Warrior

by Zoë Archer

“Men aren’t beasts, Batu.”

  “They can be ruled by the animal part of themselves.”

  “And women?”

  “Women, too.”

  “That’s right. We’re cows,” she said bitingly.

  Ah, that was not good. She had heard too much. “The words were clumsy, but the meaning held true.”

  For some time, she was silent, but her mind was not still. At last, she said, “He didn’t need to know.” She shook her head. “Trusting Sergei was my mistake, Batu. My mistake and my private shame.”

  She was as headstrong as she had ever been. It was one of many reasons why Batu loved her like blood. “Do you remember when you first learned to ride the Mongol way?”

  She gave a cautious nod.

  “Do you remember when you were thrown, and you lay in the dirt, looking up at the sky, and you refused to cry, even though the fall was bad and you cut yourself?” She did not answer, but Batu could tell by the tightening of her mouth that she did remember. “I picked you up and used the sash from my del to wrap your cut.”

  “I still have that sash,” she said after a pause, and now her voice wasn’t hard with frost, but rather rough with river gravel. She would never be a woman who gave in to tears easily. “And the scar on my leg.”

  “That was the first time I cared for your injuries, but it wasn’t the last,” Batu said solemnly. “Yet I will do everything in my power to make sure I never have to tend your wounds again.”

  Without looking at him, she said, “Cows or no, you’re a good friend, Batu.” She reached across the space between their horses and gave his arm a squeeze, then let go and put her heels to her horse as if trying to outride her own heart.

  Chapter 9

  The Lion and Lamb

  The small whirlwind of dust finally began to gather in strength. It grew from as tall as a man’s knee to almost reaching mid-thigh. A faint, damp smell curled from within it, the slightest breath of life. But the triumph was short-lived. Within less than a minute, the whirlwind collapsed back down to the ground, nothing more than a pile of dirt. The medallion also fell to the earth, sending up a puff of dust.

  “Hell and harlots,” Jonas Edgeworth barked, surveying the failed test, “I almost had it that time.” He picked up the medallion and glared over at Henry Lamb, who was sitting on a folding camp stool, next to the fire but far enough away so the wood smoke wouldn’t scent Lamb’s clothing. Edgeworth continued, spitting in the dust. “I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m doing wrong.”

  Lamb scarcely spared Edgeworth a glance as he packed the bowl of his pipe with his favorite, custom-blended tobacco that came straight from a tiny shop on Jermyn Street. Inhaling the scent of the tobacco, Lamb wished that he was back at his club, relaxing over a pipe and paper, and far away from the primitive backwaters of Outer Mongolia. Partnered with the loutish Jonas Edgeworth, Lamb would have to endure for the sake of the Heirs and England. Lamb, Edgeworth, and the Mongol Tsend had voyaged from England to China on a steamship hired by the Heirs, a long trip made longer by the boorish company.

  “Try again,” Lamb suggested, barely containing his annoyance. “And this time, don’t rush the chant. You spit it out as if you were speeding through school lessons. But, before you do,” he added, waving a piece of paper, “I’ve received a letter through the Transportive Fire. Very good news from headquarters.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our team in Africa was successful. The Heirs are now in possession of the Primal Source.” Lamb waited for Edgeworth’s jubilation at the news.

  Edgeworth stared blankly.

  Holy God, how could this dolt be part of the Edgeworth family?

  “The Primal Source is the first Source,” Lamb explained. “When mankind was born and formed civilization, it created magic, it created Sources. From the Primal Source, all magic arises. The power it contains cannot be grasped by the mortal mind. And now the Heirs have it. Trouble is,” he added with a grumble, “we don’t know how to use it.”

  “So get some of our frightful sorcerers to have a go at it.”

  “They are working on unlocking the Primal Source as we speak.” Lamb cast a critical eye at Edgeworth. “Which means that you need to return to your own work.”

  Edgeworth scowled, and went back to his task, cursing under his breath, and not a few of those curses were meant for Lamb himself. Ah, well. It didn’t matter if he and Edgeworth wouldn’t be punting down the Thames together when they returned to England. Lamb actually would not be overly distressed if, for some reason, Edgeworth met with a tragic but heroic death while pursuing the Mongolian Source. Edgeworth’s father would be furious, however, and Lamb was determined to avoid the wrath of Joseph Edgeworth. So, he would have to keep young Jonas safe as they worked to obtain the Mongolian Source.

