Marc stepped up beside her. "Let it go, Ana. I warned you from the start the red streak would look like a bleeding comet, but you refused to listen. Now you must live with the choice." He clapped a heavy, armoured hand on her shoulder in consolation.
"None of you have any appreciation for art, is what this is," she retorted, her indignation bordering on a pout.
Marc rumbled with laughter, dropping the argument. Now that he had wiped some of the gore from his face, I could truly study his countenance. He was a mountain of a man, standing a full head taller than myself and two over his commander. His eyes were like chips of obsidian, but it was his hair that drew the eye—a mane as red as the setting sun, flowing uncut over his broad shoulders. His beard was just as thick, extending well past his collarbone, yet neatly kept.
"So, what brings a lordling like you into the Norvoshi Hills?" he asked, crossing his massive arms.
"There is a war being fought not too far from here, is there not?" I replied with a smirk. "What more reason does a man need than to wet his blade and slake his thirst for battle?"
"Funny, that," Ana chimed in. "We are marching to join the Norvoshi forces gathering to support Qohor. To whom do you intend to commit your sword, lordling whose name I do not yet know?"
I laughed aloud. "My name is Daemon, Lady Ana—"
"Commander. Or just Ana. Never Lady," she interjected curtly, the sudden steel in her voice making me pause. Marc nodded sagely in the background.
"Ana, then," I amended with an easy nod. "As for your question... I care not which side I fight for, so long as there is a fight."
She smiled at that, a flash of white teeth against the mud. "Well then, Daemon. Would you care to join us at our camp? The least we can offer our rescuer is a full stomach and a warm fire to pass the night. On the morrow, you may ride with us or head to the front lines alone."
"I would like that very much. After you." I gestured gracefully as she turned and strode toward the surviving horses.
"Where is your mount, Daemon?" she asked, pulling herself into the saddle.
The question brought me up short. On the one hand, I knew Caraxes would find me sooner rather than later. On the other, I could not deny the wicked glee I felt anticipating the sight of these hardened sellswords fleeing in terror when my dragon finally descended upon them.
"It would seem the wretched beast ran off during the fighting," I lied smoothly.
"Worry not. You can take one of the dead men's mounts. It is the least we can do," Marc grunted, whistling for a stray stallion.
I climbed onto one easily as we headed for their camp.
…
We rode for just over an hour, leaving the dense forest behind for the sprawling, wind-swept plains before the Falling Stars' encampment finally came into view.
The camp was a sprawling cluster of tents and firepits, reeking of woodsmoke, roasting game, and unwashed bodies. As we rode in, dozens of sellswords swarmed Ana and Marc, boasting of their own successful hunts. Their cheers turned to dark, muttered oaths when they learned of the ambush on the Commander's party. Soon enough, their eyes—and their sidelong glances—turned to me.
Some of the veterans eyed my blood-spattered clothes with grudging respect, while the younger whelps looked upon my unmarred face with open disbelief. Yet, beneath it all, a single, unifying emotion burned in their stares when word of my blade spread: greed. I welcomed it. I leaned back against a wagon wheel, flashing them a wolfish smirk, silently daring any of them to try their luck.
"None of that, lads. He is a guest and our saviour. You will make him feel welcome, not threatened," Ana announced, her voice cracking like a whip over the chatter of the firepits.
"But Commander, what if we win it from him in single combat?" shouted one of the younger sellswords, stepping into the firelight. He wore the same boiled leather and steel greaves as the rest, though his armor was unscarred by true battle. Now that they were within the safety of the camp, the men were far more at ease, hungry for entertainment.
"It is entirely his choice whether to wager his sword," Ana countered, grabbing a steaming bowl of venison stew from a pot and thrusting it into my hands. "You may challenge him, but seeing as you possess nothing of equal value, it would be a beggar's wager. No sane man would accept it."
The lad puffed out his chest and took another step forward. "What say you, Valyrian? A spar to see who's worth what. You win, I pledge my sword to your service here and now. I win, and I take that rippled steel at your hip."
The sheer, breathtaking audacity of the peasant was intoxicating. I took a slow, deliberate sip of the broth.
"I have no need of a beggar's service, boy," I drawled, relishing the flush of crimson that immediately stained his cheeks. "How about I take your life if you lose? It is still infinitesimally less valuable than my sword, but it is a wager I am willing to entertain."
He spat into the dirt near my boots. "You need a good thrashing if you think you can talk down to a seasoned sellsword, lordling."
I barked a laugh. "Seasoned? Do not jest. The only thing seasoned about you is the meat you ate for supper. You are as green as summer grass."
"Enough!" he snarled, his hand dropping to the hilt of his broadsword. "Spare me your japes. Are you in, or are you a coward?"
"Let me finish my supper," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet hum. "And after that, I shall cleave you from stalk to stem."
The camp erupted. Sellswords began beating their cups against their armor, chanting in a dozen different tongues for blood, while I calmly finished the stew.