I took the order I knew Sianh would have been shouting at me if he had seen and retreated down the backside of the hill. I wasn’t sure what direction to take—the main body of the battle had moved east, so I trotted down the road wending its way through the gently sloping riverside plains. It was quiet country, a placid, pastoral region that even now seemed vaguely sleepy, confused at being awoken by the gunfire echoing through its hills just as it was ringing in my ears.
A small trail opened toward the river. The grass was recently trodden down, and I knew troops had passed this way. Hills rose in both directions, so I hoped I could find another place to perch, a bird above the fray, and do what I could to cast.
The path opened into the field, and I had only begun to get my bearings when a large cinnamon-colored blur nearly ran over me.
“Damn it to sweet hell and beyond, Sophie!” Sianh’s voice ricocheted over my head as I stumbled backward and nearly slammed into another horse, his charcoal-gray flanks quivering with excitement.
“Sorry, I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. Horses and riders surrounded me like a flock of very large, very well-armed sheep. I backed myself into the safe corner created by a pair of trees.
“I was clear not to get in the way,” Sianh barked. “So why did you leave your position and end up very much in the way?”
“I was fired on,” I said. “Artillery. Well, not me, exactly, they were aiming for the cannons beside me—”
“Beside you! Of all the incompetent—that lieutenant will be a private by morning.” He paused, directed a complement of dragoons around him to return to the field, and resumed speaking to me as though nothing had happened. “They were not supposed to be in that position. It was in clear view of the Royalist artillery across the river. Thrice-damned fool.” He shook his head. “No matter at the moment. We are moving, and you will need to find a better vantage point.”
35
BEFORE I COULD ASK WHERE HE WANTED ME TO GO, THEODOR joined us, his horse’s ears pricked as though waiting on orders, too.
“Well met,” Sianh said with a hint of relief in his cordial smile.
“And the same,” Theodor said, his eyes resting on me for a long time, his relief written far more plainly on his face.
“They are on the retreat,” Sianh said. “It is clear they have sustained heavy casualties. But they are not surrendering, not yet, and I fear that they have a very good defensible position.”
“But we press it anyway,” Theodor said.
“We must.” Sianh swallowed. “Their point of retreat is Westland Hall.”
Understanding washed over Theodor’s face. His family’s home. His noble birthright. “Of course it is.” He slumped, resigned. “It’s better ground to defend than anything else near Rock’s Ford, and Galatine Divine bless it, the old fortified cairn still stands.”
Sianh nodded in agreement. “Sophie, the light infantry are moving quickly to cut off as much of the retreat as possible, or at least harry them on their way. Do you think there is anything you can do?”
I tested the edges of my concentration, checking my reserves. I was far from fresh, but there was still energy left. “I’ll do what I can.”
“From this position,” Sianh warned. “Just up this hillside. Any farther toward the fighting, and an unexpected flank or redirection, and you could be caught on the wrong side of the lines.”
“Understood.”
“Then I will ride with the dragoons to see if we can manage to cut off the rest of the retreating Royalist infantry. Theodor, direct the artillery in moving toward…”
“My family home. Yes, understood. I know the best ways to keep the guns from getting mired down.”
I caught Theodor’s hand, reaching up from the ground toward what felt like an impossible height, impulsive and yet necessary. “Be safe,” I whispered as I began calling a charm for luck and speed over the dragoons, the hooves of their mounts already pounding the hillside. Energy surged through me and the charm intensified.
“What was that?” Theodor’s hand stiffened. “It felt—as though I was casting, for a moment.”
I dropped his hand. I hadn’t meant to draw out his unwitting support for my charm. “It was me. I’ll explain later, but you should go. You’ve an errand with some six-pounders.” I essayed a smile, and he returned it with a grim nod.