  Lamb had used the True Hammer of Thor to stop Thalia Burgess and her escorts. When that had failed, Lamb realized there was a better use of the girl and her friends. She and that annoyingly steadfast Yorkshire soldier were actually doing the most difficult part: locating the Source. And, judging by the speed and directness of their southerly route, they were very close. Which meant that the Heirs were also close. The Sumatran Obfuscation Charm was short-lived, but it allowed Lamb, Edgeworth, and Tsend to ride just three miles behind the Burgess girl and her group without detection. Any closer, and the magic wouldn’t function. Lamb wasn’t worried. On horseback, he could breach those three miles within minutes. Knowing that Thalia Burgess had no idea how close he was, how easily he could reach out and take her, hurt her, and her soldier powerless to stop it, gave Lamb a delicious, dark shiver of pleasure.

  “How does this work?” asked the giant Mongol. He pointed at the small round mirror, resting on its stand. Within the mirror, tiny images of the Burgess girl and her retinue of two flickered in and out. Lamb was annoyed. He had made a mistake in not killing the soldier back in Southampton, little knowing that the base-born ruffian would take it upon himself to complete Morris’s work. Now, Lamb had to pay for his own lack of judgment, which was nearly intolerable and shortened his temper considerably.

  The Mongol, Tsend, reached out with a huge, meaty paw and snatched the mirror up to look more closely.

  “Careful with that, idiot,” Lamb snapped as he jumped to his feet. He strode over and plucked the mirror from Tsend’s hand, then carefully returned it to its brass stand while the Mongol growled. “I cannot very well rush down to Algiers and get another thousand-year-old enchanted mirror.” He wiped the reflective surface with an embroidered handkerchief, removing traces of the Mongol’s grimy fingerprints.

  Tsend looked unimpressed. He did not value age or rarity, only costliness and size. Which was good, since it was the lure of heaps of money that secured not only the Mongol’s information, but his loyalty. Though, Lamb corrected himself as he eyed Tsend’s brutish hands and the knife at his belt, his “loyalty” only went as far as the strings of his coin purse.

  “How does it work?” Tsend repeated.

  “Birds are very susceptible as well as sensitive to magic,” Lamb explained. “So I can easily control one using a binding and viewing spell. I just find a bird and tell it to follow the Burgess girl, then I see what it sees through the mirror. A simple enough process.”

  A curse from where Edgeworth stood let Lamb know that his partner still had not succeeded. Edgeworth was still young and, despite his impressive lineage within the Heirs, largely untested. If the situation with Edgeworth’s inexperience grew dire, Lamb would step in. Until then, he would let Jonas Edgeworth fume and cuss like some Billingsgate fishmonger, though Lamb’s refined sensibilities shuddered with distaste to hear such language. How had Joseph Edgeworth, one of the most influential and revered members of the Heirs, sired this boor?

  Speaking of boors, Lamb cast a suspicious eye toward Tsend. The Mongol had worked on a steamship that took him to Southampton. From other sailors he learned that the Heirs paid good money for reliable information about magic. Tsend approach
ed the Heirs, claiming that he could lead them to a powerful Source in his home country. For a price. Lamb wondered how long he would have the Mongol’s loyalty, or if the faintest whiff of money could draw Tsend away to another camp. Not the Blades. Those imbeciles considered themselves too superior to use financial inducements. But there were other organizations, other countries and nations who sought the Sources, and it would not be difficult for Tsend to locate them and sell the Source, and possibly members of the Heirs, to the highest bidder.

  Those other organizations—France’s Les privilégiés, or that German cabal, to name just two—would all kill to have the Mongolian Source. But Lamb would kill to make sure they didn’t, and that it belonged to Britain alone.

  “The thing we are looking for,” Tsend said, lumbering over to where Lamb sat, “it will also help us control birds?”

