Meek

The next few hours passed in a blur.

The lieutenant, a gruff middle-aged woman, brought Eli outside. The daylight shocked him ... but not as much as the mutilated troll corpses. Decapitated and hacked into pieces to keep them from regenerating.

Then he climbed the switchback trail from the ravine, just one more human in a line of humans. Like ants. The lieutenant spoke to him, but he didn't respond. He didn't say a word. Clearly keeping his mouth shut was working for him, considering that the humans, the invaders--no, he needed to stop thinking like a troll--considering that the Marquis's troops had immediately accepted him.

When he reached the top of the ravine, a sergeant gave him a jacket and a blanket and a pair of ill-fitting boots. Then the lieutenant brought him to a supply cart. She settled him on a seat behind the driver, and--with ill-concealed relief--went back to doing her real job.

The human camp--the troops--buzzed with activity, with preparations to depart. And with the thrill of victory, despite their losses. The effect of the smoke on the trolls had surprised and roused them. From what he heard through eavesdropping sparks, they believed that the smoke guaranteed victory. The soldiers couldn't wait to return the next month with more, to finally cleanse the mountains of trolls.

Another driver climbed into place in front of Eli, and greeted him, but he didn't reply, afraid he'd speak in Trollish. He just nodded and the driver said, "Ya!" to the horses, and the cart jerked forward.

Despite the soldiers surrounding Eli, the motion lulled him after a time. He closed his eyes and dozed for most of the journey to the hunting box. He spent that night in a medical tent, barely responding to the medic who was too busy with real wounds to react to Eli's lack of injuries with more than a relieved nod.

The next morning started with a bowl of porridge and an unclenching of tension. Eli was getting used to the company of humans again. And more important, he was starting to trust that they couldn't possibly realize who he was--what he was.

The lieutenant came by to chat with him a few times, and he nodded along in stupid, agreeable silence. Eventually she told him that the clinic in Rockbridge would sort him, then left him in the care of the cart drivers, who at first complained about 'nursemaid duties.' They warmed up, though, after Eli refused the meat he'd been given and took one driver's biscuits in exchange.

He couldn't face eating flesh. Not now. Maybe not ever.

As the convoy rumbled down the slope, the mountain flattened into foothills. When Eli stopped worrying that every rider was a mage coming to expose his secrets, he started thinking about the right time to escape. Well, more like the right time to wander off. Nobody was watching him. And he wanted to return to Rockbridge, so staying with the militia made sense ... as long as nobody talked to him. As long as nobody demanded the name of his commanding officer or his unit or checked his story in any way.

Which at first nobody did, thank the Chained Angel. He was the lowest-possible priority. So he simply adjusted to human company, and to daylight, and to the glory that was bread.

He kept his sparks close for fear of the mages ... and realized that he'd mastered his three-sighted vision. At some point in the previous days, the images from his two eyes and his two sparks had merged seamlessly into a single panoramic view.

So he experimented a little.

First he inspected the cart-horse in front of him from three points of view. He watched her tail switch and her haunches bunch with his eyes while one spark floated in front of her right side and another low and to her left, trying to see every inch of her at once. There were still a few blind spots, but not many. And somehow, seeing a horse from all sides at once felt natural.

Then he practiced focusing on two points simultaneously. He gazed at the driver's knee with his eyes and one spark, while he tucked the other spark beneath the cart to watch the axle spin. Then both sparks drifted behind his own head while he gazed at the mountains.

And finally, he experimented with looking at three points at the same time. Eyes on his ill-fitting boots, one spark beneath the cart and one spark above. He still couldn't move the sparks more than a few yards, but the smooth flow of vision pleased him.

And not just vision. The sparks were also detecting sounds. The squeak of wheels, the nicker of horses, the murmur of gossip. Halo, the sparks even fed him scents and vibrations and--vaguely--temperature. Yet while Eli kept an ear--and a spark--perked for anything of interest, he spent the next day focused on not drawing anyone's attention.

Just a poor lost soldier, that's all he was. Silent and half-mad, after his time in the mountains. And there was no reason to escape, not yet, now while that's who the militia thought he was. He wanted them to bring him to Rockbridge then forget about him the moment he vanished into the streets. After that, he'd scout the Keep and--

"You, there!" the lieutenant said, trotting alongside on her horse.

He nodded to her respectfully.

"I know you can talk."

"Yes," he said, because that's the only word he'd said other than 'Lady Pym.'

"What's your name?

"Yes."

"Tell me your name, soldier."

He nodded to her respectfully.

"How about the name of your unit?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "Well, we already sent word ahead. The quartermaster'll visit you in the clinic."

"Yes?"

"The quartermaster never forgets a face. Once you're shaved and--and someone takes a machete to that nasty jungle of hair, she'll know you the minute she claps eyes on you."

Well blessdamned. Apparently he did need to escape.

"Yes," he said, and the lieutenant rode away.

Should he escape that night? No, he'd wait until the convoy reached the city outskirts. Then he'd step down from the cart and disappear into the slums. He didn't know the lower city well, but he knew it a little, from a handful of daylight visits over the years. And he'd heard tales of a labyrinth of alleys and shacks and thugs and lawlessness. Which didn't frighten this him the way it had frightened the junior scribe. Or even the trainee miltia member.

But now? Now he expected he'd take to the roughest streets in Rockbridge like a troll to a tunnel.

He'd feel right at home.

Disappear into the alleys and plan the assassination. He didn't have any money. Forget about gems, he didn't have a single coin. Halo, he didn't have any clothes other than this second-hand uniform. Still, he'd find a way. He needed to strike within a month. If the Marquis sent another force with barrels of poison smoke, the trolls wouldn't survive.

So he couldn't waste any time. Find a weapon and a base, scout the Keep walls. Rockbridge hadn't faced a real threat for a long time--setting aside those harrowing periods when the phases of the moons combined to weaken the Warding. Yet that didn't happen often--and wasn't happening now. So security would be lax. At least that's what he hoped. And if it wasn't?

He'd find a way.

So he kept silent and slumped, and a few hours later the lieutenant returned to his cart, barking, "You, there!"

He turned as if he hadn't watched her approach through a spark.

"Good news, soldier," she told him. "Just heard from a courier. The Marquis himself heard of your survival--against all odds, alone in the mountains--and he's gonna visit you in person while you're healing up."

Wait. The Marquis would deliver himself directly to Eli? So instead of having to hunt him across the Keep, Eli could simply ... laze around until his prey walked into his jaws? Well, sometimes the bones just rolled your way.

"Meeting the Marquis himself--" The lieutenant chuckled. "Oh ho! Now that put a gleam in your eye!"

"Yes," he said.