by Sally Green
Mother. I’ve hardly thought of you for days. What did you know of this war? Did you know Father’s plans? I’m sure you would have told me if you’d known. You believed I was to marry Tzsayn. You believed I could make a future with him. You didn’t anticipate this war because it makes no sense. A war over demon smoke!
But her father had planned the attack carefully. Her brother Boris and her father’s inquisitor, Noyes, and their men had attacked the kings and nobles who’d gathered in Tornia to celebrate the wedding.
So many men killed. King Arell injured—and who knew if he had since succumbed to his wounds?
Catherine had been blamed for bringing her father and brother into Pitoria. Lord Farrow, one of the most powerful Pitorian lords, had called for her arrest.
Farrow hates me.
But Prince Tzsayn didn’t blame me for the actions of my father and Boris.
He protected me. He was truly grateful for my warning.
And the way he showed her how to hold a spear, the way he gently positioned her hand. The way he slowly uncurled each of her fingers and put them in the correct place. The way his leg had been solid as she’d giggled and swayed against him, feeling his strength, but also having her own as she did now.
There was so much about Tzsayn that she liked.
His humor. His voice. His honesty.
He’s kind to me. He respects me. And he’s handsome, even beautiful from some angles.
But then there are his clothes. Almost absurd . . . almost feminine, and yet somehow remaining totally masculine. Blue silks, blue velvets, and even blue furs.
And that blue dye on his skin beneath the slashes in his jackets and shirts.
Where does the blue end?
Catherine laughed. Prince Tzsayn wasn’t like any man she’d met before.
Not that I’ve met many men. Any men. Apart from my father and brothers, and Noyes, and a few of the Royal Guard. And Ambrose.
And Ambrose. He was handsome and gallant and yet totally different from Tzsayn. She had been captivated by Ambrose from the moment she’d seen him, two years prior when he’d joined the Royal Guard. Of course she had always known that they could never be together. He was a noble, but she was a princess, and he wasn’t noble enough for her parents to even consider as a suitor. She could admire him from afar, but anything more than that would risk both of their lives. His more than hers.
But now the situation was different. She had no cause to follow her father’s rules any longer and Tzsayn had freed her from her obligation to marry him. She was free to make her own choice.
“Tash is back, Your Highness,” Tanya said, pulling on Catherine’s arm.
Tash was stamping on the snow. She hardly came up to Ambrose’s chest. She was a slip of a girl, a child still, yet she could trek as hard as a hunting dog. Her blonde dreadlocks were tied back and a scarf covered her nose and mouth, but she pulled the scarf down and scowled. “I hoped we’d reach the trees for shelter before the storm arrived, but everyone’s so slow.”
The Brigantines in pursuit were still small black marks in the distance, closer than before, but not that much. If Catherine’s group could get to the trees before the storm hit with full force, they might actually make it. It’d be easier once they were in the forest, where they’d be sheltered from the wind, and the snow wouldn’t be as deep. The storm would slow the Brigantines.
“We have to push on. We have to reach the trees,” Catherine said as a few fine flakes of wet snow fell on her cheek. “Make sure everyone stays together.” And she plowed forward into the storm.
TASH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
TASH NEEDED to get away from this lot. Everyone was useless. If it had been just her and Gravell, they’d have reached the trees ages ago. But Gravell wasn’t here. Gravell was dead and pretty soon everyone else would be too. The Brigantines would slaughter them all.
She could easily get to the trees on her own.
Easily.
Blindfolded, with one hand tied behind her back.
She should leave them and get to the trees herself, then really leave them and head to Pravont, then south.
But then what? Then where would I go?
Gravell had been her family. Her friend. Her everything. She had no one else. If Tash closed her eyes, she’d see his body lying on the ground, the spear in his chest, blood seeping through his jacket. He’d died in the battle of Rossarb to save her. He’d sacrificed himself so she could get away.
Tash cried every time she thought of Gravell, and now the tears were threatening to come again. But snow hit her cheeks instead. The clouds were a dark gray above and black in the north, the wind was picking up, and the few fine flakes had already thickened to heavy snow. This was a summer storm; they could be bad, but they never lasted more than a day. However, the storm was here and they still hadn’t made it to the trees.
Tash looked back to check on the group. Admittedly they weren’t all useless. The princess was leading and she looked strong now, as did Ambrose, Rafyon, Geratan, and the general—they were soldiers, after all—but most of the others looked like they were ready to collapse.
Rafyon waved at Tash, indicating she should wait for them. Rafyon had been closer to her than any of the others, since he’d carried her out of Rossarb when Gravell was killed. But Tash didn’t owe him anything. She turned from him and looked to the trees. She could get there on her own in no time. She’d have a fire going and be warm and snug by nightfall.
“The storm’s here,” Rafyon shouted through the wind as he reached her.
Tash couldn’t be bothered to roll her eyes.
“We need to stay together,” Rafyon added. “I don’t want to lose sight of you.”
“It’s going to get a lot worse yet. You should leave the weak ones behind,” she told him. “You’ll be lucky to outrun the Brigantines anyway. Only the fastest will be able to get away.”
“We’re not leaving anyone.”
