stirrups of Highfly’s saddle, clutching an old horn that looked like it could have belonged to one of the ancient sea-kings painted on caves and cliff faces all across the continent; dramas in faded paint come to life in the Outrider's hands.

An unlit cigarette twitched between his fingers.

“Where did you even find this thing, Dale?”

Alarick Dale, the so-called guy who could get it for ya, was flipping through the strips of paper he had written on. He would ultimately convert them to a page in a battered old notebook, each one utterly precise in a wagering system only he understood.

At the moment, Dale was huffing and puffing, fresh from a final check down the western line, and his cheeks were as red as the sash that showed his unit and rank: Breveteer, first degree, 125th Gun Battalion.

“Got it at the Fairlawn Bazaar,” he said with a shrug. “Before it got all blown up.”

There was a clink and Jace leaned in the saddle to accept a flame offered up by anonymous hands. Then he sat back. The cigarette bounced on his lips like a spyglass unmanned in a storm.

“It's weird. What’d it cost?”

Alarick looked up quickly. Then he went back to jotting more numbers, clearly agitated at the distraction, and by having to take time to reply:

“Four silver pennies. Now is there anything else I can—”

"Got ripped off, man.”

With the hand holding the horn, Jace absently hooked it to his belt. He winked down to the men pressed close against his horse. Then he took his first drag.

Damien Calloway had his spyglass fixed to where he had seen the green flash the night before. Whatever it was, he’d be ready if it happened again. The thought sent a bolt of pain across his temples. His head bobbed down—

Then up again the instant Marcus spoke: “Five bronze he shorts it!”

He flashed a lantern to the 125th, where a runner scribbled it down and then signaled he got it.

“I’ll take that action,” Calloway said, leaving the spyglass to flash his own bet in turn.

Five on. Five against.

Calloway stood and watched the runner fly back to Alarick, back to the action.

“Run, you little bastard, run,” he urged. “Daddy’s gotta eat!”

Beside him, Marcus smiled. On these nights when Jace would run the gauntlet, his best friend seemed most like himself. Still, he couldn't help noticing how pale Damien looked as he leaned further into the light.

“You know,” Marcus said, waiting a beat—

“Yeah?”

“That’s really gonna piss him off.”

Calloway smiled, too.

Moments like these were rare treasures to the men of the Third, and to all those fortunate enough to get early word and decent vantage. On cold, long nights, that much was worth more than all the coins in their pockets.

“Eastern Watch is in,” a brevet said as he emerged from the throng. He was younger and shorter than Alarick, but he huffed just the same – the urgency was infectious. “Five on, five against.”

Alarick nodded, back to writing.

“Who’s on?”

“White.”

Jace had heard; he raised his hand to shade his eyes from the comets and torchlight, half-turning in his saddle to look back at the tower. He paused long enough to extend one finger – his middle – so it was perfectly centered in Calloway's camp-side spyglass, which he knew would be on him like a spotlight.

Then he went back to scanning the crowd.

The coral glow of his cigarette flared over his face, and he breathed the smoke out slow.

“Lookin’ for someone, Dabriel?” Alarick asked with a knowing grin.

Laughter scattered through those around him.

“Yeah,” said Jace. “Your mother.”

He slowly peeled the cigarette from his lips, then narrowed his eyes.

“Hat,” he said simply, and a soft gray felt one rose up beside him, just as the light for his cigarette had, as if summoned out of thin air. Fitting it onto his head, he looked up from the saddle: Eyes, smoke, and hat, a perfect match.

He made one last pan of the crowd—so consumed with it that he did not register the incongruous sight of a certain old senator and his scribe immersed in the mob. Just as he saw them, someone handed him a slip of paper: The final tallies of the bet, which the Outrider slipped in a pocket.

Satisfied that all eyes were on him, Jace reached down to clasp forearms with Alarick—

—who pulled him close.

“Make it past five, fearless leader, and we’ll both be rich.”

“We're already rich,” Dabriel said.

“Aye, well ...” Their grip released. “We'll be even richer.”

For a heartbeat, in that perfect, frozen moment, the legion’s powerlessness was just a dream.

Jace rose to full height and threw back the sides of his cloak, revealing his single-shot crossbows.

Hundreds of soldiers from a dozen legions were amassed before him on either side of a lane, dozens more still flowing toward him. He tugged the brim of his hat down so it crossed his brow.

