10 - A Name

  Luka.

  How Riven hated that name. It felt vulgar - wrong - to give that thing a name.

  He knew the others felt the same. He saw it in the way they tensed when the healer girl entered the cell, as if her smile were the only shield she needed. Naive. She who never once stood on the battlefield, never witnessed the havoc caused by that creature. She treated it like a damn pet. The knights were at their wits end just trying to keep their heads above water. Sleep deprived. Unable to keep up with their regular training. Constantly keeping their eyes peeled for danger. It never ended. And all the while the little healer girl played with her kitten.

  Riven avoided the times she visited. It took everything in his willpower and then some to not snap. It’s a beast not a toy! he wanted to yell. But he didn’t. It wasn’t his business.

  Damn infuriating.

  Garrick was another source of worry. Riven often stood just outside the door of the cell when the high commander worked, one hand on the hilt of his blade at all times. Every question was met with silence or growls, every query disrespect.

  “Where did you come from?” Garrick asked.

  He waved a piece of jerky. The monster glared back, eyes wary. It tried to reach out, tried snatching the food, but Garrick was quick. He pulled back, shaking his head in warning.

  “No deal,” he said. “Answer the question.”

  A snarl. Bared teeth. Garrick sighed.

  “Fine. Something simpler. Do you know where you are?”

  The beast slammed its fist against the stone wall. Riven jolted, sword scraping in the scabbard, drawing it part way. Garrick stood quickly, rising to his full height. Riven stilled.

  “Behave!” Garrick cried.

  The loud voice seemed to cow the monster. It huffed through its nose but did nothing more. Riven didn’t relax, but he let his sword click back into place. Did Garrick actually believe it was possible to communicate with this thing? Whatever hell Savidor dredged this thing up from, it was clearly not human. Perhaps another mortal race. Or perhaps just a beast. Riven didn’t really care where it was from. He couldn’t shake the memories of the battlefield, facing that thing. No humanity. Only murderous intent behind those eyes. Garrick had always been an optimist, but he was also pragmatic.

  “You need both hope and common sense to be a good soldier,” Garrick had told him once.

  Riven had been a wet-behind-the-ears greenie at the time.

  “That sounds a little contradictory, sir,” he said, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  “No soldier fights without hope, but always temper that with the reality set before you. A good soldier will tell themselves, ‘There is hope,’ then find it on their own.”

  Riven lived by that man’s words. Breathed them like gospel. And always, he’d found a way.

  But Riven couldn’t help but worry Garrick was leaning too far into blind faith and not seeing the reality before him.

  Inside the cell, Garrick grunted and turned to his knights.

  “Captain Hawthorne, the tiles.”

  Riven wrinkled his nose but didn’t argue. He picked up a small crate. The pieces inside clattered softly against each other. Another of the healer girl’s ideas. Each tile had been carved from wood and hardened to pressure. They bore a variety of things. Numbers. Pictures.

  “He can’t understand words,” she said when asked.

  It may not understand words, but Riven knew it understood fists. But he was outvoted.

  He passed the crate to Garrick. The high commander nodded in thanks and rummaged around until he found two pieces - one with the Savidorian lioness, the other with the silver dove of Adern. The high commander held them both up.

  “Here,” Garrick said, pointing. “You are here.” He jabbed a finger at Savidor’s crest and said, “You are from here. You.”

  The beast ignored him. Riven’s fingers tightened on his hilt. But Garrick wasn’t deterred. He reached into the box again and pulled out seven more tiles this time, placing them in a neat row beneath Savidor’s sigil. His brow furrowed in concentration, and he had that stubborn set to his jaw again. Riven let his shoulders drop as his irritation dissolved into guilt. Garrick was so determined to get answers. He knew from the many letters Garrick kept ignoring that the king was not half happy at the lack of progress. Riven did not want to add to the burden. Otherwise, he would have spoken up.

  “Where are you from?” Garrick asked. He pointed to each tile in turn, then lifted the jerky again before adding, “Choose.”

  He demonstrated the action, picking one up and showing it to the beast before putting it down. He repeated both again. The jerky was offered. The monster’s eyes flickered across the tiles, a scowl on its face. Without warning, its hand darted out and grabbed a tile before flinging it at Garrick. Only quick reflexes saved the high commander from getting hammered in the face.