The hill gave me a clear view of our light infantry, arrayed in formation to slow the retreat of a large segment of the Royalist forces. They fired rapidly, with deft timing resulting in near-constant volleys. The Royalists only returned fire sporadically, but I saw what I was sure Sianh noted, as well—units coalescing into companies and bayonets fixed on their distant muskets.
I pressed more luck on the dragoons. The only chance to stop the Royalist retreat and force these troops into surrender—and prevent them from joining their comrades at Westland—was for the dragoons to sweep their flank. Even then—I was no tactician, but I knew it was far less than certain.
Theodor barked the orders at the artillery on the rise of hill behind me, calling on them to begin the descent. The trail around the base of the hills to approach the east ford of the Rock River from the rear was longer than approaching it from the front, but it was also protected. We couldn’t afford to lose our guns; capture by the Royalists would have been devastating. Companies of infantry remained with the guns, in reserve, though I knew how badly they might be needed on the field itself.
I held the charm strong, undulating golden over the galloping horses, and swept some onto the light infantry, as well. I felt as though I were watching a tapestry or painting, red-and-gray uniforms dotting dead-pale grass, the colors guiding my actions. Speed, accuracy, strength—I could pour all these into the charm, but the farther it moved from me, the more the golden light waned.
No farther—Sianh had been clear, and I had no intention of disobeying. The diffuse charm was as strong as I could make it. My fingers twitched, calling up something else, calling dark sparkle. What would be effective? I demanded. What would compromise the capability of the Royalist troops? I didn’t ask if it was right; I didn’t think about the men in the blue and brown uniforms arrayed below.
Most of all, I didn’t think about how many might be very recent graduates of the military academy.
I reeled a curse as I held the charm, my dexterity at holding both surprising and even thrilling me. I could send it over all the Royalists on the field, a cloud settled over the troops. Or, I considered, it might do more good in a single, decisive impact.
I had more control over a small projectile of curse at this distance. I surveyed the field; a unit of grenadiers guarded a redoubt near the ford itself, holding the route open for retreat. A company of our light infantry moved toward them. I manipulated the curse, imbued with inefficacy and weakness and deep, dark luck, into a loose ball of black magic like a clod of sticky mud and sent it sailing toward the mass of men inside the earthen fortification.
My control over the charm wavered for a moment, but I held it, weakened but steady, as I guided the curse toward the Royalists. The officer of the grenadiers was unaware of the curse even then settling around him and his men, drawing tight around them, sinking into their uniforms and, as I focused with urgent intention, into the fuses of their grenades.
I trembled—I didn’t know what to expect next. If their hands slipped, if their footing grew unsteady, if their slow match flickered and waned, I was too far away to see it. For a long, dreadful moment nothing seemed to happen. I pulsed more charm over the advancing dragoons and the light infantry, who were still firing, and I fed more energy into the curse. My stomach clenched, from nerves or from the effort of keeping curse and charm magic distinct from one another, I didn’t know.
Then I saw a flash like a streak of fireworks, and tongues of flame licked at the grass near the front line of grenadiers. My eyes widened—someone had fumbled a grenade and it had set an accidental fire. I held my casting steady, but my breath hitched. This was beyond my
control, beyond anyone’s control now.
The dead, dry grass caught quickly, consumed by rapidly spreading flame as the grenadiers fell back from the fire, abandoning the redoubt. The Royalist regulars fell back, as well, their retreat cut off. But there was no escape route—their path away from the fire led them back to the remaining force of the Reformist army still on the field. They began to exchange volleys with the Reformists, but even my untrained eye could tell that they were caught in a pincer and surrender was imminent. Even so, I spun a cloud of luck and suspended it over the infantry.
I exhaled in relief, but then red caught my eye from near the edge of the flames. The dragoons, a good portion of the detachment, was caught in a pocket and hemmed in by fire. The horses shied and pulled in fear; even the steady hands of the trained horsemen fought to keep them under control. Not only could they not aid our infantry in finishing the battle, but they were trapped, threatened on all sides by fire.
