“Retreat,” she croaked. “Hold the hill.”
Need fell away from her, and she sagged against the table.
“Gods damn it!” she yelled, pounding a fist as she caught herself.
The aides around her started, scrambling to ensure the red and blue figures had not been dislodged from their intended positions.
“My vessel has been lost, with the Thirty-Eighth,” she said bitterly. “Issue the order by courier. We have to pull the line eastward to cut the enemy off from reaching the Jardins-Pêche Bridge.”
“Sir, can we risk weakening the center?” a captain asked. “Fresh scouts’ reports suggest the Gandsmen are holding steady at the district line, exchanging fire with—”
“Gods damn it, of course they are. But their reserves are coming up, the same as ours. We stretch the line eastward, or we risk the bridges when they deploy.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” the aide said, as another looked up from the map. “We can move the Nineteenth into position to support, and the rest of de Tourvalle’s division. It will expose us on the west flank, though, sir, and the center.”
“Vassail’s Eleventh is already moving to reinforce the western line,” she said. “She can keep the tribesfolk pinned down.” She looked down at the maps, trying to plan a step ahead. “As for the center, a strike there would only allow us to fall back to the river, closing off our line. He’d never gain the bridges if he committed to that attack.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t mean to take the bridges,” a voice said from behind.
The aides rose to attention from the table, saluting the new arrival.
“Marquis-General Voren,” she said, not bothering to keep the fatigue from her voice. “Thank the Gods you’re here.”
“D’Arrent,” Voren said with a half nod, stepping forward to lean against the table by her side. “Apologies for my delayed arrival. It turns out the logistics corps can be put to good use evacuating our citizens to safety, so long as we don’t allow the assembly to administer the details.” He smiled. “Now, have you considered whether the enemy may be after another target?”
She looked over the map again. Southgate was the industrial center of the city, but apart from Courtesan’s Hill it was flat, with no especially defensible ground. It controlled the southern road via its eponymous gate but had no direct access to the sea, with wide fields of grass and parks cutting the district in half. Holding them offered no great advantage. The Riverways to the east were the key to the city, and the Jardins-Pêche Bridge was the southernmost crossing point. Ignoring it meant the Gandsmen intended to push south, where the only notable objective was …
“The council chamber?” she offered. “You think he’d strike us here?”
Voren pursed his lips, studying the arrangement of the figures on the map. “Are you prepared for it?”
“It would be nothing more than a symbolic gesture. There are strategic objectives to take, objectives far more important to securing the city.”
Even as she said it, her memory went back to the exchanges she’d had with the strange commander of the enemy army. He’d promised to bleed her city, yes, but he’d also promised to kill her. Perhaps it had been more than a hyperbolic threat after all.
“The command is yours, of course,” Voren said, offering her a slight bow.
“No,” she said. “No, you may be right, General.” She pointed to the map. “We’ll draw in the eastern line, and bring the reserve up on the council monument grounds. A touch slower to reinforce the flank, but a nasty surprise if he strikes the center.”
“And the west flank? Held by the militia, yes?”
She nodded. “For the time being. I have reports they’ve broken, but the tribesfolk have yet to advance. I’ve sent Vassail’s brigade to reinforce. They’ll be in position to threaten a counterattack, if the enemy is massing toward the center.”
Voren nodded. “A wise precaution. Good to see the battle is not over yet.”
“I’m glad you’re here, General,” she said, turning back to the chamber at large. “Sadrelle,” she called. “I need you to ride, Aide-Lieutenant.”
“Sir.” Sadrelle saluted. “What orders?”
“I need eyes in the north, along the border of the Riverways and the Maw. Stay well clear of the enemy, but get me eyes on his reserve as they deploy from the Gardens. If they’re heading east, we need enough warning to pull back to the bridges. If they move toward the center, we respond in kind. Either way, I need to see it firsthand, when it happens.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, saluting.
“Keep yourself safe, Lieutenant.”
Sadrelle pivoted toward the exit leading to the stables. With any luck he’d be in place by the time she had Vassail and the reserve redeployed to check a movement toward the center. Whatever the reason behind the enemy’s caution, he’d given her an opening to seize the initiative for herself. Voren was right. This battle wasn’t over yet.
“It’s a graveyard, Commander,” Vassail said in haunted tones. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Erris swallowed bile, through the throat of the aide-sergeant she’d placed with the 11th. A sea of dead men and women, where her aides had placed the light blue and green markers to signify the western front. Pools of blood stained the snow, frozen black, paying no heed to whether a corpse was pale-skinned or bronze. If there had been battle lines they had long since disintegrated; fur-clad tribesmen mixed with wool-coated militia in pockets of dead lining the streets and greenbelts as far as she could see.
“It’s d’Agarre,” a hushed voice said beside the colonel.
She turned to see a civilian, a brown-haired young woman wearing only a linen shirt in spite of the cold, bearing royal marques on the backs of her hands.
“Report,” Erris said. “Who is this woman, and how is Councilman d’Agarre—”
A torrent of fear rose in her vessel’s gut, the same overpowering emotion she’d felt in Marie d’Oreste, and Vassail’s brigade broke in terror.
