The Order of the Wolf: The Kingdom of Haven, #1

CHAPTER 1: THE END

Why didn’t you let me die? I wanted to scream out the words.

Instead, I lay on my blankets, as the twice-be-damned healer probed my wound like it was a finger puzzle. I glared up at the fading light of day and wished my own life would fade so easily.

The pain in my side flared, and I gritted my teeth with the effort of keeping a yelp inside. I had taken an oath of silence since my mates had died. I had taken the oath because I had no one left to whom I wished to speak.

Never trust a healer. They don’t understand the warrior’s bond—what it feels like to be left alive when your mates have passed on.

I scowled at him, causing him to turn pale and back away.

The healer had robbed me. What’s a mercenary without his company? I had spent my life with the Old Guard. We’d lived together, fought together, and should have gone to the Halls of the Dead together. For some reason, the healer chose to save me. What did I do to make the gods hate me so much? Was it because I refused to bend my knee, shunning the lot of them with my stubborn pride?

The healer had fussed over me for weeks, long enough for me to wish I had died, and he wasn’t finished with me yet. Finally, he moved away and I could hear him conferring with the Commander.

The wound is pretty deep. He was healing fine in Basra, but it reopened on the march.

I looked up at them. The healer, an easterner, looked like a boy next to the Commander’s armored bulk, but not just because of their difference in size. The Commander had led the Order of the Wolf through many seasons and wore the close-chopped, steel-gray hair and scars to prove it, while the healer was slight of build, dark, and effeminate in appearance. A better comparison would be a sheep standing next to a wolf.

Will he be able to keep up? the Commander asked. His raspy voice always sounded out of place off the battlefield.

I knew why he asked. If I could not march come morning, I would be sent back to our base in Basra. No—I would not let them leave me behind. Dying in battle was the only way for me to join my lost mates in the Halls of the Dead, and the only thing that kept me going.

Using my remaining strength, I strained to stand. With my hand clasped tight to my wounded side, I  approached the pair.

The healer started to shake his head, but he never completed the movement. I came up behind him and grabbed the back of his neck, forcing his head up and down in a nod. He tensed against me, but desperation lent me strength. When I let go, the healer jumped away from me, rubbing his neck and scowling. He mumbled something under his breath, looking at the Commander for support.

My legs trembled from the effort of standing, but I couldn’t show weakness in front of the Commander. Hacker always said, Never show weakness.

The Commander stared at me with his piercing blue eyes. The eastern women swooned over those eyes, but for those of us under his command, they were as bleak as the sea cliffs off High Point.

Good enough, he said, and walked away. The healer scurried behind him, staying out of my reach.

Damn that healer!

We were a day out of Basra and I could barely stand. I gave up trying and dropped back down on my bedroll. Luckily, I had the night to recover before the next day’s march. I lay back onto my blankets and once more stared at the night sky. The twins were now visible overhead, marking the campaigning season and the hot weather. This time of year, the Order didn’t bother with tents, and even if they did, with whom would I share one?

My mates and I came from the west, a land of tall trees and broad rivers. In contrast, the firelight reflecting off the surrounding hills emphasized the barrenness of the eastern Kingdom of Bathos. Bathos—scrubby hills and goats. I was sick of the place. That didn’t matter, though. Being a mercenary soldier, especially one without a company, my opinion was worthless. If the Commander said, March, we marched. Unfortunately, the terrain would change soon enough as we traveled further east—but not for the better.

Closing my eyes to hide the grim landscape, I could almost imagine my mates lying around me as they had on other marches. Their laughter and camaraderie would lull me to sleep. The rest of the Order had feared the Old Guard. My company had been the bloody butchers of the Order of the Wolf. Whenever things went wrong in battle, we were called in to straighten out the mess. The Old Guard had been my family, and my memories of them were my only solace as I drifted off to sleep.

#

Jamul the Camel had been the toughest of the Old Guard. We called him Camel because he never seemed to need a drink. When the rest of us stumbled to our water skins after a battle, he just stood there and laughed. I worshipped him. He died my second year with the Order of the Wolf, on a routine mission to subdue an uprising in the Kingdom of Kartoba. His death taught me that tough wasn’t as good as smart.

#

I hadn’t thought of the Camel in years, and now his death haunted my dreams. Rubbing my eyes, I focused on the night sky. My head felt full of lamb’s wool, and it took me a moment to notice that the surrounding hills had disappeared. With that realization came a moment of panic, and I tried to rise into a fighting stance. A deep agony in my side took my breath away and halted my effort.

