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Chapter 25

It was a power move, but Luc knew from experience a show of strength was sometimes what was needed.

The bedraggled survivors of their raid on General Hurst’s regiment, as well as what was left of the hidden camp that Massi had whittled down and then rooted out, marched before him, hemmed in on both sides by the Rising Wave.

The Jatan forces waiting on the Jatan side of the border to meet them were forced to watch their soldiers brought very low; horse-less, weapon-less. Unkempt.

“They won’t be happy with this sight,” Massi said from beside him. She didn’t sound overly concerned about it, though.

“No, they won’t. I’m surprised there are so many of them, to be honest.” The sight of at least double the number of his own soldiers gave him pause, but it wasn’t completely unexpected. They’d had time to assemble, and they would want to make a show of strength themselves.

He’d let one soldier go after they had rounded up their captives, giving her a missive for the Jatan Gathering that stated his displeasure in no uncertain terms. In it, he’d insisted he be met by someone of authority at the Roali Gap, one of the most open sections of the Jatan / Kassia border. He made it clear the Jatan Gathering needed to arrive with a plan for restitution and a commitment to stay on their side of the border, or they would not be getting their people back.

The Jatan would feel the sting of that.

He knew they would want to push back, which is why he didn’t just have the unit he’d set out with from Fernwell, now.

He’d acquired many older warriors, from Ta-lin, Versai, and even Bintinya—those who had left the Rising Wave’s march on Fernwell because of family responsibilities.

The ire of the Cervantes had been roused, and many wanted blood.

Some of them had gotten it, and still, they wanted to see the Jatan sent back home with their tails between their legs.

His eighty-strong unit had swelled to nearly a hundred and fifty.

He kept his eye on General Carvill and General Hurst, who were walking at the front of the prisoners, gauging their reactions as they approached the Jatan troops.

Both had survived the decimation of their units.

Luc didn’t know if it was by luck, or lack of valor.

Carvill had earned a little of his respect over the last day since they’d joined up with Massi and then headed straight for the Jatan border.

The Jatan general had accepted his defeat with dignity, and had instructed his soldiers to cooperate in order to keep them safe.

Hurst, on the other hand, had raged, incensed that he’d been bested, and had blustered about consequences and how sorry Luc would be for his treatment. He’d done nothing for his soldiers, leaving them to their own devices, but most had followed General Carvill’s lead, and had not made any trouble.

They were frightened, Luc knew, and that soothed something inside him.

They should be frightened.

It would make them think long and hard before they attacked his people again.

In the center of the long line of mounted soldiers that waited up ahead was a small group in robes, rather than the soldier’s standard of pants, shirt and heavy jacket. They had all dismounted from their horses, and stood watching the Rising Wave approach.

Three women and three men.

Behind them were three officers who held themselves a little apart, and Luc’s good eyesight recognized one as General Tuart.

So he had made it home and must have delivered Luc’s missive.

When he saw Luc, he raised a hand and moved his mount around the robed figures to approach, but he was called back.

Luc could not hear the conversation, but it seemed heated, and he wondered if Tuart had wanted to have a quick talk with him in private before he met with what was surely the Jatan Gathering’s representatives.

To try and smooth over his own mistakes, Luc wondered? Or Hurst’s?

It was time to slow down the forward momentum and make sure there was enough open ground between the two sides.