by Jane Atchley
“I don’t sense the other.” The elf rubbed the fur between his fingers. “But Duncan, this fur is—not right.” He shook the black tuft for emphasis. “I wish—I can tell nothing for certain.”
“Speculate, please?”
Again, the one-sided shrug, Duncan let it drop. He had found his missing man. For now it sufficed. His mind leapt ahead to the task of informing the man’s family. How he hated losing men. Each death left him empty inside. His captain promised it got easier. Your heart, Captain Fawr had said, grows numb. His captain had a million maxims, most of them solid, but Duncan hoped, on this one thing, his captain proved wrong. The weight of his dead kept him desperate for a better solution.
Duncan did not enjoy fighting. Oh, he did it and he took pride in his prowess. But, as a man of science, a philosopher, he did not love it, as did many of his fellow troopers. There was, he reasoned, a way to destroy his enemy’s will to fight without destroying his enemy or losing too many of his own men in the process. He just had to come up with a weapon or strategy capable of it. And he would, given time. What had his captain said? That’s what you do, isn’t it, find better ways to kill people? Duncan did not like the picture that painted, but he could not deny its accuracy either. His scout’s blood left his hands sticky. He wiped them on his jodhpurs and wondered if his hands would ever be clean again.
****
“Damn Nicholas. Who does he think he is?” Faelan shouldn’t have let Nicholas’ possessiveness get to her, but it galled. It was the sort of thing she had sought to avoid by volunteering with the army. “Where does he find the nerve?”
Riding beside her on a stolen dun gelding, Quinn wisely held his tongue. Like big brothers everywhere he was a maddening tease, but in a quarrel he came down on her side every time.
Near the spot where they had encountered the blue-jacket scout, Faelan reined in and slid out of the saddle. She rubbed her backside. Why did she always have to ride the mule? “I know Nicholas is your friend, but I’m not marrying him no matter what anyone thinks. And I’ll tell you something else I’m not marrying any man who thinks he can tell me how to live my life.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Nicholas.”
Faelan arched her brow. “When I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
She glanced around. “Wasn’t there a cave around here?”
Quinn touched his chest. “Are you asking me for help?”
Faelan showed her teeth, a snarl not a smile.
Quinn laughed. “Over there. See the dark spot behind the thin stand of firs.”
Faelan nodded. “I’ll leave my clothes in the cave. We can meet here until the enemy moves.” Handing Quinn her reins, she headed for the dark niche within the rocks.
“Wait.” Quinn jumped down. “Are you sure about this?”
Faelan gave a long-suffering sigh. “It will help the war effort."
“I don’t doubt it for a minute, but I wonder if it’s the war effort you’re so eager to help.”
“I don’t see your meaning.”
“I know your appetites better than I know my own. You want to devour the pretty little field marshal.”
“My wolf wants to devour him.” She flashed a saucy grin. “I’d settle for licking.”
“Lan-nie.”
“Qu-inn.” Faelan matched his tone.
“Don’t get killed, little sister.”
“I won’t. I promise. Give me a hug. I have to find an enemy soldier with a weakness for dogs before nightfall. Don’t worry Quinn, it’ll work, you’ll see. We’ll meet here in two nights.”
Faelan padded down a pine needle carpeted deer trail in wolf form considering her brother’s words. She didn’t want to gobble up the field marshal. She wanted to roll over and show belly. Given her mission, this dangerous desire annoyed the hell out of her. Pausing, she raised her nose, tested the air for scent and found what she sought, steel and horses, and death. Crouching low Faelan eased toward the source.
She could not believe her luck. Commanders kept to the safety of camp. At least they did in her army. The field marshal and his demon crouched beside the scout’s body looking at—Oh great ancestor—Quinn’s fur.
The demon rubbed the inky fur between his fingers. "Duncan, this is—it’s not right."
Duncan. The field marshal’s name sizzled through Faelan’s bloodstream, found a home in her heart and melted in. She shook herself. Oh yes. The man was danger in a pretty wrapper.
Moments later, the search party remounted and turned their fine horses toward their camp. The demon walked at Duncan’s stirrup leading his own horse burdened with the body of the dead blue-jacket scout. Mindful of Descendant tales of demon powers, Faelan followed the group at a respectful distance.
