Page 46 of Artemysia
We’re about to see who can drive a dagger deepest into the wooden table to decide who gets the last serving of stew when Riev silences us with a harsh “Shhh!”
A loud knock sounds on the front door.
Our bench and chairs scrape loudly against the floor as we scramble to our feet.
Instinctively, I dive for the nearest weapon, a kitchen cleaver on the counter next to me.
I’m outdone by Ivy slipping out the dagger at her ankle, and Throg lunging for his sword against the wall behind him. But Riev is already by the door, the axe for chopping wood ratcheted over his shoulder. “I only hear one set of footsteps,” he whispers.
His speed never ceases to surprise me. Not to mention that he sensed the newcomer before any of us did.
“Who’s there? Name and rank,” I ask, myvoice raised, but steady.
“Come in, friend,” Riev adds, dangerously calm, letting the stranger know that I’m not alone. He raises the axe as if about to fell a tree.
A muffled voice comes from behind the door. “Some of you have the accent of those from Stargazer, and your conversation sounds like that of soldiers. I am Olivier Stenley, the warden of this military post.”
Ivy unlocks the door and swings it open, leaping behind it in one graceful twist. Her hand grasps her knife in an undergrip, ready to gut someone.
Riev maintains his position by the doorframe.
Olivier is likewise armed with his broadsword, which he lowers when he sees me. “Commander Julian?” he says, his eyes rounding in recognition. “I was in a class of yours three years ago at the Academy. You taught me some valuable blade skills. Word is you’re leading a band through Artemysia.” He glances around as if expecting more than my three squad members.
His soft, rosy face framed in scruffy blonde hair is still recognizable, though he must be in his mid-twenties now. His jawline heavier, his broad shoulders packed with more muscle than I recalled. I often taught soldiers older than I—the outposts would send them to Stargazer for supplemental training.
“I remember you.” I don’t bother to correct him on my title; it would sound pompous, and I don’t have my cravat on, so there’s no reason he would assume I was a captain now. I wave him in. “Sit. There’s some stew left if you’re hungry.”
Olivier cranes his neck around me to peer at the food on the table, drops his pack, and walks to a cabinet to retrieve a bowl and spoon.
Everyone in the room relaxes.
“What happened here in Limingfrost?” I ask.
“I was wondering the same.” Olivier unbuckles his baldric before he sits at the table. “We evacuated the village two days ago on an anonymous tip that we would be raided by Syf. When we went to spy from the edge of the woods, we found a large encampment gathered, confirming the threat. We got everyone out and went west, since no one would expect us to go that direction, and sent word to Stargazer for backup. Along with two others, I returned to scout out Limingfrost. Since there were no signs of the village being overrun by Syf, Ireturned to the outpost.”
“Well, we killed the band of invading Syf for you,” Riev says.
“All seventy-five of them? It’s what we estimated from the traveling encampment.”
Ivy whistles. “Damn…seventy-five? We killed about two dozen. Where are the others? Are they coming back, or should we hunt them down?” She’s dressed down after her earlier bedroom activities, but paces the room in her high socks and long underwear, collecting her scattered weaponry from around the outpost.
I can’t tell if she’s alarmed or slightly exhilarated at the idea of killing more Syf.
“A few other soldiers and I scouted the entire area surrounding the village. The Syf are gone. My fellow soldiers are headed back to tell the others, but I’m to man the outpost and ride back to warn them if the Syf return.”
I fill Olivier’s bowl with stew. He sits at the end of the table, eagerly spooning mouthful after mouthful. I tell him what we know of the raid, how a different group might have come first for papers and books.
Olivier scans the room. “Some of the older books here are missing.” He nods at the half-empty top shelf next to the dining table. “Old maps, textbooks, maybe? They weren’t books we used often. I know one was a book of kid’s fairy tales that’s been here since we moved into the outpost. You know, the one where Syf ride Lindwyrms—those mythological flying serpents. We put it up there because no one wanted to read about Syf at night after fighting Syf during the day.”
“Lindwyrms? Sounds gross,” Ivy says.
“The stories said the Syf not only had magic but werecivilized. They couldn’t tell lies, could sense emotions, and helped humans. Ha! Kids’ tales,” Olivier scoffs. “Oh, and they liked sugar.” He snickers, because we all know it’s ridiculous to humanize the Syf.
“Theories on what anyone would want with old books and papers? Syf or otherwise?” I ask, steering the conversation back to where I want it.
Throg shakes his head. “Can Syf read or write? No one has even heard them speak.”
“When we left, we locked up,” Olivier says, jabbing his spoon at thedoor. “So they must’ve picked the locks and stolen whatever they were looking for.”
