But she’d never had hallucinations before, nor seen visions, so she couldn’t brush it off so easily.
“I had just been going to the cafe for a sandwich and coffee. You’re welcome to join me, and I’ll answer whatever questions you’ve come so far to ask. But, first, who is your lovely companion?” the man asked, and his accent became stronger. Where did you get an accent like that? Switzerland? Denmark?
“This is Sara Halliwell,” the sheriff said. “Her father was-is-my best detective. He’s gone missing, just like Oliver and Collette Bascombe.”
Friedle gave her a sympathetic look. “Ah, yes. He’d gone to England with Julianna. I’m very sorry. It appears that I must add your name to the list of people I have failed.”
Sara stared at him. “What do you-”
Jackson shot her a look that reminded her that he was the sheriff and would ask the questions.
The man they had come so far to speak with saw the moment of tension between them and nodded as though in approval. “Perhaps you could both do with a bite to eat as well. We can find a comfortable booth and discuss all of the mistaken assumptions that have been made about Max Bascombe’s murder, and the fate of those who’ve vanished.”
That sounded good to Sara, in spite of the fact that she did not want to move any closer to the man who sometimes had the face of a monster.
But Sheriff Norris took insult at the man’s words.
“What mistaken assumptions?”
Friedle did not smile. Instead, he gnawed his lower lip and such sadness came over him that his eyes grew moist and a tear slid down his cheek.
“Oh, nearly all of them, I’d say. Come along, my friends. I’ll give you the truth. You won’t accept it, but telling it is the least I can do. I owe them all that much.”
The man turned and started away from them. After a few steps, he glanced back and Sara flinched, afraid she would see that hideous face again. But he looked perfectly normal, now.
“Come along, Sheriff, Miss Halliwell. It’s a story that could cost my life, and it’s what you came for, so you’d best pay attention.”
The Twillig’s Gorge militia marched southwest on the Orient Road, dust rising in their wake. They were a motley crew of men, women, and legends, carrying a broad array of weaponry, but still Ovid Tsing felt proud of them.
They would follow the Orient Road toward the Isthmus of the Conquistadors, and the moment they found a detachment of Hunyadi’s army, they would pledge themselves to the commander of that force. Whatever it took to defend Euphrasia, they would do. In all his life, Ovid had never done anything as important. The Atlanteans had attempted genocide against the Borderkind. They had shattered the Truce. They had murdered the King of Yucatazca and invaded the Two Kingdoms.
They had to be stopped.
The Jokao marched behind the Twillig’s Gorge militia. The Stonecoats had rendezvoused with them when they left the gorge, coming across the plateau with a rumble that shook Ovid’s heart in his chest. Some of them had designs engraved in the stone that armored their bodies, dyed deep, natural colors. He had not been with them long enough to recognize any hierarchy dependent upon these sigils, but knew their leader from the three ochre-painted furrows on his chest.
Ovid would have preferred to have the Jokao at the front of their force, but the Stonecoats’ thunderous passing raised a great deal of dust. Also, their presence seemed to unnerve the human members of the militia. Legends were often formidable, but rarely came in such large numbers. There were perhaps one hundred and fifty Jokao marching with them-an enormous number, far greater than Ovid had hoped-and they had sworn the same vow as the militia had, to drive the Atlanteans from the Two Kingdoms.
When the last of his militia had passed, Ovid nodded at the leader of the Jokao and fell in with the final line of his recruits-the seven archers he had helped to train. They greeted him cheerfully, and that gave him heart. The march had already been long, but enormous distance still separated them from the Isthmus. It gladdened him to see that none of the militia were flagging.
They marched on. From time to time he saw someone sip from a water-skin. In another hour, they would stop for a brief rest and dry rations. No full meals would be eaten until they camped tonight. It had been planned fairly well, he thought. The help he’d received from his lieutenants had been invaluable, but he would be relieved to hand over command of the militia to the king’s army. They would know how best to utilize volunteers, as well as how to keep them fed and armed.
Such thoughts occupied much of Ovid’s thinking as his feet rose and fell. The march became a numb monotony, but they were traveling to war, and there would be no monotony once the arrows began to fly and the steel to sing.
The day grew warmer. As they continued southwest, the heat would only increase, but he didn’t mind. Ovid liked the way heat settled into his skin and then down into his bones. It made him feel alive and vital. Death always seemed close by when the snow fell.
A voice shouted his name, shaking him from his reverie. Ovid glanced to his left and saw LeBeau, the swordsman among his lieutenants, hurrying along at the edge of the road even as the militia marched on. The troubled expression on the swordsman’s face forestalled any greeting.
“What is it?” Ovid demanded as he stepped out of the ranks.
“Another army awaits us on the road ahead. A rabble, I’d say, but I don’t see Hunyadi’s colors anywhere.”
“Damn it.” Ovid slipped his bow from where it had been slung across his chest, then caught up to the other archers who made up his personal guard. “Come with me.”
The archers hurried out of the marching ranks. Ovid and LeBeau led the way, running alongside the rest of the militia. As they neared the front of the march, Ovid shouted for them all to halt, waving his bow in the air to draw their attention over the stomping of the Stonecoats at the rear. Men and women, and the handful of legends that’d joined them, came to a stop. Some watched him curiously, but the front line knew exactly why Ovid had halted them.
Two hundred yards ahead, an army camped on the road. They flew no colors that might have proclaimed their allegiance to any king, but there were a great many of them-perhaps three hundred-and a third of those had horses. Where in a thousand Hells had they come from?
“What will you do?” LeBeau asked.
Ovid stared at the men and women blocking their path. The horsemen were all mounted. Some of the foot soldiers, however, had been resting on the side of the road as he arrived at the front of his volunteers. Now they all began to rise. From what he could see there were no legendary among them, only Lost Ones.
“Bows,” he said.
His seven archers unslung their bows and drew arrows from their quivers, preparing to fire at his order.
“LeBeau, with me,” Ovid said, slipping his own bow across his back once more. “Archers, if we fall under attack, you are to respond in kind.”
“Yes, sir,” Yangtze replied curtly. Of all of the archers, he was the only one with any military training.
Ovid studied the road ahead, tempted to bring the Jokao up to approach this motley army with him. But he worried that the approach of Stonecoats might incite violence, and he wanted to find out if these were enemies before slaughter ensued. He had certainly not expected to meet armed resistance until they had traveled much further south.
LeBeau fell into step beside and slightly behind him. The lieutenant did not draw his sword, but kept his hand upon the pommel of the weapon. Ovid held his own hands out, palms up, in a gesture he hoped would be seen as peaceful. Together they crossed half the distance between his militia and the soldiers who blocked their path. There, he stopped. LeBeau shot him a quizzical look, but Ovid ignored it.