The Cursed Heir

Chapter Thirteen

Finding the training camp and gaining entry to it were not as difficult as Cassie had anticipated. Nobody had looked more than once at her as she signed up, merely waved her through impatiently so they could get to the next volunteer. There were, surprisingly, enough weapons for the soldiers, although the one Cassie was handed was noticeably worn and bore more than a few dings. With a sword in her hand and determination in her heart, she had been sure the hardest part would be over. Once settled into camp, however, it became trickier.

She bundled herself into men's clothes and gargled ground pumice every morning to make her voice rough and deep enough, but there was still the challenge of walking like a man and avoiding talking to anyone, trying to remain unnoticed as men tried to figure out how to swing swords on every side of her.

And why did nobody warn her that men were so...so immature in large groups? Rather than returning to the mean, it seemed that men regressed to the lowest common denominator. Barely a minute passed without one of them feeling the need to create some bodily noise or make the most ridiculous jokes—all at the loudest possible volume. By the end of two days, Cassie knew more than she had ever imagined wanting to about nearly every member of camp's sexual exploits. Some of it had to be exaggerated beyond the limits of human possibility, didn't it? There was no possible way there were that many different uses for a rope.

All she could do was keep her head down, hope that none of them asked her to regale them with her own tales of prowess, and train. It was the reason she had come.

Every morning found Cassie at the archery field before sunrise. She enjoyed the quiet and the solitude more with each passing day she spent in a horde of unwashed men. She would fire arrow after arrow from every conceivable angle and speed, pushing herself beyond the limits of her mediocre skill. Her training had been cut short when she left Silvana, and it was the area she was most deficient in. She would never have a better opportunity to improve.

Once she felt satisfied with her progress for the morning, she would leave the range and train with the foot soldiers. It was a disorganized, pitiful excuse for training, the volunteers almost all berry-pickers and shepherds. None wanted to leave a single Citaken alive on the field of battle, but their skills were rudimentary and left them as likely to hurt each other as an enemy.

There was little chance of improvement, and less time. After less than a week, the commanders decided that there would be no more recruits arriving and gave the order to march. It took two days to reach the Fields of Rathell, but by the end of the first day they could already hear the approach of the devil's soldiers. The fires burned all night for fear of scouts or spies, and they kept an uneasy watch. The most alarming thing that happened all night was men swapping stories about the Citaken soldiers, each more grisly and unsettling than the last. Cassie had no trouble believing them. She had gotten too good of a look at what they had left of Enomrah as she marched past it.

In the watery light of early morning, the flanks began to divide, readying their positions for battle. When one column peeled off, there was a jagged rift in the army, leaving a glimpse of another set of soldiers she had not yet encountered.

More serious, more assured, the group looked like warriors, rather than the peasants carrying weapons like they had picked them off the ground by accident. And within the group, moving from locus to locus like the rays of a star...Cassie squinted. Most of the men were not that slight, not that...chipper. Noticing her attention, the warriors closed rank, blocking her view of the smaller soldier behind them.

That was...suspicious. After glancing around to make sure nobody was watching her, Cassie slipped between clusters of soldiers to get to the group she had noticed. There was a prickling at the nape of her neck, compelling her forward.