“You either leave the weak ones to die or everyone dies.” Rafyon frowned at her words. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right. It’s all a waste of time anyway. You’re all going to be killed whether you reach the trees or not. And you all deserve it.”
“Tash.” Rafyon put his hand on her arm, but she flung his arm away and moved back, shouting, “Don’t touch me! I don’t have to stay with you. Because of you lot, Gravell is dead. Because of you lot, he got a spear in his guts and we left him behind. No one complained about that. No one stayed behind to help him. I hope you all die.”
Tash didn’t know why she said that. She didn’t want Rafyon to die. She liked him. And she liked Princess Catherine. And Edyon. She didn’t really like Tanya that much, but she didn’t want her to die. But still it wasn’t fair. Gravell was dead and it was their fault. She could feel herself starting to cry so she turned her back on Rafyon and looked to the north, letting the sleet hit her face.
“Tash, I’m sorry about Gravell. But it was the Brigantines who killed him, not us.”
“No! No! It was because of all your stupid fighting. All of you. And now you’re all going to get what you deserve.” If she stayed, she’d die with them. Killed by Brigantines or more likely frozen to death in this storm. No one had the right clothes, or enough weapons or food or anything. If she could reach the trees, she could make a fire, get warm, catch some rabbits. It was the sensible thing to do.
I can’t help anyone by staying.
It’s not cowardice. It’s not wrong.
It’s sensible.
Gravell would tell me to leave them. Gravell would want me to go. He’d say don’t fuck up and don’t look back.
“Tash.” It was Rafyon again.
“Just leave me alone.” And with that she ran.
Don’t look back.
You can’t help them.
You don
’t owe them anything.
She pushed on.
Just get to the trees. Just get to the trees.
She was breathing hard and crying and snow was falling heavily into her face. The wind was whipping up and the sky was gray. Everything was white and gray.
Everything but the snow beneath her feet.
This snow had a red tinge to it. The red of a demon hollow.
And Tash was right in the middle of it.
AMBROSE
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
AMBROSE TRUDGED on. He knew he should be feeling more—more alert, more scared even. But all he was aware of was being tired—tired to his bones, cold, and hungry. He wiped the sleet out of his eyes and looked ahead into the swirling snowstorm. He could see nothing but the gray figures ahead of him and snow. White. The color Princess Catherine chose to represent her since she arrived in Pitoria. He was sick of white! Never sick of the princess; she was still herself, more herself now she was free of her family and all the constraints of Brigant. But he was sick of everything else: of this place, of struggle, of never resting, of death and pain and loss. Sometimes he wanted to give up, but something always drove him on.
The storm cleared a little and the gray figures were easier to see, but some had gone off to the right—Catherine was with them—and they were losing one another’s tracks in the snow. Ambrose turned to Rafyon and shouted, “We’re getting split up. We need to—” But Ambrose was distracted by a figure running toward them.
A small figure—Tash.
And something was coming fast behind her—something red.
“Demon!” Tash screamed as she ran to them.
Ambrose drew his sword and shouted to Rafyon, “Get everyone together!”
But the red figure veered off and was lost in the swirling snowstorm.
A shout came from behind, and Ambrose turned to see Edyon and March stumbling toward him.
“Demon! Demon!” Edyon cried, pointing to his left.
“Join the others. Stay together.” Ambrose ran back through the storm, soon spotting drops of red on the trampled snow, and farther on the blood became thicker . . . leading to a string of sinew and then a body, one arm missing, head at an absurd angle. The cook!
And a scream was carried faintly, like a wisp on the wind. Behind him again.
The princess!
Ambrose ran back, his feet sinking into the snow.
Another scream. He couldn’t run fast enough and couldn’t see anyone now. “Catherine? Catherine!” Ahead the snow was different . . . tinged red . . . not with blood, but . . . This must be the demon hollow. He pushed on clumsily. The snow cleared a little and he was back with Rafyon, Edyon, March, and Tash. Geratan and some of the other soldiers came from the right.
Rafyon beckoned, shouting, “Regroup. Here. Everyone.”
But where was the princess?
Then another figure appeared.
Tanya. Alone.
Ambrose staggered over to her. “Where’s Catherine?”
“We got separated. The demon ran at us.”
“Stay here!” Rafyon shouted. “Ambrose and I will look for the others.”
Ambrose went left, Rafyon to the right. The snow thickened again and all the figures were lost in the storm.
From nearby came a screech, and Ambrose turned as something small, like a ball, flew through the air toward him, so hard it knocked the sword from his hand. The ball lay on the snow by his sword—only it wasn’t a ball; it was a head—the old servant’s.
There was a howl. Ambrose looked up. The demon was charging at him—red eyes staring, red mouth open wide. Ambrose crouched and grabbed for his sword, finding the leather-bound handle with his fingertips as the demon bowled into him, lifting him into the air. Ambrose was flying backward and then tumbling over in the snow, landing on his back. He struggled upright as a red arm swung toward his head. Ambrose ducked down, leaned to the side, and rolled away—but not fast enough, and the demon’s hands pulled him back as easily as if he was a child’s toy. Then the hands were on his throat. Hot and crushing, pushing his neck into the snow. Ambrose struck at the demon’s arms, but they were as solid as stone. The demon lifted him by the neck and bashed him back down, then lifted him up again and then bashed him down.