  “Little bastard,” Riven grumbled.

  His hand lifted the sword from its scabbard again, metal scraping on metal. Seeing the movement, the monster recoiled and hissed in warning.

  “Enough,” Garrick said. “Stow it.”

  He looked back at the monster, who had curled itself up like a lion on the prowl. The chains that bound it to the wall rattled in promise. Garrick calmly leaned forward, picked up the flung tile, and pocketed it. With the help of his teeth, he tore the jerky in two.

  He held up one piece. “Choose.” The second piece, however, he held up and shook his head dramatically, saying, “Bad. No behave.”

  That he slipped into his pocket in full view of the monster before tossing the first piece into the cell. It howled in tantrum and flung the jerky back at Garrick. Garrick ignored it, gathered the rest of his tiles, and quietly left the room. His steps were deliberately slow and unbothered.

  Mercifully, the cell door closed behind him, muffling the cries behind thick steel.

  “Here,” Garrick said, placing the crate down beside the door and pulling out the tile from his pocket. “Do me a favor and contact Varne. Tell him to get his intelligence network on this.”

  Riven took the tile from Garrick. It was a crest belonging to one of the seven regions in Savidor. Nireya, if he remembered right. A sleepy province with a quiet stretch of hills and vineyards as far from the warfront as possible. Oh yes. Perfect place for breeding monsters. He looked up, frowning.

  “You can’t tell me you think he actually picked this with any thought,” Riven said, almost scoffing.

  “Not really,” Garrick admitted. “But we’ve gotten little more out of him and we’re running out of time. Varne’s last letter said Savidor was quiet, but their ambassador’s haven’t even reached out to Adern under the pretense of peace and they don’t like losing. It’s enough for our intelligence units to look around and ask questions at least. Anything to do with the monster in Nireya we want.”

  Riven nodded tightly, fist clenching around the tile. Garrick’s face was worn, haggard. He wouldn’t add to it with his doubts.

  “Yes, commander,” he said.

  He saluted and walked away to do as he was ordered. But his frustration simmered beneath the surface.

  That evening, he stood on the second floor balcony, leaning against the railing as he watched Bran disperse his third to the watch. One of them - Merrick from the back of his head - met the healer girl at the base of the tower. She chattered enthusiastically. Merrick nodded in the way that said he was merely enduring. Riven frowned and turned to the stairs.

  As soon as he reached the courtyard, he called over to Bran. After exchanging salutes, Riven nodded to where Maeve and Merrick had just disappeared into the tower.

  “You worried about her?” he asked.

  “No,” Bran answered.

  Too quick.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Riven decided to prod. “She’s alone with it a lot, isn’t she?”

  “Hmm,” Bram murmured.

  “Not saying she’s weak or anything, just…you know, not trained for this sort of thing.”

  Bran nodded. “Yes, sir. It…does worry me.”

  Riven shook his head. “Take this as you will, sergeant, but don’t doubt your instincts.”

  Bran frowned and turned to look at him. “Sir?”

  “Your instincts,” Riven repeated. “They’re spot on. Trust me. I get it. It makes me nervous each time she enters the cell, too, thinking maybe this is the day something happens.”

  Bran swallowed nervously. “She’s been making progress with him.”

  Riven fought the urge to yell. Instead, he stepped closer, sighing and dropping his voice.

  “It,” he said slowly, emphasizing the word, “is weak right now, and it’s only getting stronger with her help. We’ve both seen that thing in action. Don’t get me wrong. I trust Merrick with my life. But we’ve seen it take the best of us before. And Maeve, she’s not a knight. I just worry. Sorry, if I overstepped my professional bounds, sergeant, but I couldn’t not say anything anymore. If it were someone I loved…”

  He trailed off, swallowing hard. Bran’s expression softened somewhat.

  “Thank you, sir. I understand. I’ll have a talk with her, if I can,” he said.

  Riven nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “I think that’s in everyone’s best interests.”

  Then, he walked away.

