The Mark

Jandar had been given a choice, and he disliked choices made by other people.

This one had been particularly offensive. He could spend an unpleasant portion of his foreseeable life behind a locked door, or he could swear himself to the Order of the Silver Crown and walk back out through one. The men offering the bargain had dressed it up considerably better than that, with words about service, redemption, duty, and a debt owed to civilized society.

Jandar had heard similar speeches from captains explaining why a sailor’s share had somehow become the captain’s new boots.

So he had chosen the door.

Now, standing beneath the gray stone walls of the Silver Crown’s citadel in Windmarch, he was beginning to reconsider the wisdom of that decision.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still,” Jandar said.

The old woman gripping his wrist frowned. “You are moving.”

“I’m breathing.”

She gave him a look that suggested breathing was precisely the sort of unnecessary indulgence she had expected from him. Jandar smiled.

It did not help.

She turned his arm palm-up and pressed two fingers against the bare skin below his elbow. Her other hand closed around a small silver disk etched with the crown-and-circle emblem Jandar had spent the last several days seeing on doors, banners, armor, buckles, wax seals, shields, and people who appeared to have forgotten other symbols existed.

“Last opportunity to run,” said the man beside him.

Jandar glanced over. The speaker was human, somewhere in his forties, perhaps older if life had been particularly unkind. He was broad across the shoulders, weathered around the eyes, and built like someone who had stopped caring whether a weapon looked impressive so long as it killed what he aimed it at. A crossbow rested near his chair within easy reach.

Deacon.

They had exchanged perhaps fifteen words so far. Jandar liked twelve of them.

“Run?” Jandar said. “From all this hospitality?”

Deacon’s mouth moved just enough to threaten a smile.

The old woman pressed the silver disk against Jandar’s arm, and pain flashed through him.

“Oh, you vicious old—”

“Hold still,” she snapped.

White light crawled around the edge of the disk. For a moment it felt as though someone had driven a hot coin beneath his skin, and Jandar clenched his jaw because there were four other men in the room and some standards had to be maintained.

Then the woman lifted the disk away.

A pale silver mark remained on his arm: a small crown within a circle, fine lines spreading around it like the beginnings of frost on glass.

Jandar stared at it. “That’s permanent?”

The woman had already turned away.

“That’s permanent,” Deacon said.

“Wonderful.”

Jandar rubbed the skin around it. The mark was warm, and he had worn shackles that felt less official.

Across the chamber, a gnome climbed onto the next chair without waiting to be asked.

“Does it hurt?” the gnome asked.

Jandar looked at him. He seemed genuinely interested rather than worried.

“A great deal.”

“Good to know.”

“Would you like me to describe it?”

The gnome shook his head. “No.”

“There’s a burning sensation, then stabbing, then you lose feeling in the fingers.”

The gnome looked at the old woman. She stared back at him.

Jandar added, “Possibly forever.”

The gnome grinned. “You’re lying.”

“I am.”

“Thought so.”

His name was Zook. That was nearly everything Jandar knew about him, except that he was a ranger, carried himself with the easy balance of someone accustomed to uneven ground, and had spent most of the morning examining the room’s exits, windows, ceiling beams, and everyone else’s boots.

Jandar approved of that.

The old woman reached for Zook’s arm. The gnome gave Jandar a cheerful nod, then the disk touched him and his eyebrows went up.

Jandar smiled. “Nothing at all?”

Zook considered it. “Little warm.”

Jandar’s smile vanished.

Deacon made a sound suspiciously like a cough.

On the far side of the chamber, the high elf watched all of this with the expression of a man observing an experiment whose result he had already predicted.

Vegon was tall, fine-boned, composed—very much an elf. There were people who could wear traveling clothes and still make them look expensive. Vegon had somehow managed the opposite: his clothes were plainly good, but he wore them as though their quality were irrelevant.

What interested Jandar more was the small spellbook at his side.

Wizards were useful, but wizards were also dangerous. This had always been true; in Istram, where magic had never recovered properly from the Sundering, it was doubly so.

Beside Vegon stood the fifth member of their newly assembled little company.