This was the same demon Faelan had seen in the enemy camp, tall, rapier thin, lean-muscled, a terrible beauty with spiky golden hair, tapered ears, and rich amber eyes. The tales said demons didn’t age, but this one’s mannerisms suggested youth. Obviously Duncan’s creature, Faelan smelled his devotion like spice on the wind.
Keeping downwind, hidden by trees, she strained her hearing in hopes of gleaning useful information, but their mood was somber. Frustrated, Faelan turned to her other senses.
The field marshal, the demon, two other men, and the woman wore blue-jackets. Having never seen a female warrior before, the woman fascinated Faelan. Fortyish, with weathered skin, her short brown hair going gray, the woman smelled lethal. Citizen militia made up the rest of the party. Faelan had seen their like before in the little villages her people had raided before the field marshal brought his cavalry into the field. Each man wore his own regimentals, one a rich burgundy, one a dark green, the other a pale gray trimmed in dark blue.
The search party stopped near a small stream, and the demon passed out some sort of meat pies. The rich aroma made Faelan’s stomach growl. She inched forward watching, listening, and was rewarded with the first chink in the field marshal’s army. The militiamen took their portions and moved apart from the blue-jackets. Abruptly, the demon raised his head, sniffed the air, and glanced toward her hiding place. Faelan melted back into the trees.
The field marshal walked slowly along the shallow stream moving away from his group, head bowed. His magnificent horse, gray as a storm with scattering of black spots across its white rump, trailed behind dipping its elegant head to the stream now and again.
Faelan paced him.
Duncan squatted in the stream and let the cold water sluice over his hands. He reeked of regret. Would death on a large scale slow his relentless pursuit of her people? Could the Descendants manage something like that in their sorry state?
Faelan circled.
Upwind now, Duncan’s elegant spotted horse caught her scent. Its head lifted. The stead looked straight at her, nostrils flared. Reminding herself this was a warhorse, Faelan crouched even lower. Tail tucked tight against her belly, ears flat against her skull, she inched forward.
“Be very still, Aimery Duncan.”
The demon’s voice came from Faelan’s right. Until he spoke, she had not seen, heard, or even smelled him, so intent had she been on the field marshal. The demon stood about twenty feet away, a short powerful looking bow aimed at her heart.
Duncan looked up and trapped Faelan in the full force of his remarkable eyes. For a minute she couldn’t move, melted by his burning sapphire gaze. A whimper slipped past her lips. She dropped her rump even lower, tucked her tail tighter against her belly. Her posture screamed I’m harmless.
The field marshal held his hand out palm up. “Come, Azure-eyes. I will not let the terrible elf shoot you.” He shot his demon a determined look. “I have seen enough of death today, Eamon.” His gaze returned to her. “Come here, my beauty. There is nothing to fear.”
Duncan’s voice flowed over her, warm as a summer day. It soothed her, compelled her. Faelan inched forward, aware the demon—elf had not relaxed the tension on his bow. Faelan’s nose grazed Duncan’s fingertips. His warm skin smel
led like oranges and chocolate. Faelan gave in to desire. She rolled over and exposed her soft creamy belly to his touch.
He rubbed her thick fur and smiled. “See, Eamon. She is just a big friendly dog. A real beauty too, I think.”
He thought she was beautiful. The demon—the elf, Faelan corrected herself, didn’t look convinced, but he lowered his bow.
“Where did it come from, Duncan?” The elf moved closer. “It looks like a wolf. Come away from it.”
“This dog did not kill our trooper.” Duncan pushed to his feet, wiping his hands on his thighs. “You worry too much.”
“My Captain told me to look after you.”
“Did he?” Duncan punched the elf’s shoulder, the way men do. “He said just the opposite to me.”
Faelan stayed on her back, vulnerable. The elf troubled her. He knew there was something not right about Quinn’s fur. He was suspicious. He had unknown powers.
“Look at her, Eamon,” Duncan collected his horse’s reins. “How many white, blue-eyed wolves have you seen? She’s a cross breed, probably from one of the burned out farmsteads left behind to die.” He turned, patted his leg. “Come Azure. Come girl.” Faelan rolled to her feet and trotted to his side.
“You’re not keeping it?”