  Nothing changed much. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The next evening as Bran’s third took over from Riven’s again for the night shift, he noticed that Bran and the little healer seemed to be at odds. Bran’s jaw was tight as he escorted the little healer into the tower himself tonight, and she was quiet. Riven frowned slightly, wondering if that was his doing. That had not been his intention. He stepped forward, wondering if he could catch up with Bran, when Garrick’s voice called him from the balcony above.

  “Captain?” the high commander called. “A word, please.” He paused, then glanced behind him as a light pulsed behind him. “Er, maybe ten minutes.”

  Riven glanced where Bran and the little healer had disappeared.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  The high commander didn’t have an office. He had a war room. A very cluttered, very busy war room. Maps stretched across a long table, bearing sketches and troop movements across the familiar battlefield. Reports lay scattered in the inbetween, and notes were pinned to walls.

  Riven could hear Garrick’s voice near the back. Garrick kept a desk and the most important documents there behind the magicked lock. There was a communication stone in there, too. Riven could see the faint glow of it at the edges. A last minute call. He wondered who it was.

  Out of interest - or maybe to stave off boredom while he waited, he leaned forward and scanned the notes on the table.

  Where will they go?

  Supply routes monitored. Potential weakness. Set alternates.

  Secure this gully.

  Riven straightened, chest tightening. This was the Garrick Riven knew. Careful planner, always thinking five steps ahead. The room was testament enough to how much Garrick hadn’t forgotten about the war. Riven wanted to tell him that he was wasting his time with the beast, though. What was on these walls held far more value than what lay behind that cell door beneath the tower.

  But he couldn’t. It wasn’t his place.

  Riven glanced once more towards the back of the room. This was taking awhile. He edged closer to the back and the half-opened door.

  “...waiting very patiently, commander. But it’s been almost two months. When will the magic tower be allowed to work with the monster?”

  He recognized the sound of the archmage’s voice.

  “We need more time,” Garrick said, his voice tired. “Do you know how wounded the thing was? You know better than I how lethal desert oil and magister’s fire are combined. It barely survived and has only just begun to recover enough to communicate.”

  “Perhaps we can work together,” Veylan suggested.

  Garrick sighed. “You know how much I respect you Veylan, but can you honestly tell me our interests wouldn’t clash? We want answers, you want experimentation.”

  Veylan’s chuckle sounded warped over the communication stone, the glow flickering in cadence.

  “You’re not wrong,” Veylan admitted. “But Garrick, there is more than one kind of answer to be had here. If you can’t get yours, perhaps I can get mine.”

  The glow faded from the stone, and Garrick sighed. From his place in the doorway, Riven could see the heavy set to his shoulders, the way they sagged in what looked like defeat. Riven shifted forward, concerned. The boards beneath his feet groaned. Riven winced.

  Garrick glanced up and noticed him standing there. He waved him inside.

  “My apologies, Riven. Veylan called and I couldn’t…” his voice trailed off.

  Riven knew what he wanted to say. Couldn’t ignore another one. He nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Garrick sucked in a breath and leaned forward. He steepled his fingers together and looked up at Riven, new determination in his eyes.

  “I heard you put in a request for more reinforcements to the castle. And this despite your knowledge of my stance on new recruits in the Second Order,” the high commander said.

  Riven looked down at his boots. He knew this conversation had been coming at some point and steeled himself for an uncomfortable discussion.

  “I did, sir,” he admitted.

  He wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t apologize about it, either. Or maybe he would. It was rather underhanded what he’d done.

  “Did I agree to it?” Garrick asked him softly.

  Riven didn’t look up. “I took advantage of your inattention, sir.”

  “That’s not what I asked, captain,” the high commander said. “Did I agree to it?”

  Riven nodded. “Yes, sir, you did. About two weeks ago in the courtyard. But only because you-”

  “Then you did the right thing.”

  A blink. Then, the words sunk in, and Riven looked up startled.

  “Sir?”

  Garrick sighed and stood up from behind his desk. He came around and clapped a hand on his knight captain’s shoulders, a small smile playing on his lips.

  “I’m sorry, Riven. I’ve been remiss in seeing to the needs of my unit. You tried to tell me, and I did not listen,” he said.

  It sounded wrong somehow. Riven shook his head.

  “Sir, it’s not your fault. This task you were given is impossible,” Riven said quickly.