In a heartbeat, orderly lines of dismounted cavalry shattered in a rout. Soldiers she would trust to hold against three divisions charging them over open fields suddenly flung their weapons to the ground, abandoning their posts in panicked flight.
Lance-Lieutenant Acherre gaped, along with a handful of other binders; every man or woman with scars on their hands seemed unaffected, while the rest broke like raw recruits at the vanguard of a charge.
“No!” the young woman in civilian clothes screamed. “Zi, Green. Now!”
As quick as it had come, the terror vanished.
“What under the Nameless is going on here?” Erris said, turning toward the young woman as the rest of Vassail’s brigade stared at each other in stunned silence, returning to their posts.
“D’Agarre is out there,” the young woman replied. “And another kaas-mage; at least one more. I can hold it for now. It isn’t as strong when they use it over such a great distance, but—”
“Sir!” a sergeant shouted, pointing. “Contact with the enemy!”
Erris pivoted, with Vassail at her side. Across the greenbelts, rows of red-coated Gand infantry marched forward, thick lines coming to a halt at the extreme edge of the Gardens. At least a division’s full strength, and not a man among them set foot on the dying ground between their line and Vassail’s.
“They’re marshaling for an attack,” Erris said. “Waiting for their reserve. Gods above, how long have they been massing here?”
“Sir,” Vassail said, “do you think they aim to flank us? The western line is as good as broken. They could sweep around, cut off our supply lines, and—”
“No,” she said. “Nothing was stopping them from that maneuver prior to your arrival. If they had a means to counteract whatever madness is going on here, they would’ve used it already.”
“It would take another kaas-mage,” the young woman, the civilian, said.
“What is your name, girl?” Erris said. A sight beyond the strange, seeing a c
ivilian moving with the ranks of military binders, but this girl seemed to have knowledge of the situation, and she’d done something to forestall the madness that had infected the Gardens.
“Sarine,” the girl replied. “And Zi can use Green to stop their Yellow, so long as his stores—”
“Sarine,” she echoed back, cutting the girl short. “There’s no time for details. You said you can hold off whatever it is affecting this part of the city. I need to know it for sure. Are you certain—beyond certain—you can keep Vassail’s brigade in place?”
The girl—Sarine—seemed taken aback, the usual surprise when a civilian was confronted with military discipline. But a moment later she nodded, a look of iron in her eyes.
Good enough. Victory went to the commander who could adjust to the reality of a battle, whether they understood it or no.
“Move north,” she said to Vassail. “Take your brigade just outside of firing distance of their line, and wait for further orders.”
“Sir?” the colonel said. “Do you mean for us to goad them into an attack?”
“I mean for you to check their reserve, until we can reinforce the center. This is his first mistake, Vassail. He’s tipped his hand. The chaos here has given him cover, but now we know where he means to attack. I mean to be ready for it, with your men positioned to threaten his flanks when he does.”
Vassail’s eyes shone. “Yes, sir.”
“Every reserve, High Commander?” Voren asked her privately, a few steps away from the table. “Are you certain?”
“He’s mustering an attack on the council hall,” she replied. “He’s been massing soldiers at the center. As soon as he brings up his reserve, they’ll strike.”
“It’s an awful risk, Commander. You yourself pointed out the bridges were the more strategic targets.”
“And you pointed out he might value the symbolism more highly,” she said, turning back to the map and pointing to the southeast quadrant. “We have four brigades as yet undeployed, two of them fresh from the Second Corps. If we can hit him as he’s crossing the monument grounds here, we can cut his line in half.”
Voren nodded slowly. “You have scouts in place to check the approaches to the east, to be sure?”
“I sent Sadrelle out a quarter hour ago; he should be in position by now.”
The chamber scrambled around them, seeing that her orders were delivered. Need was in thin enough supply she couldn’t spare it for routine repositioning, especially for reserves. Gods but she wished they’d been able to find more binders capable of handling Need. More mysteries for which she simply didn’t have time.
“Very well, Commander,” Voren said. “Gods’ blessings on you, and on the army.”
She nodded, delivering the last of her orders to aides standing around the table. Still no updates carried by hand from any of her scouts operating in the southern Gardens. Sadrelle would ride quickly, but there was the option to use Need as well—it was why she’d sent him. Every instinct told her she was right, that the enemy was coming here, and not to the east. Still, she had to be sure.
She reached out for Sadrelle, tethering a strand of her precious remaining quantity of Need.
Pain.
It overwhelmed her, sucking the wind from her lungs, lancing through Sadrelle’s body with every movement.
Pain, but no cold. She was indoors.
“Ah, excellent, that didn’t take long at all.”
She quivered as she turned, looking up to see a tall man in the uniform of a Gand captain looming over her where she lay on the floor of the room, a golden light shining from behind his eyes. And behind him, the looming form of a cat the size of Jiri, smoke rising from its eye sockets as flame licked the tips of its fur.
“It seems your luck has run out, General,” the Gand captain said. “You made a fine show of it, but even here within a city, on ground that favors the defender, you are no match for me.”