Xil was a drow, a fact that had been impossible to miss—not because he announced it, since he had hardly spoken, but because everyone else in the citadel kept noticing him. Guards looked twice. Clerks looked three times and pretended they had not. One young Silver Crown initiate had walked into a pillar while trying not to stare.

Xil seemed accustomed to all of it. He had dark skin, pale hair, and quiet eyes that moved more than the rest of him. He wore the trappings of a cleric, though Jandar had not yet determined which god claimed him, and stood with the stillness of someone who had learned long ago that people often revealed more when they thought you were saying nothing.

Jandar had known men like that. Usually they were excellent card players.

The chamber doors opened, and conversation stopped.

Two figures entered.

The first was a human man with gray threaded through his hair, his armor marked by long use rather than ceremony. Thaklar—at least Jandar thought that was how the name had been pronounced. The Silver Crown seemed to employ an unreasonable number of people with names designed to be shouted across battlefields.

Beside him walked Vistra Hammerstone, a dwarf in heavy armor with a holy symbol at her throat. Neither looked remotely interested in whether Jandar was enjoying himself, which was probably sensible.

Thaklar stopped in front of them.

Five new marks. Five newly assembled members of the Order.

Jandar looked along the row and wondered how many of them had actually volunteered.

“Welcome to the Order of the Silver Crown,” Thaklar said.

Jandar waited. There was always more after a sentence like that.

“The mark you carry identifies you to every chapter house and sworn member of the Order throughout Istram. It carries responsibilities with it. It also carries trust.”

Jandar glanced at his arm. Trust had apparently become painful.

Vistra noticed. “Something to add?”

“Not yet,” Jandar said.

Deacon looked at the floor. Zook was smiling again.

Thaklar continued. “Four hundred years ago, when Fyros and his Scourge Lords brought war across Istram, five leaders stood against them. Brend Eagleheart gathered them. Together they became known as the Hand.”

There it was: history.

Jandar had heard some version of the story in every port large enough to have a tavern and every tavern old enough to have a drunk who believed himself a scholar. Fyros the necromancer, nine Scourge Lords, chromatic dragons, Brend Eagleheart and the Hand—the battle that ended everything, or saved everything, depending upon whether the storyteller’s ancestors had survived it.

“The Hand defeated Fyros,” Thaklar said. “The power unleashed in that battle reshaped the world. Kingdoms vanished. Mountains broke. Seas changed. Magic itself was corrupted.”

Vegon’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that.

Jandar noticed.

“For generations afterward,” Thaklar continued, “survivors rebuilt from what remained. The Order was created so the next catastrophe would not arrive unnoticed.”

“And has one?” Jandar asked.

Vistra looked at him. “What?”

“The next catastrophe.”

“No.”

Jandar smiled. “Then you’ve done excellent work.”

This time Deacon definitely smiled.

Vistra did not. “Or we are due.”

Jandar decided he liked her.

Thaklar crossed to a table where a map had been unrolled. “Three and a half weeks ago, one of our patrol teams was sent to Arrowdale.”

He pointed to a small settlement northeast of Windmarch.

“Farm country,” Deacon said.

Thaklar nodded. “Mostly. Several people disappeared from the surrounding area over the course of two weeks. Livestock as well. No bodies, no ransom demands, no known raider activity.”

Zook leaned toward the map. “What happened to your patrol?”

“They stopped reporting.”

That removed some of the humor from the room.

Thaklar looked at the five of them. “The team consisted of five experienced members of the Order.”

Jandar’s eyes moved around their own little collection.

Five.

He wondered whether anyone else had noticed. Xil had; their eyes met for half a second before the drow looked back toward the map.

Vegon asked, “What were they supposed to report?”

“Anything unusual. Tracks. Signs of organized raiders. Creatures moving out of the hills. Magical disturbances.”

At that, Vegon leaned closer. “What kind?”

“If we knew that,” Thaklar said, “we would not be sending you.”

“An excellent system,” Jandar murmured.

Thaklar ignored him with practiced ease. “The last message came from Arrowdale. The patrol had arrived safely. They intended to investigate the northern foothills the next morning.”

“And nothing since?” Deacon asked.

“Nothing.”

Deacon studied the map. “Could have moved beyond communication range.”

“They were expected back twelve days ago.”

The room became quieter.

