Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Dwyn waved to Finn and he continued his briefing. “Orville and I will assemble our machines here.” He placed his finger on the map showing the woods on the south side of the river. “We have fifteen teams, and we’ll use the bridge to bring the trebuchets forward after the archers and infantry are in place. Before dawn, Gods willing.”

  “And what do we know of these weapons’ secrecy?”

  Finn exchanged glances with Orville. “The steam trebuchets and bombs have been used in three campaigns. We have to assume the royal forces have heard stories, though it’s our experience the magnitude of the weapons’ effectiveness is poorly grasped. This battle will be our first use of the cannon.”

  The king frowned a nod at the map. “Huwen Delarcan’s armies have already been marching out of the Orumon valley, heading east toward Arcan. We see no indication that they know we intend to attack Coldridge.” He lifted his head. “Sulwyn. How long until the six hundred from Fairdell arrive?”

  The page nudged Meg’s elbow. He’d returned with a mug of ale and some dried yak strips.

  “...then we attack in four days,” Dwyn was saying. “There’s no advantage to waiting longer.” The king straightened. “Fairdell’s men can rest one night and prepare to support us in reserve.” He adjusted his position to scrutinize the map of the interior of the town. “Meg.”

  She swallowed her bite. “Sire?”

  “You’ve been inside Coldridge castle.”

  “Yes, Sire.” She set her food on a stool and stepped forward. “Twice.”

  “I have not. How accurate is this map?”

  She studied the castle outlines inked on the linen, the thoroughfares and warren of smaller streets outside the castle wall, the courtyard before the castle gates, and various buildings within. “I’ve never seen a map of Coldridge, but from my memory of walking its halls and bailey, I would say you have a good drawing.”

  “Some of our maps have been found to be less than reliable.” He placed his finger on a building within the grounds.

  “The shrine to the Many Gods,” she said. “Or, likely it’s now been converted into a shrine for the One.”

  “And this?” He pointed to an identical tower at the far end of the great hall.

  “The king’s keep.”

  “Is this where King Larin’s apartments were located?”

  “It is,” she said cautiously.

  “You’ve been missing for three weeks,” he said testily, “so you would perhaps be unaware, but we have learned that the Ruby is in Coldridge.”

  The Ruby—King Artem’s—King Huwen’s prayer stone. “In Coldridge?”

  He turned to Fearghus. “We’ll have to assume the Ruby is in the shrine.” He returned to Meg. “A tower rising above the castle wall on the southwest corner is clearly visible from the road. Is that this keep?”

  She’d been in that tower. Overheard Artem and Wenid plan death to magiels. Its windows overlooked the castle wall, the city wall, to the fields, road and river. “Yes, sire.” But—

  “Well, Sieur Haye?” Dwyn turned to Orville. “You say your cannon have destructive power at range. Can you destroy this tower?”

  If the rebels killed whichever royal ruled Teshe now that King Larin had been assassinated—would there be anyone in the castle to use the Ruby against them? She didn’t know. But...the keep was deep in the castle behind not only the fortress wall, but the town wall as well. No trebuchet could destroy it from the fields below the town.

  “It is definitely possible,” Orville said.

  “Possible?” The king turned.

  “Coldridge is a small borderland fort that has seen little conflict until this war began,” Orville said in his thick accent. “Its walls were not in good repair when Artem took it, which is one of the reasons it was vulnerable, and he has not yet restored them. Nevertheless, their original construction was sturdy, and they are thick. Assuming we have the time to get the range of the keep and land a dozen good shots, then...yes.” He pointed to the field on the map. “From this distance, there should be no problem.”

  “We need to destroy the tower while Eamon is asleep,” Fearghus said. “He can’t have time to get to the Ruby, and we can’t damage the shrine. That is critical. There are no guarantees we’ll have time to land even six or seven balls.”

  The advisors studied the map.

  Meg held herself back from interrupting. Eamon was in Coldridge? And the Ruby? But the Ruby had to have been at the siege. Absenting herself from Dwyn’s councils had been a mistake.