Ambrose couldn’t breathe. His neck would break.
But then a familiar voice: “No! No!”
Catherine!
The demon released his hold and rose as Catherine came at him. She was tiny compared to the huge demon. But she was clutching Ambrose’s sword in front of her body. Ambrose grabbed the demon’s arm to stop him striking her and Catherine thrust the sword into its stomach, pushing it back. The demon staggered and Catherine continued to push and to shout as the demon screeched.
General Rafyon appeared behind the demon with his sword raised and sliced down into the demon’s shoulder.
There was no sound but the wind and Ambrose’s panting. The demon’s knees gave way and it knelt, then fell to the snow, Ambrose’s sword still in its stomach.
Catherine looked victorious as her eyes met his. “I knew I had the strength to do it, though perhaps not the skill.” The strength of the demon smoke—of course.
“You saved my life.”
She smiled. “It feels good to help you for once.”
Ambrose went to retrieve his sword. Even dead, the demon was magnificent. Huge and red, hairless and muscled. And then red smoke appeared, the exact bright red of the demon’s skin, but escaping from the demon’s mouth, growing thicker by the moment.
But most amazing of all, though, was that the smoke wasn’t blown away on the wind. Rather, it swirled and coiled down over the demon’s body, and then moved in a continuous stream low to the ground, glowing brightly against the snow. And somehow Ambrose knew that the smoke was going back to the demon hollow. Catherine seemed transfixed by it and then she shouted, “I’ve an idea. Follow the smoke.”
The smoke weaved its way through the legs of the bedraggled group, who were all staring down at it. “Stay with me, everyone!” Catherine shouted, and they stumbled after her a short way to the demon hollow, where the smoke swirled round the rim.
Catherine grabbed Tash’s arm and shouted, “Show us how to get in. We can get out of the storm.”
Ambrose almost shouted, “No!” But it was not his place to overrule her—he couldn’t overrule her. Descending into the demon world was foolhardy and dangerous, yet Catherine showed no fear. Perhaps her luck would hold.
Tash didn’t have any qualms about saying what she thought. “Into the demon world? You’re mad.”
“If more demons were going to come out, they’d be here already. If we stay out in the storm, we’ll freeze to death. Or, if we survive it, we’ll be killed by the Brigantines tomorrow. None of us has the strength to go on,” Catherine replied.
“Doesn’t mean you’re not mad!” But Tash knelt down at the rim of the hollow and shouted, “You’ll have to be quick; the entrance will close soon. We have to get in before the red fades. Do what I do. Exactly as I do. Keep your face low to the ground and push through, as if you’re going under a curtain.”
And, with that, Tash did as she’d described. First her head, then shoulders and body and legs disappeared.
No one followed.
Everyone stood staring.
Catherine shouted at the men, “Follow the girl. Are you afraid, when she’s so brave? We’ve killed one demon and we can kill more. Besides that, Tash told me it’s warm in the demon world.” And she dropped to the ground and did the same as Tash, disappearing immediately.
And of course that settled it. Some of the men took two or three attempts, but one by one each person vanished. Ambrose dropped to his knees, took a breath, and—lowering his face so his nose was scraping the snow—he arched his back and pushed forward, and the storm was left behind.<
br />
He was in the hot, dry, red world of stone. Ahead of him were Catherine, Tash, Davyon, and the others.
But there was a terrible sound, like the clattering of pans and hammers. One of the soldiers was speaking but all that came out of his mouth was a cacophony of noise. Then another man and another made similar noises. The sound was too loud. If there were demons nearby, they’d hear this easily.
Tash and Davyon tried to silence the men by signing to them. But the men went quiet themselves, more through the shock and horror of the sounds they’d uttered.
Ambrose stood with his sword raised. It was silent now. He and the group were waiting, listening. When everyone was together, they’d have to go down farther into the demon world, but not everyone had appeared. Where were they?
MARCH
NORTHERN PLATEAU, PITORIA
THERE WAS still a trace of red demon smoke in the demon hollow, but only Geratan, Edyon, and March were left kneeling on the ground. Edyon had made three attempts at getting in. “I can’t do it,” he wailed.
“Yes, you can,” March replied.
“We’ll be left out here to die in the storm or be cut to bits by the bloody Brigantines. I mean, I’ll be left. You go in, March. I’ll follow you.”
“Forget about me. Forget about the Brigantines. Concentrate on what you’re trying to do. Did you see how Tash moved and held her back? She had her nose in the snow and her shoulders right down, her back in an arch.” He pressed Edyon’s shoulders down and then his lower back, turning the curved position he had been using into an arch. “And she did it smoothly and slowly. Try again now.”
Edyon tried again, but his head came up quickly. “It isn’t working. I’ll never do it.”
“Move smoothly. As if you were dancing. And don’t come up at the end.” It was Geratan.
“Yes, he’s almost got it. You show him,” March said.
Geratan nodded and got in position, then moved his head forward and disappeared.