Jandar studied the map. Windmarch sat farther south, surrounded by roads and smaller communities, while Arrowdale was insignificant by comparison, barely large enough for the cartographer to justify lettering it.

Small places were easy to forget. Jandar had spent enough of his life around men who preyed on isolated places to understand exactly what that meant.

Zook pointed toward Arrowdale. “What do we know about the disappearances?”

“Not much,” Vistra said. “No consistent age or occupation. Two farmers, a shepherd, a pair of travelers, one child.”

Zook stopped smiling.

“Tracks?” he asked.

“Arrowdale’s people found nothing useful.”

“I might.”

Vistra nodded. “That is why you’re going.”

Zook accepted that without pride, simply as a fact.

Jandar glanced at the others and found himself cataloging their reactions. Zook had gone straight to tracks; Deacon had focused on the missing patrol; Vegon wanted to know about magical disturbances; Xil had said almost nothing, but his attention had sharpened at the mention of the child.

Jandar, meanwhile, had begun considering roads, ambush points, escape routes, and how long five people who barely knew one another would survive once they were far enough from Windmarch that the Order could no longer pretend they were under its protection.

Old habits.

“How soon?” Deacon asked.

“Today.”

“Of course,” Jandar said.

Vistra folded her arms. “Was there somewhere else you needed to be?”

“Several places.”

“Any of them lawful?”

Jandar put a hand to his chest. “That’s an unnecessarily personal question.”

Zook laughed. Vegon tried not to. Xil didn’t bother trying, though it was only the smallest movement at the corner of his mouth.

Jandar saw it.

Progress.

Thaklar placed a small packet on the table. “Written authority from the Order. Basic maps. The names of our missing people. Supplies are being prepared.”

Deacon picked up the packet without being asked.

Jandar watched him do it. That was useful too; nobody had told Deacon to take responsibility for the papers. He simply had.

Vegon looked from Thaklar to the rest of them. “Who is in charge?”

There it was—the question Jandar had been waiting for.

Thaklar looked at all five. “You are.”

Jandar laughed.

Thaklar did not.

“That seems inefficient,” Jandar said.

“It is intentional.”

Deacon opened the packet. Vegon frowned, Zook looked pleased, and Xil remained unreadable.

“The Order does not need another five people who wait for a commander to tell them what they can see with their own eyes,” Thaklar continued. “You were selected because each of you brings something different.”

Selected.

Jandar let that word pass without comment.

“You will decide how to use it.”

Xil spoke from beside Vegon. “And when we disagree?”

It was the first time Jandar had heard more than a few words from him. His voice was calm and low.

Thaklar looked at the drow. “Then you had better learn which disagreements matter.”

That, Jandar thought, was almost useful.

Vistra stepped forward and looked directly at Jandar. “One more thing. The marks are not ornamental.”

“I had assumed the burning was decorative.”

“They identify you to other members of the Order. At close range, one mark can recognize another.”

Jandar looked again at the pale symbol on his arm. “So if we lose each other?”

“You can find each other.”

“How comforting.”

“Try not to require it.”

“I’ll make a note.”

Vistra’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t strike me as a man who takes notes.”

“I’ve had people for that.”

The words came out easily—too easily—and for the first time something old moved behind them: a deck rolling beneath his boots, wind snapping canvas, a voice shouting his name through rain.

Jandar shut the door on the memory before it opened properly.

Vistra was still watching him. If she noticed anything, she was kind enough not to say so.

“Arrowdale first,” she said. “Find the patrol. Find out what is taking people. Report back.”

Simple.

Jandar had always distrusted simple jobs.

They collected their supplies downstairs: food, rope, oil, basic medical equipment, a copy of the road map, and enough Order-issued gear to ensure that if they were found dead in a ditch, everyone would know exactly whose responsibility they had been.

Deacon checked every bundle before accepting it. Vegon inspected the map, Zook the rope, Xil the medicine.

Jandar inspected the door.

They emerged from the citadel into Windmarch under a pale afternoon sky. The city spread below them in tiers of gray stone and timber roofs, narrow streets crowded beneath market awnings and chimney smoke. Beyond the outer walls, fields divided the land into long strips before fading toward the distant hills.