A felt horizon in a world of chances – and a perfect fit.

When he spread his arms at his sides, it incited the crowd to a crescendo of cheers he could feel in his bones. There were no more bets to be made, only drawn weapons waiting for the captain to break. He passed another silent signal to Alarick, a bare nod his eyes didn’t follow.

As Alarick held one finger in the air and twirled it toward the sky, the mob froze to a painted tableau—like the walls that might one day bear Jace Dabriel’s legend. The subtle switch from performer to Outrider was but a glimmer, the work of single breath.

And for Jace, timing was everything.

He leaned forward.

“Well, alright then, Dale,” he said. “What say we get this show on the road?"

With that, he clacked his heels into Highfly’s flanks.

Horse and rider bolted ahead in a stream of midnight black. Chaos was unleashed as every man gazed after, hooting and hollering, watching the breath of rider and horse burst like steam from a forge. Hooves of iron pounded the earth, and the rider bent low in the saddle, his cloak swirling.

The first shots missed Jace outright, his blinding speed leaving a cascade of arrows thudding harmlessly in his wake – a sound like rain falling into parched leaves. The archers looked after him, too stunned to express dismay, and many could not move fast enough to do anything more.

A single shaft whistled toward him, planned perfectly to intercept his course. Like a leaping cat, Jace shifted his weight to his forearms and leaned to propel himself upward. The arrow cut past, and as he came down again, he snagged the edge of the saddle to hurl himself back into it.

It was a perfectly executed jack-in-the-box maneuver.

Amidst all the oohs and ahhs, there was a deeper note – the curses of the archer who had missed, a sound that brought a smirk to Jace’s lips. A flurry of arrows arced down ahead, timed to strike his bullet-straight path. Head down, Jace launched into dizzying twists and turns, then swung through a full circle that left every arrow shy of the mark.

By the time he finished, he could no longer hear the frenzied crowd over the blood pumping in his ears; but he had won, and blasted now across the final stretch.

Beneath and around him, even those who bet against Jace could not hold their excitement, and he felt those closest lurch forward to witness the finale. Arms rose high on both sides of the lane, stretching hopefully toward Jace across a distance that could not be breached.

A sign of their desire, and their thanks, that became a salute.

The Outrider was fifty yards from the end when a desperate final salvo was unleashed; he pushed his weight forward and kicked his legs up so his body rose vertically. Arrows spun through a vacant saddle, bounding off the leather or pinging away against steely barding.

His steed whickered, but did not stray. They moved as one.

As he sank back into place, even Jace did not see the last archer.

It was just by luck that the shaft of a bolt grazed his back, inches from the mark.

Knowing he was too far from the end to ride it out, Jace made to slide sideways down the saddle so he could ride the horse's flank. But he was an instant too slow, and gritted his teeth as he felt a masterful second shot drill him under the collarbone.

The force sent all the breath from his lungs; balance lost, Jace tumbled from the saddle.

It was over in seconds.

Nervous chatter rippled the crowd, all eyes searching for a signal from the officers who dashed toward their waylaid captain. For a tense, terrible instant, the specter of the forest looked in on the gathered troops and threatened to come in among them.

The Outrider lay still, staring up at the sky. His ears were ringing and mind was blank except for the humility of abrupt, agonizing pain. But when Jace’s men reached him, they saw something almost as impressive as his acrobatics: He was smiling.

Two of Dabriel’s lieutenants reached down to him, and he clasped their wrists as they pulled him up. They clapped him on the back and shoulders, and his smile stole their attention from the careening of his eyes ... until, at last, they focused.

As he rose, the crowd roared.

Jace leaned to one of the men who had put a hand on his shoulder, and offered a pageant- winner’s wave as he reacted with a slow nod to whatever had been whispered in his ear. As his hand dropped, he bounced like a prizefighter splashed with water.

That’s when he noticed the shaft that had struck him, lying on the ground just a few feet away.

Leaving his officers, he moved toward it.

The Outrider’s hand drifted across his chest to press where the bolt had struck him as he bent to pick it up. Then, he started toward the part of the lane it had come from. Of one mind, those in his path stood aside to reveal the man who let the arrow fly.

