They stood alongside their horses, gathered around the destroyed cart, watching Amo lie. Indirk stared raptly. She’d been well aware of Amo’s, “Master spy,” reputation, but had assumed it was all exaggerated hearsay. Now she watched Amo like they were some kind of changeling even though nothing had really changed. Amo still acted much like themself, their gesturing hands familiar, their northland accent still inflected by their normal way of speech, but they were so incredibly good at lying that it seemed they’d completely swapped out their memories for those of another person.
“Half of us new recruits out of Cradsoun,” Amo was saying to the ten northlanders who watched them. Amo was speaking slow in a broken way, rambling exactly like someone would if they were in shock from an ambush. “Because it’s not the first time… My family, I mean, lost a lot of people last year, so we’re filling in gaps. Inexperienced, you know, didn’t keep watch. And then the rangers, and…” Amo made eye contact with one of the bodies, pretended to get distracted by heartbreak.
The riders who watched Amo now were caravanners from a nearby camp. Most of these were sollin anthrals from Gray Watch, pale or gray-skinned, blunt fingers like Amo’s own. The old man on the lead horse dismounted and put his hands on Amo’s shoulders. He tried to sound fatherly, “We’ve all been through it, young one. War hits your heart, but it’ll heal stronger.” He looked toward the cart. “Those bastards leave you with anything at all?”
“There’s some…” Amo gestured to the box Indirk had dropped on the ground. “Some beer, I guess.”
“Nevermind that. Let’s get you all back to camp. We’ll get you fed and healed and back on the supply lines. Best thing to heal is to get right back in it, you hear me?”
Amo nodded numbly, turning to all the spies who were just staring. “Let’s go with them. We’ll be okay.”
So that was going to be their cover, but could the others sell it as well as Amo had? Indirk looked to the bitter, grumbling Nymir, the nervous Edner, the serious Phaeduin, and finally to young Meryl, who couldn’t help but smirk through their inexperience. Indirk stepped quickly to Meryl and hissed, “Stop smiling. The fuck are you smiling about?”
“Sorry.” Meryl brushed at their furry cheeks, turning and hiding slightly behind their horse. “This is just going so well.”
“Not if you’re a shit spy who can’t stop smiling about it. Want me to give you something to be sad about?”
“Why would I want to be sad?”
From horseback, Phaeduin leaned down. “Leave them alone. They’ll figure it out.”
Indirk hissed back, “We don’t have time for that. People are watching.” Then, to Meryl, she whispered, “Your dad’s too old to make the trip back. He’s going to die in Gray Watch, and everyone else already knows it.”
Meryl straightened, brown eyes staring at Indirk in the falling dark. They made a small, confused sound, and looked up at Phaeduin. “Dad?”
Indirk hissed, “Cry about it,” and then got up onto her own horse.
Phaeduin growled at her. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“I’ve done worse. So have you, I’d bet. Now try to blend in.” Indirk guided her horse in a slow circle, made sure that her rifle was securely concealed beneath her cloak, and rode toward the caravanners. When she got close, she thanked them for their help.
* * *
The caravanners surrounded them as they rode. This wasn’t menacing. It was considerate. The caravanners wanted their traumatized compatriots to feel safe, surrounded by friends. Indirk could tell that the others felt trapped, especially Edner, but at least the skinny alpin’s anxiety matched his cover-story. Nymir rode beside Indirk, grumbling as he glared about. Indirk told him, “Calm down. You’re grinding your teeth.”
“They said they want to put us back on the supply lines. How does that get us to Gray Watch?”
“Shut up,” Indirk hissed. Some of these spies were too inexperienced to be in a situation with such high stakes so soon. “Supply lines go both ways. Don’t worry too much about that. We’ll be fine.” She glanced toward Meryl, who stared absently at the ground in front of them, gazing at nothing. It was the first time Meryl had looked unhappy. Phaeduin rode beside Meryl, armored hand resting on their arm. Amo rode at the front alongside the fatherly old caravanner, where they spoke in hushed voices and Amo continued to lie and lie.
Birds called in the night. Indirk looked off in that direction. It was a birdcall familiar to the forests of the Laines, not native to the Warring Lands. It was the call of rangers in the night, hunters searching for caravanners. As Indirk rode and listened, she heard another call off to the other side, and she whispered to herself, “Oh, shit.”
Nymir glanced up at her. “Now who needs to calm down?”
She dropped her voice as low as she could. “We’re surrounded.”
“What? Hey, what’s happening?”
“Sing a song.”
Nymir straightened. “What?”
Indirk hissed low, “Make sound. Sing something or we’re dead.”
What Nymir came up with, out of seemingly nowhere, was a Redfall sinner’s hymn, a strangely bouncy and cheerful song from a cult very invested in their own damnation. He started off nervously, “When god, when god, when god breaks the maiden. When god, when god, takes back was taken,” and everyone turned to stare at him in confusion. It was a sudden, almost comical scene with this sullen, brush-bearded man singing like a devout to some far-flung faith.
Indirk pulled up on her horse and fell behind while Nymir went on riding. As he gained some volume, Indirk took a breath and chanced a little bird call of her own, hoping that nobody else would be looking at her and wouldn’t hear her particular note beneath the song. Any rangers in the dark, however, would be listening for just that sound, would know that one of their own was among these caravanners. Indirk looked into the dark, listening for anything besides Nymir’s singing, hoping to hear some acknowledging birdcall in the dark.
As she looked about, she glanced to the front of the caravanners. She made eye contact with their fatherly old leader, who had stopped speaking to Amo not to look at Nymir but to watch at Indirk. He stared right at her.
Nymir was singing, “When god, when god, shakes off all that’s laden,” as the old man narrowed his gaze in aggression and reached for a crossbow on his belt. Cursing because of course, surrounded by all these inexperienced spies, it was Indirk herself who gave them away, she slung her rifle from beneath her cloak. As Nymir sang, “We’ll all be dust and bone, and be lashed to His iron throne,” Indirk aimed fast and pulled the trigger. A bolt from the old man’s crossbow sang over Indirk’s shoulder. The old man’s head burst and his body slumped off his horse.
Above the shouts of the caravanners, there were birdcalls in the night. Bowstrings hummed among the grass. Bodies fell bloody to the ground, arrows in flesh. Indirk slid off her horse when a caravanner swung a sword at her head, then the horse ran off without her while she started to pick out targets to shoot into. There were so many voices, so little light, the high-pitched cry of ranger arrows, the sound of a magic spell beginning and then stopping suddenly when its summoner died in the chaos. Indirk caught sight of Phaeduin and Meryl riding off together toward the camp alongside a few of the caravanners. The recoil of her rifle felt natural in her hands she aimed and fired. And fired, and fired, and fired.
In the middle of the bloodied road, Indirk stopped between shots to watch Amo grab the old caravanner’s body and throw it over their shoulders. Still lying, even now pretending to be someone else, Amo lifted the old man and hurried toward the caravanner camp. The old man’s corpse protected Amo from any arrows that might fall from the sky, and would also be Amo’s ticket to lie their way into the camp when they arrived there.
The other spies stayed with the caravanners and fled alongside them, but Indirk ran into the dark where the rangers of the Laines received her. They stopped their attack when Indirk explained that there were spies embedded with the caravan. But Indirk would have to go the rest of the way to Gray Watch alone.
