Chapter 20: Chapter Twenty

Gregory watched as they pilled the bodies. After Normar fell, he hadn’t got far. Azghar offered him death or a gray cloak, and he had chosen the latter.

The Legion executed everyone who was not loyal—or at least, anyone who didn’t submit. Few of Azghar’s own men were truly loyal, let alone the people of Erithor. Either way, the dead were too many to count. Now that spring had come, thousands were revealed by the melting snow, and their flesh made the air putrid.

Gregory’s job was to dig. Sweat trickled down his brow and his blistered hands stung, but he didn’t mind: it was better than touching rotting bodies. He pitied those men, who had to put them in the carts.

When the day finished, he limped back to the castle as usual. He hung his dirty cloak in the room he shared with fourteen other men—their cots all crammed together in a small space—and washed his face. His hands stung from the lye.

“Where is Terim?” he asked, noticing an empty cot.

“He didn’t follow orders.” The man who answered was young and well-muscled, a warrior trained since birth. He stood in the doorway, a sack draped over his shoulder. “I’m his replacement.”

Gregory introduced himself, but the man ignored him.

“What’s your name?” he pressed.

The man frowned. “Rawn,” he said finally.

The other men stayed quiet, keeping to themselves. Gregory knew he should too, but he couldn’t help but ask: “Do you know a woman named Dorothea?”

“Maybe,” Rawn said with a shrug. “I know lots of women.”

“No,” Gregory said, shaking his head. “She’s my mother, she has dark hair and—”

Rawn cut him off. “I’ve spent all day digging holes. If you want someone to talk to, buy a whore.”

Most of the men Gregory shared the room with had not grown up in the Legion. They had joined against the pain of death or to save their families. Despite his attempts at questioning them, no one knew of his mother, and Vincent Ergath was dead.

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“Are you from the Great Lands?” Gregory asked, deciding to push his luck.

Rawn grunted and laid down, covering his face with an extra tunic to keep out the light.

The room was suffocating. Gregory stepped into the hall, but the air wasn’t much better. Sweat and dirt and blood lingered in the air and covered the stones.

He could not go outside. If Azghar thought I was escaping…

Gregory shivered at the thought.

“Boy.”

He turned, startled by the voice. Azghar stood in the center of the hallway, his tall stature and dark armor a striking image.

“They say you knew Armaila Farland.”

“Yes, sir,” Gregory stuttered.

Azghar pressed closer, towering over him.

“Your Majesty, I…”

Azghar placed a hand on his forehead. A burning pain erupted in is skull, as memories involuntarily played, some he had not thought of in years.

When it finished, Azghar smiled. “I may have use of you yet.”

Gregory grabbed the wall to keep from falling, his head still swimming. “Sir, I’m just a boy helping to bury the dead. I’m of no help to you.”

“You underestimate yourself. Why, you were quite nearly a Baron in Greenfields.” Azghar stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I’m impressed with how you defended the townspeople against my men.”

Gregory did not know how to respond. He wished it would all go away. The memories, the guilt. Perhaps a quick death by sword wouldn’t be so bad.

“I have a special task for you,” Azghar continued. “And if you succeed with it, there will be a place of honor for you among my men.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Gregory said, “of what value am I to you?”

“More than you think.”

The thought was absurd, yet it intrigued Gregory, the same way Vincent’s promises had. He knew many people did not like King Theodore, his own father included, and perhaps the Legion was not as terrible as he had been told. War was the cost of peace, after all.

“What would you have me do, sir?”

Azghar motioned for him to follow. They walked down the hall until they reached what was once Theodore’s throne room, much more decadent and ornate than Gregory’s own home back in Greenfields.

“I would like you to become one of my guards.” Azghar sat on the throne and placed the crown on his head—the rubies shone bright against the gold, as crimson as the blood-soaked ground. “It will be your duty to monitor those who come and go, and to alert me to anything unusual. Perhaps even some scouting missions.”

“And what would you have me do if I find Armaila?” he asked, quickly adding, “sir.”

“I would have you do nothing but tell me of it,” Azghar said. “I hope that we can all come to a peaceful solution to end this fighting.”

That didn’t sound so bad. With Theodore in prison, likely to be executed within the next fortnight, all of Erithor could be rebuilt together as one. He brought his hand up to the cheek Armaila had kissed that night not so long ago. They could rebuild, perhaps.

“It is my honor, Your Majesty.”