Though I was sure the infantry officers saw the dragoons’ distress, there was nothing they could do to aid them. They ordered the infantry to fix bayonets, and began a rapid charge. The opposing sides grew too close and too tangled for me to try to charm or curse any side without plastering the other, as well.
I turned my focus to the dragoons, redoubling the strength of charm magic, pressing it as hard as I could on the hapless men and horses. I peered through the shroud of smoke; was Sianh among the trapped horsemen? I couldn’t tell. I pressed more luck toward them, but my efforts were returned not by diminished flames or a means of escape, but by the unearthly, gut-twisting screams of the horses.
My charm faltered, and not, I realized, from broken focus. I shook, my energy spent. I could do nothing to help our trapped horsemen, nothing.
I sank to the ground, forcing my breaths steady and deep. Drums echoed across the field. Advancing Reformist soldiers halted, the sun glinting off hundreds of pointed bayonets as I squinted to make out their progress.
The Royalist troops held their muskets clubbed, and their ensigns inverted their colors. They were surrendering. I gripped the dry grass around me, sure I might tumble off the hill if I let go.
We had won the field.
36
WITH THE SURRENDER OF THE MAIN CONTINGENT OF THE ROYALIST forces at Rock’s Ford, Theodor quickly turned his attention toward effecting a full surrender of the remaining troops fortified at Westland Hall. An ancient fortification still stood on the perimeter of his family’s lands, overlooking the river, and he anticipated correctly, according to scouts’ reports, that the Royalists would make their stand there. More, though we couldn’t be sure, it was possible that Pommerly, Merhaven, or even the king himself might be at Westland Hall.
The full strength of our army was convened against Westland Hall, and its heir would lead the charge. “I wish Sianh were here,” he said, mouth set in a grim line. “I know to array what artillery we can against the fortifications, and to attempt an incursion from the flank—but which flank?”
“Is Sianh—do we know…?” I tried not to think of the fire, of the screams and the smell of burnt grass and flesh mingling on the wind.
“I don’t know. We’ve moved quickly, but if he’s with the dragoons, he ought to be able to ride—I don’t know,” he cut himself off.
I knew Theodor didn’t only want Sianh’s military advice; he didn’t want to be the sole supervisor of the siege on his family home. There was something too final, too bitter about directing troops to fire on the rolling meadows he had roamed as a child, collecting, I was sure, specimens of flowers and grasses. I didn’t say anything. He wouldn’t want to be reminded, to vocalize what he had to do.
“I’ll come. At the rear,” I reassured him. I kept my plans silent—he didn’t need to hear how his betrothed planned to use her magical gifts for the siege of his home.
“I think—I can’t promise, but I think—we will manage without help,” he cautioned me. “If you’re overtaxed, or if it’s not secure.”
I shook my head. “I’m coming. We have the opportunity for a decisive victory. We’d be fools not to leverage what we have.”
Theodor inhaled slowly and gave me a brisk nod. “I have to go. Stay back and stay safe.”
He mounted his horse and rode ahead, and I slipped back, far back, watching the movement of the artillery rolling on creaking carriages and the infantry in ordered lines.
Hooves pounded to a halt behind me. “Sianh!” I called. “You’re all right.”
“Better than can be said for many.” He rode a different horse than he had set out with that morning, and his face and uniform were marred with soot. “I lost my mount,” he added, and I knew he didn’t mean the horse had run off—the flames had taken the loyal bay.
“Theodor moved ahead already.”
“Very well. I will join him. But, Sophie—” He looked over my head, toward the stone fortification at the edge of Westland Hall’s lands. “Be wary. There may be Serafans in the stronghold. And by now, it is possible that the Royalists have discerned your presence.”
“I understand. Now hurry!” I said with a forced smile. “Best of luck!”
“We never wish luck on the field in Serafe,” he returned with a cockeyed smile. “We wish fortitude and a quick engagement.”
