The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,162

tall withered whip of a man who was an artist with dual short spears, but not well liked. Apparently, for a long time, he’d loved to regale everyone—regardless of their disinterest—with how he’d gotten that Blackguard name. He also loved to give definitive proof that it was not for the reason most would guess first—especially to women. The Archers were no strangers to seeing their brother Blackguards naked, nor were they moral paragons above gossiping about those whose physiques they found particularly praiseworthy or risible. Prohibitions on having sex with each other mostly held in the Blackguard, but no one could stop young athletic warriors in constant close proximity from admiring one another.

What Halfcock did was different. He looked for any excuse to pull it out, either to intimidate or to impress.

Once, Samite had shared a night guard posting with him alone. She said he’d done it again, and that when she made her total lack of admiration clear, he’d prodded her with it.

So Samite broke his jaw.

Unfortunately, then he’d thrashed her, despite the jaw.

He’d always been a hell of a fighter, and still was, despite his age.

No one else had witnessed the fight, and their stories of what had happened seemed to bear no relation to each other’s, so he hadn’t been drummed out of the Blackguard. Instead they’d both been punished for fighting each other while on duty.

That had been before Commander Ironfist’s time, and since then, Halfcock hadn’t given him enough reason to kick him out.

But everyone had believed Samite. Quietly, both the men and the women of the Blackguard made sure Halfcock never shared duty alone with an Archer ever again. The men took turns as his partner, like it was a burden no one should have to bear for too long. He was never promoted from the lowest ranks, and the watch captains gave him all the worst postings.

After Ironfist became the commander, he’d told Halfcock he would be allowed to retire early but with full benefits.

He refused to quit. Early retirement, normal retirement, late retirement—he refused each in turn. He was just a tough, stubborn son of a bitch all the way through.

There was nothing wrong with his skills, though. Sometimes at training, Teia would think he was mentally undressing her, so unrelenting and awkward was his gaze. Then he’d correct the position of her heel and tell her to turn her hips a fraction this way for a kick, and she’d feel the difference in the power instantly.

It had almost made her reappraise her own inherited hatred of him. But then, when she did it right the next time, he’d say, ‘Better. But you’re small and weak. You’ll always be one of the worst Blackguards.’

With shooting muskets and drafting he was similarly skilled. He almost made a great trainer even as his own physical skills declined with age.

If he could have been trusted, he’d be exactly the type of person the Blackguard needed more of. Older warriors gave them continuity, which they desperately lacked. They’d seen it all, and done half of it, and knew how to fix what was wrong. People like that kept young Blackguards alive; they sharpened them and instilled tradition and pride in the whole corps.

Teia had fully absorbed the Archers’ institutional disgust for Half-cock, but she wasn’t certain that he deserved to die.

Him being an Order traitor would make sense of why he’d never retired, though. It had to be very difficult for the Order to get a man inside the Blackguard. Once they did, they wouldn’t want him to retire. No, they would demand he draft as little as possible so that he could live and be in place as long as possible.

It made sense. It all pointed to Halfcock being in the Order. But a death sentence required a little more than suspicion.

It doesn’t have to, T. You can kill anyone you want. You can kill anyone you want and get away with it. That’s what makes you scary. Call yourself a ghost or a fox or whatever you want. Your powers are the wet dream of anyone who hates.

Orholam’s fear-shrunken stonesack, that—now, that was a pep talk.

The door opened. It was him.

Chapter 45

“We’ve new reasons to fear our enemies,” Kip announced to his assembled thousands. His voice was carried with magic, but he still had to shout, and thus, keep it short. “But we’ve also new reasons to hope. I want you to know why we’re doing what we’re doing this morning.”

The units had been