  “Bring the cannon across the bridge before the infantry,” Fearghus suggested. “Set it up overnight. Attack before dawn.”

  Dwyn shook his head. “If the keep doesn’t fall immediately, Eamon will have time to flee. He’ll go to the shrine and use the Ruby.”

  Three were needed to pray to the Gods. Prayer Stone, magiel, and royal. Three potential weak points. A possibility nudged Meg.

  “Can our armies infiltrate the town?” Finn asked. “Before dawn? So far, we believe they know nothing of our presence here. Surprise is on our side, and if Eamon can’t cross his bailey from the keep to the shrine...”

  Infiltrate—

  Fearghus bit his lip. “Our spies were able to enter, but they were searched. You’d never infiltrate with weapons or armored men. And if you try to break the gates—” He shrugged. “—we’re back where we were. We’d never reach the keep on time to prevent Eamon from getting to the Ruby.”

  “An assassin,” Meg whispered. It was obvious.

  Dwyn looked up from the map.

  “Sulwyn was able to get close to King Artem at his siege headquarters at Archwood,” she argued. “Our men assassinated King Larin on his hunt. Why not send a man into the castle now, before we attack? If—Prince Eamon—is too heavily protected, target Wenid Col.”

  Fearghus looked as though he was about to object.

  “But this time, no slow poison.” It could work. “A proper killing attack.”

  “Coldridge is no tent camp in the woods,” Fearghus snorted.

  “We have three days before the Fairdell contingent arrives,” she pressed. “You just said you were able to get spies through the gate.”

  “Through the city gate. Unarmed.” Fearghus let out a deep breath. “Do I need to outline the barriers to getting an assassin anywhere near a magiel?”

  “No,” Meg said curtly. “You perhaps forget, I grew up in a castle.”

  “Then you should understand better than any of us,” Fearghus snapped. “It would be impossible.”

  “I do understand better than any of you,” Meg retorted.

  “Enough,” Dwyn charged.

  But Meg could not hold back. Her pulse quickened with the possibilities. “What harm can be done by sending in a man, or a small cadre, to at least try?”

  “Harm?” Fearghus spun to face her. “If our man is captured, he could be tortured to give up our plans. Destroy the critical element of surprise.”

  “Select a man—a volunteer from among your infantry—who’s not privy to this council. How many thousands do we have? One must have the skills of an assassin.”

  “Any soldier in our camps has an estimate of our numbers—”

  Dwyn Gramaret lifted a hand to stop Fearghus’s words. “You’ve been inside the great hall?” He looked up at Meg from beneath his brows. “Getting a man in is possible?”

  “I’ve been inside the royal apartments,” Meg confirmed, all fatigue from her long night’s ride gone. “That tower. I advised Sulwyn when he infiltrated King Artem’s camp, and I can advise your assassin. I could sketch most of the rooms inside the keep and the great hall.”

  Dwyn shifted, his gaze landing on each of his advisors, gauging the leaning of each.

  “A cadre, I think,” the exiled king said, and a flush of triumph fluttered through her. “Three. Two assassins, to increase our odds. One can provide cover or lead a distraction, if necessary; or courier news back.”


  The king had the attention of everyone in the room.

  “And for route finding, disguises and poisons,” he said, looking at Meg. “A magiel.”

  A thrill shot through her blood.

  “No!” Sulwyn stood. “She’ll be spotted—”

  “Wait...” Finn spoke uneasily. “Our only magiel...”

  “Her curses have been cast. She can use a magic disguise. Besides,” Dwyn went on, “as of today, we have a second magiel.”

  Rennika.

  “Your grace,” she stammered. Rennika had no place on a battlefield.

  Dwyn straightened to look at Sulwyn. “And what are we saving her for, if not for this push on Coldridge? Hmm? This is our one attack. If we do not succeed, there will be no other.” He turned to Meg. “Do you accept?”

  She blinked. It had been her idea. And...

  The thought of it made her feel alive.

  “Sire, I do.”