“I could not save my scout, but I can save this dog. I need to.” He paused, caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Look at those eyes, like the sky on a clear day at sea. Can you think of a single reason not to?”
“Yes,” Eamon nodded. “It’s a wolf.”
Chapter Five
On the ride back to the enemy camp, Faelan stayed as close to Duncan as his horse permitted. The animal didn’t trust her scent and tolerated her presence only because Duncan willed it. The other members of the search party shared the horse’s opinion. They oozed suspicion, all but the warrior woman. Faelan sensed the woman trusted Duncan. It was none of her business if the field marshal picked up a stray dog, a stray wolf, or a stray lion.
Avoiding the elf proved easier said than done. He walked at Duncan’s stirrup, shoulder to boot, leading his horse with its sad burden mile after mile. He kept pace with the horses. His stamina never flagged. His contented scent told Faelan he preferred walking.
The enemy camp had looked imposing, orderly at a distance, but up close, from Faelan’s wolfish perspective, it was anything but. Men stood stiffly, raised one arm level with their shoulder, and touched two fingers to their brow as Duncan rode past. Each time they did this, Duncan returned the gesture, fast and sharp. Everyone spoke rapidly and although the language was eerily similar to her own, Faelan could not keep up. Doubt dragged at her paws. She fell behind.
Up ahead, Duncan stopped, turned his horse, and stood in the stirrups, reminding Faelan he was not overly tall. A slight smile touched his lips when he caught sight of her.
“Azure, come.”
His voice cut through the camp noise. Faelan heard him cleanly. He had a voice accustomed to issuing orders and he knew how to pitch it to carry over the clash of armies. Faelan’s human emotions screamed he is dangerous, run, but her human brain argued for her mission and her freedom. Her wolf side longed to obey Duncan’s alpha voice and in the end, her wolf won. Faelan trotted to Duncan’s side.
He leaned down, brushing long warm fingers over her head.
“Be easy, beautiful. It is a bit much, I know. It scares me too, sometimes. We will reach the garrison quarter soon. It is not much quieter, but still…”
Duncan had an odd habit of pausing between sentences. It made him easy to understand. Faelan grabbed onto the sound of his voice like a rope in a sand storm.
“Eamon.” He straightened in his saddle. “Help me keep an eye on my dog.”
They lost their companions one by one as each man peeled off and returned to his own regiment. By the time they reached the center of camp where Duncan’s large tent stood surrounded by blue-jackets, only Duncan, the elf, and the other blue-jackets remained. In spite of what he had said, it was quieter. A sense of calm order permeated the area. Faelan breathed easier. Her confidence returned. She could do this. She could spy on this man.
Young boys dressed in light blue tunics took charge of their mounts, and another group of blue-jacketed troopers took charge of the scout’s body.
“Set the remembrance for sundown, please, Bird,” Duncan called after one of them.
Faelan plastered herself against Duncan’s leg and moved with him into the tent. Large trestle-style tables overspread with maps filled about a third of the outer chamber. Frame and leather chairs and as many small campaign tables filled up the remaining space. Thick soft rugs covered raked ground.
A stocky youth who sat hunched over the writing desk, leapt to his feet as they entered. Long braids trailed down his back and a small rectangular scar lay near his left ear. His eyes widened.
“A dog! What’s its name? Where’d you find it? Are you keeping it? May I pet it?”
Faelan’s tongue lolled. Her tail wagged. It was as close to a laugh as she could manage in her present form.
Duncan crossed the room, unbuttoning his jacket as he went and tossed it over a chair. A black sleeveless under shirt clung to his trim musculature. A tattoo, rendered in a lacy tracing of sepia, barely visible against smooth golden skin, bisected his right biceps. He poured himself a drink while his elf, Eamon, scooped up his discarded jacket and disappeared deeper into the tent’s interior.
Duncan took a deep breath and turned to the lad. “I am calling her Azure. We found her in the woods. Yes. As to whether she will let you pet her, I could not say. Try it and see.”
He delivered this whole speech in one breath, as the boy had done, without his usual pauses. Faelan sensed he was fond of the boy and decided to allow the petting. The boy knelt in front of her and ran his hands over her head.
“She’s a real beauty.”