  But Garrick was already shaking his head and pacing to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

  “My wife said something similar, as have others, but I believe everyone is forgetting the crucial moment where I insisted to his majesty and the archmage that answers could be gotten. I started this mess. But,” he added, turning and smiling sadly at Riven, “I have been doing so at the cost of my men. I tore myself between being the commander of this unit and the commander of our army, and that at the detriment to none more than yourself. My oversight and lack of responsibility forced you to go behind my back and take up responsibilities that you have been declining me for a while now. That was not fair, and I need you to know it was not my intention to manipulate you into taking it out of my lack.”

  Warmth crept into Riven’s chest and throat. “Sir, I have never felt that way.”

  “And I thank you, but that doesn’t make it any less unreasonable,” Garrick told him. “So let’s make the request official. Say seven more knights and three assistants for our quartermaster. That should be reasonable numbers, yes? It may take some time - I want to be careful with who we take in - but there are several trustworthy knights. I’m sure we can find someone. And perhaps an interim commander to take over the position while we look for a new knight commander. Unless, of course, you have finally come to your senses and accepted?”

  Riven bowed his head to hide a smile. “No, sir.”

  Garrick shrugged. “Had to try.” But he was smiling, too. “We’ll get someone, Riven. I apologize again. Now, is there anything else I should know? Something I am missing that I have yet again neglected?”

  Riven hesitated. This was it - this was his moment. Garrick was listening. Perhaps if he said something now…

  He opened his mouth. But then, Garrick sat down and knocked over a crate full of tiles. They clattered across the floor, skittering in all directions. He jumped up again, swearing.

  “Dammit! I swear, this office gets more and more cluttered every passing day. It’s a receptacle for all things deemed too important to keep in storage. And Maeve insists these are far too important to keep hanging around down there.”

  Riven’s jaw snapped shut. After a moment’s hesitation, he came around to help him. He picked up one of the tiles and frowned. Upon it was an image of a horse.

  “What are these?” he asked, confused.

  “More tiles to communicate with our guest underground,” Garrick said, holding out the crate for Riven to drop his collection in. “I had the quartermaster commission more, hence where I learned about the request going out to the castle - Barrett was the one who woke me up and reminded me you were swimming with one arm tied to your chest, by the way.” He paused and shook his head. “It’s silly, but Maeve insists he’s been making such progress with the first few that I thought perhaps it was time to introduce more vocabulary.”

  He stood and crossed the floor, placing the crate on his desk with a sigh.

  “Sometimes,” he continued, not noticing how stiffly Riven stood and came to stand in front of the desk again, “I feel like this is a useless endeavor, and other times I get hope that he might actually give us something useful. Savidor has no advantage without the monster, but that’s not the only thing against Adern right now.”

  “Forgive me for saying, but it is difficult to measure the recovery progress of a wild animal,” Riven said bluntly, voice tight.

  Garrick snorted and nodded. “You’re not wrong. Now, where were we? Ah yes, any concerns you may have? Anything I should know about?”

  Riven shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Let me know if something does occur to you. And this time, I promise to listen,” Garrick said. “I can hear your men training now. Make sure to get some rest where you can until our reinforcements arrive. Dismissed.”

  Riven thumped his fist to his chest before turning on his heel and leaving.

  He. Garrick had called it he.

  Did he even realize? Had it been intentional? Or had it been the influence of that little healer girl? It was one thing coming from that little vixen. The healer was all soft. Sappy. It was even expected of the younger recruits, who hadn’t seen as much of the front as the older veterans. Youthful. Naive. Expected.

  But Garrick? Experienced. Knowledgeable. He had seen the battlefield, felt the sting of magic across skin. He was the one who stayed up late planning every moment and fought the hardest to stop it. The one who held the bottled magister’s fire and set the desert oil alight. The one who stood guard, stone-faced as he listened to that thing scream.

  He.

  The word felt like a betrayal of the deepest order. And yet, Riven had said nothing.

  He couldn’t. His mind flitted back to the war room. The high commander was still planning, still thinking ahead to the battles that were yet to happen. He was planning for the future that would inevitably come when they failed this damn experiment. Riven couldn’t put that kind of pressure on the high commander, not when he had the whole of Adern on his shoulders.

  But every step came stiff as he walked away.