  Dwyn gave a short nod. “Fearghus, find two volunteers.” He turned to Meg. “Prepare. You leave before dawn.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Too soon, Rennika’s sleep, so deliciously luxurious on a pallet of new straw in the warmth of a tent, was broken. Someone moving. A candle flame. She brought herself to her elbow in her sheepskins and peered at Meg’s silhouette. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I’m going to Coldridge.” Meg sat at her feet, wrestling her foot into a boot.

  Rennika rubbed her eyes. “Why?”

  She flashed a grin at Rennika and her words, though hushed, vibrated with excitement. “We attack tomorrow. I’m aiding an assassination on the royal magiel. So he can’t use the Ruby in battle.”

  Rennika tilted her head. “Ruby?” Why would the Ruby be in Coldridge?

  Meg tightened her bootlace and leaned over to kiss Rennika on her forehead. “Stay here.” She gave her a long look in the dark. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Rennika squinted at her. Meg’s face was in shadow, but her voice had changed. It frightened her. “Meg—”

  “I have to go. They’re waiting.” And the canvas flap lifted and fell, and she was gone.

  “Meg!” Rennika scrambled to the door of the tent. A cold rain fell, and the black forest hemmed in the encampment. A figure swathed against the sleet was helping Meg into the back of a laden wagon. A second man clucked at the horse and a handful of uprisers watching the departure turned back toward their beds. The wagon rattled away between the army’s tents.

  Rennika, drenched and shivering, crawled back under her covers, but sleep had abandoned her. Not two days ago, she’d sat at a campfire with Meg, planning her return to Highglen, to Colin and, maybe, Yon. Now she was on the edge of a battle with nothing more than the clothes she wore.

  Meg had disappeared into King Dwyn’s council as soon as they’d arrived and Rennika, dead tired, had slept and later wandered alone through the camp. The camp was full of troops sorting out where each was from, how to negotiate space and resources, sharing rumors, waylaying runners with messages. Men sang songs of exhortation around their campfires, and some talked in low voices about sleeplessness in the night, offering to take sentry duty rather than toss on the ground, wrestling with fear.

  A handful of soldiers at a campfire had given Rennika a bit of supper, and Sulwyn showed up there at dusk. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you since dusk.” He lowered himself to the log beside her, his bad leg extended. “I don’t mind your wandering off, but maybe you could let me know where you go.”

  She stared at him. “Meg and I went from Gramarye to Orumon on roads full of thieves and enemy troops. We did all right.”

  Sulwyn lifted a brow in surprise. “Yes. Well. I guess you did.” He reached into a small sack and withdrew a corked bottle. “But soldiers can be rough.” He nodded at men on the far side of the fire, who just then burst into laughter. “I’ll find a minder to stay by you and keep you safe.”

  “Am I a prisoner?” Colm had wanted to hold them, the first time they met, and Dwyn had sent her to Highglen with no recourse for appeal.

  “No,” Sulwyn said, and then blinked at the idea, as if he was not fully certain.

  “Where’s Meg?”

  He turned back to the fire and uncorked his bottle. It smelled of whiskey. “Busy. She’s Dwyn’s royal magiel.”

  Meg had told her this on their travels, but it didn’t explain where she was now. “When do the uprisers attack?”

  He cast her a querulous glance. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  She wasn’t surprised he avoided her. No one ever answered her questions. The men at the fire poured into their cups from a small cask. Beer, by the foam. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I want to go back to Highglen.”

  He sipped from his whiskey and eyed her. “By yourself?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.” He turned back to the fire.

  “Well?”

  “Just at present, we can’t spare a horse. Or a tent, or food. Or money.”

  He had her there. She was stuck. “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Do you want to help?” He looked back over his shoulder at her.

  Help. With the war? “Doing what?”

  He shrugged. “Meg will be busy for a few days. Make us some potions, if we need them.”

  Magic. She was good at that, forever making spells to increase the supply of yak milk or encourage yak fertility, or heal a sick child or a cut finger; but to make a curse, or a spell of Confusion or Shape Changing, that would be interesting. And Meg had likely collected a curious array of ingredients, and maybe had a book of spells. She agreed.

  But now, lying in her skins in the dark before dawn, Sulwyn’s words returned. Meg would be “busy” for a few days. In Coldridge. Assassinating the king’s magiel. And the uprisers wanted Rennika to be their magic wielder.

