his eyes closed and heard a muffled laugh before someone took the sword. At last! Edyon pushed the crown up off his face. But with the strain in his arm he pushed too hard, and, with the oil on the crown, it slid off his head and tumbled with a clatter to the ground.
There was a gasp and then silence.
But the silence didn’t last long, as it was filled with a low rumble of distant thunder.
MARCH
BRIGANT
MARCH LAY on the ground, staring up as stars filled the darkening sky. This was the position he was in most evenings—on his back, flat out and too exhausted to move. Around him the other members of the Bull Brigade were talking, and there was the occasional overly loud laugh from one boy or another. There was also a delicious smell of roast meat—some of the boys had successfully hunted down a boar. But it was quiet compared to what March had seen of army camps in Pitoria. There were no lords, no servants, no horses, no hangers-on—just boys, one hundred of them including Sam and March. It was small and contained but also violent and hard. There was huge pride in being a member of the Bull Brigade. March had no real memories of his Abask childhood, but this was how he imagined the Abask fighters to be. And March was surprised to find that he liked the brigade life. He wasn’t a servant or a lackey. He had to do the same work as everyone else and no one lorded it above him. He was called names, but no more than anyone else, and they were joking and admiring at heart.
Rashford, the leader, and Kellen, his second-in-command, were the ones who made the Bull Brigade the positive force it was. They were good fighters who led by example and gave the other boys encouragement and opportunities to shine. Rashford in particular was admired, if not actually worshiped, by some of the younger boys. He was broad-shouldered but wiry, without any fat on his body. Kellen was a little taller, with small dark eyes that seemed to be constantly surveying the group. They couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and yet they somehow seemed much older. March hadn’t enjoyed getting knocked unconscious by Rashford, but he respected why he’d done it. It was a rite of passage, a way of proving who belonged.
Most of the boys came from the west coast of Brigant, all from poor families or no families at all. The Bulls were their family now—and March could see why they liked it. They were brothers-in-arms.
Over the last few days, the Bulls had moved from place to place. The boys rarely used the smoke, as it was too precious. They knew the army leaders were working on securing more for them, but they didn’t know how long it would take. In the meantime, they were constantly practicing with swords, spears, and bows. The sword was the weapon that required the greatest skill and the one that most of the boys struggled with. Rashford was the best, though March wondered how even he would fare against someone like Sir Ambrose or King Tzsayn, nobles who’d trained with these weapons from childhood. March hated the sword, and today in practice he’d been beaten with that, and then twice more in boxing and wrestling. His nose, which had only just healed from Rashford’s blow, was bloodied and broken again, and he was fairly sure he had two black eyes to match.
Sam was a natural with most weapons. He was thriving as part of the Bulls, as if he’d truly found a home at last. Tonight he was, as usual, sitting with some of the younger boys. They formed a little unit. March sometimes sat with them, but mostly he formed his own unit of one, practicing with the one weapon he liked—the stones that he threw with increasing accuracy. Sometimes he imagined he was aiming at a particular face (the man who’d tortured him in Rossarb, Lord Regan, or the various people who’d insulted him over the years—but not Thelonius, as his face was too similar to Edyon’s).
“How you feeling?” Rashford peered down at March.
March dragged himself up to a sitting, or at least a slumping, position. “Like I’ve been kicked by a donkey, then trampled over by him and his friends.”
“You calling my boys donkeys?” Rashford sat down next to March.