The cat paced across the long chamber, its hackles brushing against the tips of a chandelier hung between a grand staircase forking off in either direction. Her eyes shifted into focus well enough to see that the room around them was a ruin. A theater perhaps, or one of the great manses of the city.
She looked down and saw a red stain on Sadrelle’s shirt. Pistol shot. Through a lung, if the fire in her throat was any indicator. She coughed blood, an involuntary spasm from Sadrelle’s body she could not help but obey, even under the control of Need. “Monster,” she spat.
The man smiled. “Shame about the injury to your vessel. It does dampen things. Such an uncivilized age, to refuse a standing pair.”
“You … attack the city …” she managed through the pain.
“Ah yes, why did I attack the city when I could have simply outmaneuvered you in the field?” He made a mockery of a grave nod. “It’s true, casualties will be higher this way. But a protracted siege when the enemy’s champions are active in the West seems a foolish gambit to me, wouldn’t you agree?”
She closed her eyes. Pain shuttered thought, but this man was a blustering fool for all his genius. She could goad him.
“Hidden …” she said. “You won’t … find …”
“Oh, I’ve already found you, whelpling. My forces are surrounding you as we speak. An obvious ploy to keep your kaas-mage close at hand. You’ll have to explain how you managed to turn one of them to your cause.”
His words began to fade in her ears, but she had the confirmation she needed: He was coming for her. The attack would come at the council hall. Sadrelle’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
The cat whipped its massive head toward the entryway, its flame-eyes focused on the double oaken doors, though her vision blurred from the pain.
The Gand captain raised his head from where he stood over her. “What is it?” he asked.
A man in black burst through the doorway, and the captain’s eyes narrowed. “You,” he said darkly. “I was wondering how long it would take—”
“Time to scold me later, my friend,” the newcomer said. “We have a problem. The cleansing of the Veil’s power—I’ve found its source. It isn’t the Regnant at all.”
The Gand captain gave him a long look, then turned back toward her.
“Forgive me,” he said, dropping to a knee. “But there are limits to civility, even among the civilized.”
With that he drew a dagger and rammed it beneath her ribs.
61
ARAK’JUR
The Greatfire
Gardens District, New Sarresant
Llanara held his eyes, creeping rage replacing the love that had been there moments before.
“You’ve betrayed me,” Llanara said.
Fear bloomed beneath his skin, fear of a sort he had not known since the day the valak’ar attacked the village. Llanara’s eyes remained fixed on him, pools of brown falling away into depths that had not been there when she had shared his bed. An abyss. Madness, in the core of her soul.
A ripple passed through the crowd. Gasps, shuffling steps, as though Llanara had done something to keep them all at bay, and now they wavered as she did, staring at him with hate.
A cracking sound came from behind. Spears of ice flew toward her, shattering on a shield of white that sprang up at the last moment, scattering fragments around the steps.
The crowd roared.
Llanara moved, faster than should have been possible, equal to the blinding speed of lakiri’in, and he drew on the reptile’s gift to match her, springing to his feet to interpose himself between her and Corenna. Men and women screamed as he struck, kicking at her, and met the white shield again. The impact blew them both apart, Llanara staggering back as he was sent to the ground.
“You’ve betrayed me, Arak’Jur,” she cried out again, raw pain in her voice. “We could have had more than any pair in the history of our tribe. We could have been—”
Another salvo of ice flew at her, a blast of cold wind rushing through the square as Corenna advanced.
“Madwoman!” Corenna screamed, her ice impacting on webs of white springing up around Llanara’s body.
The crowd surged away, widening a gap around the steps at the center of the square. Some broke and ran; others stared, and some few descended into fighting among each other, the same frothing madness they had seen before, when the Ganherat warriors attacked Marie.
“Is she your woman now?” Llanara asked.
Arak’Jur sprang to his feet, still bolstered by lakiri’in. But he froze as an aura of black enveloped Llanara, and in a heartbeat her eyes frosted over, the same misty blue Corenna showed when she channeled the gift of ice.
Impossible. Llanara had never made the journey north.
“Corenna!” he cried. Too late. Llanara loosed a spear of ice, streaking toward Corenna in a flash, taking her in the hip and sending her crumpling to the ground in a howl of pain.
The film of frost dissipated from Llanara’s eyes as she turned back to him. “You see, my love? You see what you have given up?”
He roared, calling upon mareh’et.
White flared around Llanara again as he struck, the spirit-claws of the Great Cat slicing against her shield, a force great enough to shear through bone, to heave her across the square. Instead she held her ground without flinching from his attacks, looking up at him with pity in her eyes.
She reached a hand to grasp his throat. Fast. Faster than lakiri’in, and stronger than una’re. She forced him to his knees.
“Did you not love me, Arak’Jur? Did you forget me on your travels?”
He gasped for air, and the crowd around them broke as she stared, rage burning in her eyes. Her anger seemed to bleed through the square, howls and shouts descending into pockets of violence. White flared around her as he struck her forearms, channeling una’re’s gift to send shocks through her as he tried to pry loose her grip.
“Please …” he managed. “Llanara … our people …”
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