He wore the deep green of the Republic archers, crossed with a dark blue sash to indicate legion. Three ochre tics on his sash showed his grandfather had been a Whistler, the sharpshooter elite. Yet, that was not so amazing; not as much, at least, as the fact he was barely out of his teens — if he was at all.

He clenched his longbow tightly as Jace approached.

“What's your name?” Jace asked, bending close. Those close by strained to hear, and onlookers across the lane rumbled with disappointment. They would know these things from rumor only – but sure enough, the rumors would come.

Perhaps they would even displace a nightmare or two.

“Bowman First Class Hawkins, sir,” the teen said, snapping to attention. His mouth was painfully dry, making his tongue heavy as the veterans around him smiled with good-natured amusement.

Jace was still panting. He swallowed hard and mopped the sweat from his brow with the rough sleeve of his cloak. "And what's your first name, Bowman First Class Hawkins?"

“Malcolm, captain,” the boy answered, secretly thankful that his voice hadn't cracked.

Jace held up the arrow that had struck him, tapping the padded tip against his chest.

“And are you responsible for this?”

Malcolm tilted his chin up just slightly, risking a glance to the arrow.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Jace said nothing, only stared into the boy's face with expressionless scrutiny. When he saw the kid’s grip on his bow had grown white-knuckled, he clapped him on the shoulder.

“Breveteer!”

The guy who could get it for ya came up to Jace's side.

“Yes, fearless leader?” Alarick boomed.

“You know this kid?”

“That I do, sir.”

Jace nodded, still staring into Malcolm's face.

“See to it he gets as many extra rations of food and wine as he can hold tonight.”

Then Jace took a step back, speaking for all to hear as he motioned to the blazing sky with the arrow that struck him down. "Just as soon as the glorified FIREWORKS display is done!" When he turned back to the bowman, it was in a manner of punctuation. “To Malcolm Hawkins!” Then, hoisting the arrow high: “Best bowman in the legions!”

“Define ... as he can hold for me, captain ...” Alarick whispered in a tone not bereft of concern.

From every direction came the chanting of Malcolm’s name. Jace looked amused, but he was careful to ignore his mentor's comment. Instead, he went back to addressing the archer whose life he'd just changed.

“Your trophy,” he said with a wink, and clasped the boy’s wrist, handing over the bolt. “One hell of a shot, man.”

The chorus of voices sent chills down Malcolm's spine, and he could not contain a flustered chuckle. Friends and superiors alike were ruffling his hair and jostling him.

“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm managed, and their clasp released.

Dabriel nodded one last time before turning, and Malcolm disappeared behind him into a crowd that seemed to swallow him whole. As Jace made his way to the open lane, Alarick matched his stride. “You've certainly made that one popular,” he said—

... and was caught off guard when Jace grabbed him in a headlock.

The Outrider laughed long and loud as exhilaration and relief overwhelmed him.

The sight was fascinating: A man who could have effortlessly torn Jace apart, allowing himself to be pulled forward a pace, to the amusement of all who watched. As they reached the open lane, Alarick hoisted the captain up into the air like a ragdoll before lowering him to the ground.

When Alarick released his grip, they embraced, laughing amidst all who shared their mirth. Quickly as it began, it was done.

“Cap’n, my sources tell me you're about to have a visitor.”

“Alright, boys," Jace said to his patiently waiting entourage. "Time to reset the table."

The men gave sharp salutes before turning back to their posts. With a series of quick gestures and whistles, Jace’s legion moved into place with clockwork efficiency. The lane collapsed as his men mounted and directed the infantry cohorts back into their battle square formations.

It was a routine they had been through countless times; Dabriel would never have orchestrated this display if he doubted order could be restored in an instant. One man lingered to hand him his cap, and Jace was smiling at something he had said when a pale rider coasted up beside him.

Jace didn’t have to look to know who it was. He sensed it clear as day.

“Lose someone, Captain Dabriel?”

Jace took Highfly’s reins and the animal nuzzled him apologetically.

“I did, captain,” he said. “We appreciate it.”

“Mm,” Isabelle Talabray mused. She was all too aware of the eyes and the silence of the thousands wrapping around them. The flickering torches added to the feeling of a great ocean the two were submerged in. “Someone got you this time, I see.”

The intensity in Jace’s eyes made the camp’s fallen angel look away. One secret had bloomed into others, even after the silence ended.

“So ...” Jace began, rubbing the corner of his eye to hide his words with his wrist. “... how bad do you want me right now?”