It was dark, and I was not in the same place where I had fallen asleep. A group of grubs sat around me—young men of Bathos, dark and lean. They watched curiously as I reached for my poleax and braced against it to complete my ascension from my bedding.

How are you feeling? one of them asked. He stood out from his mates, taller and lighter of complexion, with a heavy northern accent.

I glared at him and dropped back onto my blanket, clutching my side.

You were hurt pretty bad, Northern Accent continued.

Ignoring him, I foraged through my pack for food. My hands trembled as I pulled out a stale chunk of bread. How did I get here? Why were these grubs hanging about?

Another skinny grub spoke. Why don’t you talk anymore?

I ignored him too, chewing my bread and watching the grubs out of the corner of my eye. Most were new recruits from Bathos, shorter in stature and darker in complexion than the majority of my Order mates. Their beards were another eastern custom that set them apart from the majority. Northern Accent seemed to be the exception; he probably hailed from the Kingdom of High Point. The grubs reminded me of a bunch of toy soldiers with their bristly young faces and crisp new arms. I could hear their new leather creaking as they moved around the campsite. They were pretty, but useless.

The Order of the Wolf consisted of ten companies. The Old Guard had been the most feared and respected. The grubs—the newest, raw recruits—were the Old Guard’s replacements. The company had been newly formed after the death of my mates. But why were they bothering me? They were sadly mistaken if they thought they could gain status by clinging to an old mercenary.

They watched me for a while then put their heads together for a conference. Afterwards, the grubs settled down and left me alone, but I noticed that they stayed close. I frowned. At least a day must have passed, so why was I still with the Order? The Commander should have sent me back to Basra.

I squinted at someone heading my way. It was the healer. He stopped before me, a clean bandage in his hand.

Are you going to let me change that? he asked, poised to flee.

I grunted and motioned for him to approach.

The healer was on loan from the Prince of Bathos, our current employer. He was a nervous type who babbled constantly while he worked. I listened as he dressed my wound and brought me up-to-date on my status.

They call themselves the Crew, he said, gesturing at the young recruits. They carried you through the day’s march. He finished pulling the old, blood-soaked bandage free and applied a tincture of something that burned the raw wound. I hissed at the pain but refused to respond to his words.

They saved your life, the healer insisted as he tied the new bandage in place.

I spat.

The healer’s face turned red. Why do I bother? he muttered as he rose and stalked away.

So the Crew had saved me. They hadn’t been together for a week, and now I owed them my life. As I considered my predicament, the Commander approached on his evening rounds. He stopped before me and frowned. Brain, are you fit?

I curled my lip at the mention of my Order name. Every soldier in the Order of the Wolf was given a nickname by his company. After a while, most of us didn’t even acknowledge our birth names. The Old Guard had named me Brain because they said I thought too much. I’d never liked the name much.

I gave him a slight nod.

The Commander surveyed the grubs’ camp and then crouched down next to me. Brain, I need you.

I couldn’t help but grimace. What could the Commander possibly need from me? I could barely walk.

Why do you think I let them carry you? he asked, gesturing toward the grubs. They have no experience! How am I supposed to train them on the march? They’re grubs—and I need you to keep them out of trouble.

I shrugged and turned away.

The Commander leaned closer, not to be put off, and continued. I know you miss the Old Guard, and I understand your silence—but you’re still a member of the Order of the Wolf, and I am your commander.

I couldn’t stop him, so I listened, anticipating his next words with dread.

You owe them a life. The Commander’s menacing smile bespoke unpleasant eventualities if I refused. You owe me! Now put off your death wish long enough to train these grubs, at least with the basics, and get them through this mission. You can pay your debt to me by keeping them alive. He studied my face, waiting for an answer.

I looked over my shoulder at the sorry grubs he was trying to foist on me; I looked at the Commander’s steely grin; and finally, I glanced at my bandaged wound. He was right, of course. I did have a death wish. The Old Guard had been my family and, ever since the bloody battle in Basra that annihilated them and left me wounded, I had stopped caring about life. Now the Commander had me pegged and he had me cornered. He knew I could not die owing the Crew a life, any more than I could disobey him. I scowled but nodded in agreement.

The Commander stood and chuckled. Once this mission is over, Brain, he called over his shoulder as he continued his rounds, I’ll kill you myself.

I spat at his back and turned to look at the hopeful faces of the Crew. Northern Accent seemed ready to approach, but I discouraged him with a growl. He blinked rapidly and thought better of it.

The Commander had forced me into a new role. I didn’t like it. As I sank back onto my blankets, I plotted my escape.

