Only the Valiant. Морган Райс

that once it comes time.”

      Raymond wanted to ask what the man meant by that, but he knew that there was no chance of getting an answer, and every chance of getting beaten just as his brother had been. All he could do was sit quietly while the cart continued on its rickety journey along the dirt road. That, he guessed, was a part of the torment of all of this: the not knowing, and the awareness of his own helplessness, with the complete inability to do anything to even find out where they were going, let alone turn the cart from its course.

      It headed up through the fields, past clusters of trees and spaces where villages lay in subdued silence. The ground around them seemed to be rising, heading up to the spot where a fort almost as old as the kingdom itself sat atop one of the hills, the ruined stones standing as a kind of testament to the kingdom that had gone before.

      “Almost there, boys,” the cart driver said, with a smile that said he was enjoying this far too much. “Ready to see what Duke Altfor has in mind for you?”

      “Duke Altfor?” Raymond asked, barely able to believe it.

      “That brother of yours managed to kill the old duke,” the crossbowman said. “Threw a spear through his heart back in the pit, then ran like the coward he is. Now, you’re going to pay for his crimes.”

      The moment he said that, Raymond found both his thoughts and his feelings racing. If Royce had really done that, then it meant that his adopted brother had achieved something huge for the cause of freedom, and had gotten clear; both of those things were things to celebrate. At the same time, Raymond could only imagine the things that the former duke’s son would want done in revenge, and without Royce there to take it out on, they were the logical next targets.

      He found himself cursing Genevieve then. If his brother had never seen her, none of this would have happened, and it wasn’t as if she even cared about Royce, was it?

      “Ah,” the crossbowman said. “I think they’re starting to understand.”

      The horses that drew that cart carried on, moving along with the steady pace of creatures that were far too used to their task, and that knew that they, at least, would be coming back from their destination.

      They headed up the hill, and Raymond could feel the tension rising in his brothers. Garet was shifting back and forth, as if he might be able to find a way to break free and jump from the cart. If he could, then Raymond hoped he would take the opportunity, running and not looking back, even as he knew that the riders would probably be able to cut him down before he’d gone a dozen steps. Lofen was clenching and unclenching his hands, whispering what sounded like a prayer. Raymond doubted it would do any good.

      Finally, they reached the summit of the hill and Raymond saw everything that awaited them there. It was enough to make him slump back in the cart, unable to bring himself to move.

      There were gibbets set around the hilltop, creaking in the wind as they dangled from chains in the shadow of the fallen tower. There were bodies in them, some picked clean by scavengers, others intact enough that Raymond could see the horrific wounds and bite marks that covered them, the burns and the places where the skin had been cut away by what looked like long knives. Symbols were cut into some of the flesh, and Raymond found himself recognizing a woman who had been dragged from their cell before, swirls and runes carved into her.

      “Picti,” Lofen whispered in obvious horror, but Raymond could see that even that wasn’t the worst of it. The people in the gibbets had wounds that suggested they had been tortured and killed, exposed to the fury of whatever wild folk came by, but what lay on the stone at the center of the hilltop was worse, far worse.

      The stone itself was a slab that had been carved both with the symbols of the wild folk, and with signs that might have been magic if such things had been common in these days. The remains of a man lay chained on it, and the worst part, the worst part, was that he moaned with agonized life even though he had no right to. His body was laced with cuts and burns, bite marks and the tearing marks of claws, yet still, impossibly, he lived.

      “They call it a life stone,” the driver said with a smirk that said he knew exactly how much horror Raymond was feeling right then. “They say that in the old days, healers would use them to hold men to life while they stitched and worked. We found a better use for this one.”

      “Better?” Raymond said. “This is…” He didn’t even have the words for what it was. Evil wasn’t enough. This wasn’t some crime against the laws of men, but something that stood against everything that had ever been there in nature. It was wrong in a way that seemed to count against everything that was life, and sane, and ordered.

      “This is what traitors get, unless they’re lucky enough to die first,” the driver said. He nodded to the two who had ridden with the cart. “Clear that off. Whatever he did, it’s not his turn anymore. Clear the cages so that it draws the animals.”

      Grumbling, the two guards set about their work, and Raymond would have run then if he had been able to, but the truth was that his chains held him far too tightly. He couldn’t even raise himself over the lip of the cart, let alone lift himself beyond it. The guards seemed to know that, moving casually from gibbet to gibbet, pulling the corpses of men and women from them and flinging them to the ground. Some came apart as they dropped, body parts scattering across the hillside for whatever came to devour them.

      The woman who had been in the cells with them brushed against the stone at the hillside’s heart as they threw her body aside, and her eyes opened wide. She let out a scream then that Raymond was sure would haunt him until the moment he died, so raw and full of pain that he couldn’t begin to guess at the agonies she had endured there.

      “Must have still been alive,” the one with the crossbow said, as the others dragged her clear of the stone. She fell silent again as soon as she stopped touching it, and, just for good measure, the crossbowman put a bolt through her chest before they flung her aside.

      They dragged the man on the stone clear next, and to Raymond, the worst part of it was that he thanked them when they did it. He thanked them for dragging him away to die. The moment he left the stone, Raymond saw him go from a struggling, screaming man to a lifeless lump of meat, so much so that it seemed redundant when one of the guards cut his throat, just to be sure.

      Now, the hillside was silent, except for the calls of the carrion birds, and rustling that promised bigger predators further off. Maybe there were even human predators watching them there, because Raymond had heard that civilized men didn’t see the Picti out in their wild homes when they didn’t want to be seen. Just the not knowing made it worse.

      “The duke says that you’re to die,” the driver said, “but he didn’t say how, so we’re going to play the game that traitors get to play. You’ll go in the gibbets, and maybe you’ll live, maybe you’ll die. Then, in a day or two, if I remember, we’ll be back, and we’ll pick one of you for the stone.”

      He looked straight at Raymond. “Maybe it will be you. Maybe you can watch while your brothers die, and while the animals come to gnaw on you, and the Picti come to cut you. They hate the folk of the kingdom. They can’t attack the town, but you… you’d be fair game.”

      He laughed at that, and the guards lifted Raymond down, disconnecting his chains from a bracket in the cart and hauling him from it bodily. For a moment, they headed toward the stone, and Raymond almost begged them not to put him on it, thinking that maybe they’d changed their minds and decided to put him there straight away. Instead, they took him to one of the dangling cages and shoved him inside, closing the door behind him and locking it in place with a lock that it would take a hammer and chisel to cut through.

      It was a tight fit in the cage, so that Raymond couldn’t sit comfortably, couldn’t even begin to think about lying down. The cage creaked and shifted with every movement of the wind, loud enough that it seemed like a torture in itself. All Raymond could do was sit there while the men dragged his brothers to other cages, unable to even begin to help.

      Garet fought, because Garet always fought. It just earned him a blow to the guts before they lifted him and stuffed him into another of the gibbets, the way a farmer might have shoved an uncooperative sheep