Isabelle ran a hand along her tightly bound hair.

“You're an idiot,” she said.

Towering over him from her white mare, Snow, Isabelle watched the stormy sea of humanity glittering beneath those waves of hellfire that stole away the sky. It was as if men gravitated to him; Jace was a drain wherever he was in the camp, collecting activity and sucking it in.

No. Not a drain, she thought, looking into his eyes.

A cyclone. They draw power from the sea.

“You’re gonna get hurt,” she warned.

And it won’t just be Relic this time, she almost said.

Jace laughed a little, dark hair pasted to his forehead. He squinted against the drizzle, his liquid gray eyes always seeming to hold back secrets. He could destroy everything she had spent a lifetime working for in the space of his arrogant smile.

He was standing so close to her leg, she could feel the sensation of electricity passing between them. Reaching out one hand, he toyed with the toe of her boot. “You know,” he mused. “When this is all over, you should—”

Isabelle opened her mouth, but her response was cut off by the loud call—

“Clear a path for the constable!”

Jace bowed his head. He felt the thunder of hooves approaching; knew there were only six beasts in all the world who could make such a clamor, one of them his own. He turned lazily away from the noise, fixed Isabelle in the center of his gaze.

With aching slowness, he smiled.

“Stop it,” Isabelle said, twitching her boot in a reluctant reminder for him to let go. Jace let out an
unsteady breath and watched her hands tighten on the reins as she looked over his shoulder.

“Good evening, constable,” she said with a smart salute.

Thean did not return it.

“Good indeed, Captain Talabray. I was thinking the very same.” He shrugged and looked around, taking a breath through his nose that was almost a snort. “What are the odds? My secret affinity for dereliction of duty and mass destruction have at last been indulged spectacularly all at once.” His sarcastic expression went blank. “Get back to your post before I drag you there.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I was only returning Captain Dab—”

The constable diverted his gaze to Jace.

“Immediately!”

“Sir,” Isabelle answered, and whirled around, fleeing toward her legion. Jace took a moment to steady himself. Every inch of him hurt from the fall, but he had no intention of giving The Greywall at his back the satisfaction of sensing that pain.

He would hold his tongue. As he had for many years.

“She was returning my horse.”

“A task demanded by one of your infamous dalliances, no doubt,” Thean said. Jace glowered in stony, sullen silence, but Thean would not relent. “What do your men call it? The glove, the spear ...” He beckoned a response.

Jace kept his eyes on Thean, but let his peripheral vision widen – and was pleased to see his men in perfect formation, with no hint it had ever been otherwise. He waited a breath, then two, until Thean's glare darkened still further.

“Riding the gauntlet,” he said.

Thean's hand fell to his side and, there upon his horse, he crossed his arms over his broad barrel chest.

“See here, boy. I did not spend years of my life imparting those techniques so you could use them to astound your men. This is a battlefield, not a carnival, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Jace said simply—

Much to the relief of Relic, who’d just arrived behind them both.

Thean turned to ride away even as he spoke.

“The general requests your presence. Both of you.”

Relic watched Jace vault into his saddle.

Watched him nonchalantly examine a grass stain on his elbow.

When Thean was gone – and only then – their eyes met.

“How goes it, Avery?”

Relic shrugged.

“It goes.”

Dabriel nodded.

“The command tent, eh?”

“Yep.”

“Dude, I swear I didn't do it," Jace joked, then stopped to bite a thread off the cuff of his cloak. As they cantered on, Relic twisted back to where Isabelle had been, but she was already gone.

Not fifty yards outside the perimeter of braziers, a ramp of shale led up to a wide crest of gently sloping hills where a cluster of tents overlooked the battlements atop and beyond Chapel Hill. From that height, the grandeur of the force could be appreciated, and the ring of fire pulsed in the late autumn chill.

Yet, from below—on the approach—those tents were no more than a knot of bronzy flames, a cauldron that was by turns too bright and too dark. Burning without respite just like Fairlawn, but with callow eagerness and frustration instead of dread.

If they could have thought those words, they’d know why their awe was so close to fear. While Relic was already tensing, Jace’s body language never betrayed a thing.

But his eyes still seemed, always, to be holding something back.

STATIC

Chapter Four  (E) The Cavalier’s Creed #2190463 by Dan Hiestand