“Thank you, Roland. I think so.” Duncan glanced at a tablet on boy’s abandoned desk. “Have you tested your formula?”
Roland scratched behind Faelan’s prick-ears. “I’ve tried it six times. It doesn’t work.”
Duncan frowned. “You made an error.”
“Did not.”
“Did not, what?” Duncan’s tone was mild. Still frowning at the tablet, he eased himself into the chair the boy had vacated.
Roland rolled his eyes, but only Faelan saw it. “Did not, sir.”
“Come here, please.”
Faelan padded over with Roland, resting her front paws upon the edge of the desk. A rack of small jars containing foul smelling powders stood in the center. On the left side a bronze dish held white ashes. A stack of musty books occupied the upper right corner. Faelan nosed Duncan’s cup. Fruit juice. He moved it out of her reach without looking up.
“Eamon,” Duncan called out. “Azure is thirsty. Bring water, please.” He slid out of the chair, and the boy reclaimed his seat. Leaning over Roland’s right shoulder, Duncan tapped a squiggle on the tablet with his finger. “What is this value here?”
“Potassium nitrate?”
“I asked first.” There was no reproof in Duncan’s voice. “Look it up.”
Pulling a leather-bound book out of stack, the boy flipped through the pages. “Shit.”
Duncan cuffed him lightly on the ear. “Gentlemen do not use vulgarisms.”
“My Captain does.”
“True. But Captain Fawr outranks me and may speak as he chooses. You, my goddess-born cadet, may not. In my tent you learn from my example.”
Roland rubbed his ear although the gentle blow could not have stung more than his pride. “I must have guessed wrong.”
“Do not guess. My journals are available to you as well as those of other philosophers.”
Eamon returned carrying water and a platter of fruit Faelan did not recognize. The elf sat the bowl on the rug and the platter on a low table. “I laid out your Midnight jacket for the Remembrance. I’ll go check on the preparations."
“Hey,” Roland com
plained loudly. “That’s my job.”
“Shush.”
“Well, it is.”
“Your job is whatever I say it is. Retest your formula, please. I will speak to Eamon.”
The boy mixed pinches of this and that, all the while shooting resentful glances in the direction the elf had gone. The mixture smoked and exploded in a small jut of flame.
“Ha! Ha!” Roland clapped his hands, delighted, his resentment over Eamon’s intrusion on his territory forgotten in the bright flush of success.
Duncan tugged one of the boy’s braids. “You see. When the formula is correct, the outcome is predictable. One does not develop incendiaries empirically. Not if one wishes to keep one’s fingers.”
Roland placed a lid on the box of powders. “You do.”
“You do. What?”
“You do, sir,” Roland stumbled over his feet in his rush to pick up Duncan’s jacket before Duncan could. Faelan was certain she would see the boy’s ears boxed in earnest, but Duncan chuckled.
“No.” He paused, took a breath, and slipped his arms into the short black jacket trimmed with startling blue piping the lad held for him. “Each step builds upon the foundation of my previous work.” Duncan turned resting his hands on Roland’s shoulders. “When that is not possible, I work to scale so in the event of catastrophic failure, I lose my tweezers, not my fingers.”
Batting the boy’s hands away, Duncan fastened the braided frogs down the front of his jacket. “For tomorrow, your problem is a twelve foot high stone curtain-wall. The job requires more punch, less bang. I want you to make adjustments to your formula and devise a delivery system.”
“What’s the width of the wall, sir?”
Duncan propped one foot on the campaign table and swiped at the dust on his boot with a rag. “You will solve for it.”
“I hate you,” the boy huffed.
Duncan’s lips twitched. “I hate you. What?”
Chapter Six
The sun traced the treetops crimson as the blue-jackets gathered to remember their fellow. Faelan leaned against Duncan’s leg. His skin radiated heat through the fine woolen jodhpurs he wore. The warm timbre of his voice heated her blood. His words filled the night with praise for his fallen comrade, but his bitter scent burned Faelan’s sensitive nose. One by one, troopers shared stories of the dead man’s skill and good humor. Faelan blocked out guilt and regret. She’d done what she had to do, for her brother and her people, but she gave a relived yip when Duncan excused himself from the bonfire, saying he had the necessary letters to write.