CHAPTER 2: REBIRTH

After the day of rest, my body refused to cooperate in sleep. I spent the majority of the night watching the stars and pondering my fate. I wondered if the gods were testing me—and if so, to what purpose? How many families would they take from me before they would give me what I most desired?

I had joined the Order of the Wolf after my father died, because I had nowhere else to go. I remembered standing with the other grubs waiting to see if one of the companies would take me. I wanted to die even then. I longed to leave this world and its pain behind. Then Hacker had stood in front of me, forcing me to meet his eyes, and asked, Can you fight, boy?

He looked more dangerous than any man I had ever seen, but I was still miserable with grief for my father, so I stepped forward. Hacker handed me a sword and proceeded to show me just how little I knew about fighting. He knocked me down again and again. I hoped his weapon would slip and make an end of me. I tried to help him by making mad rushes and wild swings.

Finally, he knocked the sword from my hand and motioned for me to join another boy who stood behind him. Come along, then.

In that moment, the Old Guard became my new family and Hacker my teacher.

Near dawn, I finally found sleep. The next morning, I woke up feeling strangely refreshed. The pain in my side was still there and would be for some time, but its intensity had eased. I could ignore it, as I had ignored pain for years. A torn shoulder and bad knee had ached for so long that one more pain didn’t really matter—it was like another familiar companion.

I sat up, carefully stretching, and took in my surroundings. We were still on the eastern road out of Basra, but the hills had disappeared, marking our transition out of the Kingdom of Bathos. The landscape hadn’t improved; the hills and scrub brush had given way to sand and misshapen, prickly trees. Even the goats of Bathos would have a hard time surviving in this terrain.

The grubs were gathered around a breakfast they had procured from the cooks. Realizing that I was stuck, I stood carefully and approached them. A sloppy-looking grub handed out bread and porridge. I took a share and headed back to my bedding. I stood there for a moment, rubbing my side and watching the Crew wolf down their food as they joked among themselves. They were not much more than boys. I frowned when any of them got too close to me. They got the message.

Eventually, the rest of The Order stirred on the road ahead of us. I could hear the braying of the supply train mules and smell their musty odor on the morning air. For some reason, the Crew was at the end of the line; normally, a new company would be placed in a safer position. They would have to be vigilant, watching for danger from the rear. This must have been the Commander’s doing. He was trying to force me to help them.

I pictured him up at the front of the column, gloating over my assignment, and fought the urge to track him down. But I couldn’t even complain, because of my self-imposed silence. That vow would be bothersome in the days ahead.

We finished eating and the grubs began to gather their gear for the coming march. Northern Accent approached me as I rolled my blankets.

I’m leader of the Crew, he announced, shifting his weight from foot to foot and trying to appear confident. He was taller than his mates but still inches shorter than me, and he was as thin as a reed. He waited for some sign of approval. I ignored him and continued packing.

They call me Squirrel.

I turned and studied him. I could see the connection. His eyes were bright and beady, and he wore his sand-colored hair pulled back like a squirrel’s tail. I guessed that he had recently joined the Order, looking to be picked up by one of established companies, only to end up leading a new company of Bathos-born grubs—poor bastard. I grunted and turned back to my task. I could tell that he stood there for another moment or two before giving up and walking away.

I clenched my jaws as I pulled a metal cuirass over my head. The breastplate would keep constant pressure on my wound and might stop it from seeping blood. Then I eyed my pack with trepidation, wondering if I would have the strength to carry it through the day’s march. I tried to heft it once and quickly realized it wasn’t going to happen. I waved over one of the grubs. He looked as though he wanted to bolt when I pointed him out, but he did step forward. I gestured for him to pick up my pack and follow me up to the mule train, where he slung it up onto one of the pack beasts. Afterward, he scurried back to his mates while I watched the camp prepare to move.

The mule train stood at the center of the camp surrounded by the individual clusters of each company. My heart lifted briefly as I watched the company banners being hoisted in preparation for the march. I had witnessed this inspiring sight so many times, but my inspiration died when I failed to spy the Old Guard’s banner rise among the rest. In its place, a sickly-looking flag that depicted, of all things, a prickly cactus rose at the Crew’s camp. I didn’t even want to guess how they came up with such a banner. I watched the embarrassing banner rise, fighting a desire to scream my fury at the miserable grubs.

I knew most of the men in the other companies, but I refrained from approaching any as they passed around me. They returned the favor by ignoring my presence, even avoiding my gaze. I felt like a dead man walking among the living, and it fueled my anger