  Lamb mentally rolled his eyes. The Mongol had come to the Heirs with the knowledge of a riddle, but no idea its exact meaning or value. Tsend had assumed it possessed some worth, because he’d had to beat it out of a shaman. The shaman had finally yielded the riddle, and only then because Tsend promised to kill him quickly. Unfortunately for the shaman, Tsend hadn’t kept that promise. Or so the Mongol had boasted at the Heirs’ London headquarters.

  It didn’t take long for the Heirs to figure out what the Mongolian Source could achieve, however. Once they did, Lamb and Edgeworth were dispatched immediately. Failure wasn’t permitted, not with such a powerful Source at stake.

  “What we are after has a far greater power.” Lamb drew on the stem of his pipe, taking the fragrant, wonderfully English smoke into his mouth. God, he loved his country! It had the best of everything—land, food, language, monarchy—and the finest, most intelligent minds all working toward a single goal: ensuring that Britain’s empire would expand until there wasn’t a single nation that wasn’t under her flag. He honestly could not fathom why anyone, particularly anyone who happened to be English, would ever knowingly and deliberately hinder the work of the Heirs of Albion. Every Briton stood to benefit from their nation’s global advancement, though the ruling class—Lamb’s class—benefited more than most. But, infuriatingly, not everyone seemed to share the goals of the Heirs.

  The Blades of the Rose were dangerous subversives, anarchists, probably reformers. They sought to destroy the foundation of British culture and its civilizing influence all over the world. A strange and motley collection of men from all walks of life. Worse, they even allowed women in their ranks, taking them from the sacred protection of home and husband, and imperiling their lives on fools’ pursuits. And Lamb would not allow himself to think of Catullus Graves and his whole blighted family. A shame, really, since they had the finest minds in the world, and, but for the singular problem of their skin’s pigment, the Heirs would have tried to lure them away from the Blades long ago. It was grotesque, maddening.

  Lamb made himself take a calming puff from his pipe. As it always did, the smoke helped soothe the temper within him that, he knew, at most foul could grow blacker and more vicious than anything Edgeworth could produce.

  “This thing we chase,” Tsend persisted, “what sort of power will it have? Can it bring us wealth?”

  “Better.”

  “What is better than money?”

  “Power. The same power that let Genghis Khan rule almost the entire known world. From China to Arabia, all the way to Hungary, the Mongol army destroyed any who opposed them and brought every nation to heel, and he used a Source to do it.”

  Tsend frowned, trying to understand things beyond his limited comprehension. “What does the Source of the Great Khan do?”

  “It might make a small army great in size and devastation,” Lamb speculated. “A hundred men may have the strength of a thousand. A single regiment could conquer and destroy nations.” Lamb could not contain his excitement just theorizing about the prospect. “The British Army is the best in the world, but we only have so many soldiers. Once I seize the Source, Britain will be able to conquer and control the globe, starting here, in Outer Mongolia, where Genghis Khan’s rise to power began. We continue to Russia, finally crushing that gadfly, and move out from there.”

  “Will this Source be so powerful?”

  “It must,” Lamb said fiercely. “Back in England, the Heirs have the Primal Source. It takes the power of all Sources and heightens it, so that every Source is imbued with a thousand times more strength. Including the one we search for here, in Mongolia.” He did not add that unlocking the Primal Source was still a mystery, but it did not matter. The power would be Britain’s, would belong to the Heirs and to Lamb himself.

  Almost giddy, Lamb began to pace. “Every country, every nation will become a British colony. And not merely in Asia and Africa, but in Europe and the Americas, too. No more France. No more United States.” The British lion would reign supreme, as it was always meant to do. With Lamb and the Heirs of Albion commanding it all. In such a world, the Blades of the Rose would be annihilated, completely and utterly.

  “Will I get to kill that Englishman with the girl?” Tsend asked, unconcerned with global domination. “He shot at me, and I want him dead.”

  “My good man,” Lamb said, happily puffing on his pipe, “when we find that soldier, you may grind him into an unrecognizable paste with my blessing.” He wouldn’t make the same mistake again where the soldier was concerned. Lamb had a few plans for Thalia Burgess before she was also disposed of, though he kept those ideas to himself.