  In case Meg didn’t come back.

  Kilovan Kynton and Xanther Jameson were the uprisers selected to the team to assassinate the king’s magiel. Xanther had spied in the guise of a king’s guard until too many suspicions surrounded him. Then, audaciously, he’d shaved his head and beard, and returned to Coldridge to work as a milkman’s assistant, watching the castle’s pedlars’ gate, identifying patterns of the craftsmen’s comings and goings and striking friendships where he could. He knew the layout of the castle and carried a face-altering potion Meg had devised, in case of need. Kilovan was a potter from Pagoras who’d watched his farm burnt by royals, and who’d developed a taste for murder.

  At first light, the three drove a cart to the city with a load of vegetables for market. The morning was dull with cold rain, the ruts in the road frozen. Meg, tight with apprehension, huddled on the jolting wooden boards in the back of the cart under her cloak. Sacks of the previous fall’s parsnips, carrots and turnips jostled uncomfortably on top of her, heavy. The pony slowed at the gate, and Meg held her breath, trying not to shiver from the penetrating rain, listening to the guard’s muffled voice, waiting for him to poke a sword through the vegetable sacks.

  But no. Xanther answered his questions and there was a riffling of the sacks over her, then they passed beneath the portcullis.

  They halted, finally, in a lane off a winding mud street of stables and chickens coops. Xanther helped Meg out from beneath the vegetables. In an alcove, screened by Kilovan, Meg spread an illusion spell on her hands and face, Kilovan pointing out any place she missed. Xanther watched the comings and goings in the road. At length he indicated a grizzled man driving a wagon full of clay pots up the hill.

  Now. Her turn. A tickle of anticipation washed through her.

  Xanther and Kilovan kept watch out of sight in the lane as Meg, mouth dry, stepped into the dull drizzle to waylay the man who delivered the king’s milk. Hoping her accent was convincing, she drew him into the alley with a story of needing help reattaching the pony’s harness to the tongue of her cart. Once he was out of sight, away from the street, Xanther and Kil
ovan leapt on him. Meg pressed herself against the wall, flinching at the man’s cries, as her companions silently trussed, gagged, and stowed him in a corner of the lane behind the vegetable cart.

  Meg scoured the doors of the lane, the windows above and the street beyond, but the scuffle was finished in the blink of an eye, and no one seemed to have alerted.

  She breathed, and Kilovan gave Xanther a half smile of congratulation. They took their supplies and bundled onto the seat of the milk wagon while Meg emptied the vials of Well-Being and Confusion into a handful of mugs in the back of the wagon.

  This time, she huddled, swathed in her cloak, on the back of wagon bed, legs dangling over the road. They’d done it. The first step, just as they’d rehearsed. A breathlessness energized her at their audacity.

  Morning lightened the cloud cover as their pony brought the wagon, rattling on the cobbles of the upper city streets, to the castle’s rear gate.

  “You’re late,” the guard grumbled. “And where’s Gwynne?”

  Meg huddled in her cloak against the cold drizzle, listening to the exchange at the gate. The next barrier. She’d used an illusion spell more and more often as the world grew colder toward magiels, but never without the apprehension that this time, the soldier would somehow see through it.

  “Sick,” Xanther said. “Took a bit of bad pork last night.”

  The guard’s voice was unsympathetic. “Kitchen’s having conniptions. Who’s them?”

  “Gwynne’s cousin, come to help.”

  “And her?”

  Meg swallowed, trying not to shake, forcing herself to turn her head to watch. Averting her eyes would be suspicious. She wondered if Cook was inside, and Bess, the scullion, who’d helped her the day—over a year ago now?—Uncle Chirles had been executed.

  “His wife. They just come up from Grassy Bluff.” Xanther’s words were smooth as glass. “Here. Gwynne just got a new cow.” Xanther jumped down from the seat, and Meg smiled, watching as he splashed through puddles around to the back of the wagon. He pulled one of her mugs from between the crocks and poured milk into it. “This milk is some good.”