Windmarch was not the largest city Jandar had ever seen, but it might have been the most serious. Even its taverns looked as though they kept records.

People moved around them carrying baskets, tools, and bolts of cloth. Guards in Silver Crown colors crossed the square, and somewhere below, bells marked the hour.

Jandar rolled his sleeve down over the new mark.

Zook noticed. “Thought you liked it.”

“It’s growing on me.”

The gnome glanced at his own arm. “It’s been ten minutes.”

“Exactly.”

Deacon adjusted the strap on his crossbow. “We should get moving.”

Jandar looked at him. “Are you in charge?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Just checking.”

Deacon started walking. Zook followed, and after a moment Vegon did too.

Xil remained beside Jandar for another second.

Jandar gestured toward the others. “You see the problem.”

“What problem?”

“They’ve mistaken walking away for leadership.”

Xil considered that. “Then perhaps you should keep up.”

He walked after them.

Jandar stood alone for half a second, then grinned. Perhaps this would not be entirely unbearable.

He caught up before they reached the gate.

The road outside Windmarch split less than a mile beyond the walls. Deacon stopped and opened the map.

“Arrowdale is northeast.”

“Very good,” Jandar said.

Deacon looked at him. “I can read.”

“Another useful talent. We’re assembling quite a collection.”

Vegon leaned over the map beside him. “The direct road runs along the low country for most of the first day.”

Deacon nodded. “Which means we’re visible.”

“Which means anyone watching the road is also visible,” Jandar replied.

A few paces away, Zook crouched near the roadside and pressed two fingers into the dirt.

Four sets of eyes turned toward him.

He looked up. “What?”

Jandar raised his eyebrows. “Nothing. We were hoping the ground had already confessed.”

Zook looked back down. “It says there were wagons.”

“Marvelous,” Jandar said.

“And horses.”

“Remarkable.”

Zook pointed to a partial hoofprint. “One of them was lame.”

Jandar stopped smiling.

Deacon crouched beside Zook. “How long ago?”

“Yesterday. Maybe this morning if the ground was wetter.”

Jandar studied the mark in the dirt, then looked at the gnome. “All right.”

Zook stood. “All right what?”

“You may inspect the ground whenever you like.”

“Thank you.”

“I wouldn’t want to interfere with your work.”

Zook gave him a solemn nod. “Very generous.”

Jandar fell into step beside Deacon. Behind them, Vegon and Xil were discussing something quietly, while ahead Zook walked near the edge of the road, his attention shifting between mud, grass, and tree line.

They had traveled perhaps another hundred yards when Jandar realized nobody had actually decided their formation; it had simply happened. Zook had taken the front, Deacon one side of the road and Jandar the other, while Vegon and Xil remained behind the two of them.

Jandar glanced toward Deacon.

The older man noticed. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Then stop looking at me.”

Jandar smiled. “I was admiring your natural leadership.”

“I’m not leading.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

Deacon shook his head.

Jandar looked back toward Windmarch. The city walls were already smaller, the Silver Crown banner moving in the breeze above them.

Five dead members of the Order waited somewhere north. Five new ones were being sent to find them.

He looked at the people around him: the high elf studying the road map as if he intended to correct it, the drow who had already learned to ignore every stare Windmarch could offer, the gnome reading the earth, and the older fighter carrying a crossbow like it belonged there.

Jandar had served beside strangers before. On ships, strangers stopped being strangers quickly; you learned who froze when steel came out, who ran, who stole, who lied, and who watched your back because they expected you to watch theirs.

Sometimes you learned too late.

He rubbed the hidden mark beneath his sleeve. A little warmth remained.

“How far to Arrowdale?” Jandar asked.

Zook answered without turning. “If we keep a good pace, tomorrow.”

Jandar sighed dramatically. “Then I suppose we should begin learning to tolerate one another.”

Deacon glanced across at him. “You first.”

Zook laughed. Even Vegon smiled.

Xil walked in silence for several steps before saying, “This may be a very long road.”

Jandar looked north, where the fields narrowed ahead of them and the land began to rise toward dark hills.

Five people had gone into those hills.

None had returned.

Jandar smiled anyway.

“Good,” he said. “I hate short stories.”

And the five of them walked north.