  A shout of glee broke into Lamb’s thoughts. He and Tsend both looked over to a triumphant Edgeworth, who yelled over his shoulder, “I’ve done it! Come and see, Lamb!”

  Both Lamb and the Mongol walked toward Edgeworth, who waved his hands at his creation. “Very good, Edgeworth,” Lamb said. The lad wasn’t entirely a simpleton.

  For once, even Tsend looked awed as they all stared at what Edgeworth had summoned. The smell of earth was strong. And beneath that, the living fire of magic.

  Gabriel couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Even though he had scouted and thoroughly investigated a wide swath of land all around them, something prickled along the back of his neck and down his arms, as if unseen eyes followed their progress across the rolling steppes. He trusted his instincts too well to simply ignore the feeling, but hadn’t evidence to back it up. There was no way to prove it, no way to dismiss it. Something was wrong, though, and it angered him, not knowing what or why, or how he could protect Thalia from this invisible threat.

  Perhaps a gun couldn’t do the job against magic, but it never hurt to have a little insurance. Gabriel now rode with his rifle across his lap, ready to be used. The closer he, Thalia, and Batu got to the Source, the greater the chance that the Heirs would try something. And when they did, Gabriel would be ready for them. He almost wished that the Heirs would launch an attack, just so it would end the waiting and uncertainty. He could finally act, instead of biding his time. But ever since the storm caused by the True Hammer of Thor, the Heirs of Albion had remained quiet. Gabriel didn’t trust that silence.

  But there was one silence he could end. Glancing over at Thalia, her dark hair like a silk standard fluttering behind her, he urged his horse beside hers, until they were riding side-by-side.

  “If I could,” he said to her, “I’d go back in time and butcher that Russian. Or hunt him down now.”

  She looked over with a flash of surprise. Thalia shook her head at herself. “I should have known you knew I was within earshot.” Her shoulders drew down as she sighed, no longer holding up a burden of tension. “That’s good. I was tired of pretending. And,” she added, with a small smile, “thank you, for your bloodthirstiness on my behalf.”

  “I’m not speaking tripe, Thalia,” he said. “I’d slowly kill that vodka-steeped bastard if it was possible. Stomach wounds are good. Takes a long time to die from them.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “I believe you,” she said at last. “And, maybe it’s w
rong to revel in your thirst for vengeance, but it’s a better gift than a bouquet of posies.”

  “You want his guts tied up with pretty ribbons, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Such a lovely gift.” But she didn’t look too bothered by his imagined grisly offering. “Although, you might want to save such ribboned presents for your future bride.”

  “Something’s wrong with your eyesight. You keep seeing a bride where there isn’t one.”

  “I’m no shamaness, but I can see into your future based on the plan you made. And it included returning to England and finding a wife.”

  He swore roundly—his natural compulsion whenever he was frustrated. “I hadn’t a bloody idea what I wanted to do with myself after I left the army.”

  “So you went to England without any plan?”

  “Not exactly. Do you remember the night we spent in the cave? After the storm from Thor’s Hammer?” When she nodded, he continued. “I burned something that night, and you asked what it was.”

  “You said it wasn’t important.”

  “It was a letter.”

  “A love letter?”

  Gabriel snorted. “Hardly. From an old friend, promising me a job and the possibility of a bride. If I wanted it.”

  “And did you? Do you?”

  “Now…” Gabriel felt the sun on his face, the wind tugging at his clothing and breathing life into his whole self. He was alive. Here and now. “I burned it that night because the rain had turned it to useless pulp. Now I think it was for another reason. I don’t know what tomorrow brings. Soldiering taught me that. But I know that a job behind a desk, an ivory doll for a wife who knows only embroidery and babies—such things aren’t for me.”

  “Ah,” she said, and couldn’t quite hide the hope and happiness in her voice. “That makes things…very different.” Thalia quieted, turning her thoughts inward, as if trying to reach an important conclusion. If only he could climb inside that clever brain of hers and know what she was thinking. Then she seemed to come back to herself, away from larger schemes. “But we cannot make any kind of plan with certainty, not while we search for the Source, and the Heirs are out there, somewhere, trying to claim it for themselves.”