“Then fortitude follow you,” I said. He didn’t see me cast a thin veil of strength and endurance over him, shrouding his gray-and-red uniform with a fresh haze of gold.
The artillery was set to fire on the old cairns and a stout wall of stone that ran overlooking a shallow outcropping over the river. Wagons of shot and powder waited at a fair distance behind the guns themselves, and I found a spot near a pair of baleful oxen, out of the way yet with a clear view of the targets. One ox watched me warily, already annoyed and fretful at the scent of smoke and the deafening reports of the guns. I made sure I was out of range of his hooves and hard head even as the officers calculated the ranges of the artillery pieces.
I had never wanted to curse artillery pieces, or even the shot itself. Cannons could—as I had seen while on the Fenian ship—explode. A curse didn’t care who it affected; it clung to the object or hovered in the ether and affected everyone near it. Cursed shot might have been more deadly to the enemy, or it might have injured our own men.
But once it left the barrel of the gun, its only effects would be on its target. I wasn’t sure if I could cast rapidly enough to coat a moving ball in a curse, but I could accompany the shots downrange with a complement of curse magic.
First, I drew gold light from the ether and draped it around the artillery. Emplaced nearly in the open, with little cover, I knew that they were prime targets. I couldn’t build them fortifications, but I could give them some silent protection. Then I turned my attention to the Royalist position.
Built of fieldstone, the cairns and the wall were a relic of a bygone era, one when the lords of Galitha presided over castles built for military purposes instead of manor houses, when they fought one another more frequently than foreign enemies. It wasn’t an impenetrable fortress, not like the Stone Castle in Galitha City, but it was a strong defensible position. Persistent artillery fire might weaken the mortar and shatter the stones, but that gambit depended on the artillery, working under fire, sustaining an unremitting barrage. And if their cover disappeared, the Royalist forces inside would be susceptible to our musket fire, or a bayonet charge.
I swallowed, surveyed the stone, and began pulling streams of shadow from the ether. I knew I wouldn’t have the time or strength to bury the curse deeply into the rock, or even to etch it on the unyielding surface, so I instead nestled it over the stones like a dark blanket, pushing it into the crevices and the curves of the stone. It was difficult to see, from a distance, but I followed the lines of the wall and structures as best I could, layering denser curses where—I tried not to think about it—denser clusters of troops seemed to gather. It wouldn’t hold, not for long, but perhaps it could draw bad luck just long enough to pull a well-p
laced cannonball.
The first of our artillery pieces fired with an air-rending report. Then another, and another, firing in a ripple effect down the battery. By the time the last in the line had fired, the first was loaded again. Caught off guard by the rapidity of the reports, I focused for a moment merely on sustaining the curse on the distant stones. The first round of shot had left some pockmarks in the earth around the wall, and had cracked, faintly, a few of the more crumbling areas of stone.
Not nearly enough, I acknowledged as the battery continued firing. I mustered up more dark magic, concentrating it, curling it in and around itself like a pill bug tightening its hold on its own feet. I chose a gun three away from firing, and concentrated on readying my volley as they readied theirs. Two away. One.
I hurled the ball of glittering shadow alongside the report of the gun, imagining it melding with the cannonball. It lagged behind, and I saw it plaster itself against the stone wall behind the cannonball, seeping into the thin crater the ball had rent in the stone. The crack gaped a bit wider, and a thick shower of mortar crumbled away.
I readied another dark projectile, and timed its release with the firing of a gun better this time. I pressed it toward the cannonball even though I couldn’t follow its progress with my strained eyes. Instead I focused on the trajectory, fixed and dead centered on a section of weak wall, made weaker with my layers of curse magic.
The ball collided with a spectacular, shattering crash and stone broke away from mortar, raining down the shallow hillside. The artillery commander shouted, directing the guns to fire on that weak point, to pound a wide swath of the now-broken wall into rubble. I sent another projectile downrange, but I could feel my strength waning. The cannon could finish their work without my help.
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