Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,30

Kacper finished off any soldiers not already boiling from the inside out from Serefin’s magic.

Serefin eventually made his way down the hill once the sounds of struggle had ceased. He found Ostyia cheerfully riffling through rucksacks with provisions. “I don’t think we’ll have to stop by the border now,” she said.

“Should we do something about the bodies?” Kacper asked.

Serefin shook his head, squinting up at the morning sky. “No, let the buzzards have them.”

Ostyia tossed Kacper a rucksack as he went to fetch the horses.

“Hey now, what’s this?” Serefin heard Ostyia murmur as she lifted a tent flap and peered inside.

He followed after her and watched as she picked up a book discarded on the tent floor. There was a small pile of them inside. She flipped through it before handing it to him and picking up another.

“These are Tranavian spell books,” she said, frowning.

Serefin knew the Kalyazi burned the spell books they picked off Tranavian bodies. If they could help it, they avoided even touching them.

“There’s Kalyazi written in some of them,” Ostyia noted.

Serefin found a page in the book he was holding where blocky Kalyazi script was scrawled in the margins. He frowned. It was a cross between a Kalyazi diary and musings on the functions of the spells written in the book.

Well, it seems not every Kalyazi is so rigidly devout, he thought. He recognized the structure of Kalyazi prayers amidst the spells. Were they trying to merge the two?

“Are they all like this?” he asked.

She opened a few more, flipped through them, then nodded.

“Collect a few,” Serefin said. “I want a closer look.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Desperation.” Serefin stepped over a dead officer’s body. “The Kalyazi are losing the war. One might even say they’re becoming heretical.”

* * *

The border came and passed without trouble. Serefin tried not to worry. They were so far north they skirted the front entirely, but they had found the border unmanned and unguarded.

It was as if the war had grown routine. This stretch of border used to be carefully watched, but they were losing resources. He would have to remember to post a company to keep the border, even in the north. It would be too easy for Kalyazi troops to slip into Tranavia using this same route through the mountains into the marshlands.

“I can’t decide if you complained more when we were in Kalyazin or now that we’re back in Tranavia,” Ostyia said.

While the change in temperature had not been immediate, it was obvious they were no longer in Kalyazin. There was barely any snow on the ground or trees. It was still cold—the long winter that had struck Kalyazin had graced Tranavia as well—but it was nothing like the frigid bite of Kalyazi air.

Also, it was raining. Serefin might have mentioned his dismay at traveling through the rain.

“It’s simply my nature,” he replied.

“I can’t argue with that,” she muttered.

“I’ve mentioned I hate the marshlands, right?” Kacper said. “While we’re all getting our complaints out.”

“No, Serefin’s complaining is inherent to his system. Everything he says must be a complaint,” Ostyia said.

“I’m going to demote both of you when we get back to Grazyk,” Serefin replied. “Have fun guarding the Salt Mines.”

Serefin didn’t particularly wish to travel through the marshlands either, but the main roadways would be clogged with Tranavian nobles traveling to Grazyk. He wanted to avoid dealing with the nobility for as long as possible; they were the one thing that could make him miss the front.

The Tranavian marshes had wooden boardwalks, built centuries ago, else they would be impossible to cross. Serefin had always been certain the reason the front stayed on Kalyazi soil had nothing to do with the strength of Tranavian forces and everything to do with Tranavia being too soggy. Staging any battle in the marsh or lake lands would be difficult and miserable for both sides.

Unfortunately, the marshlands were perpetually dark. Light struggled to get past the thick foliage. There were legends of demons that lived in the dark corners where the light never touched and the boardwalks never reached. Dziwo?ona, the marsh hag, or the flesh eating rusalka. Creatures who waited in the damp for the unsuspecting to venture to watery graves. In Tranavia, there was always another monster around the corner waiting to devour you.

They reached an inn early in the evening, managing to go undetected by the few travelers they passed. Few ventured this way, Tranavian superstition holding most of the country in check. After all, it was always