David stared at the two steel points, then collapsed, rolling onto his back and looking up at the stars. It was nice to not have to fight alone.
“Come on,” Ruben yelled. “We’re leaving. Get over here!”
But it was the wrong thing to announce to the enemy. Two more arrows were loosed, this time flying over David and slicing into the thick material of the balloon. A lance of fire reached out from the gondola and hit the archer standing unprotected on the wall.
“Damn it,” someone at the dirigible shouted. “Where’s Vendaval?”
David rolled over and got to his hands and knees, careful to keep below the wall the Earth Mage had provided. He fished in his pockets and found five more bullets. He loaded one revolver and holstered it. Then he reached over his back and pulled the rifle out of its harness. His vision was blurring, his head felt light and he couldn’t catch his breath, but he set the stock to his shoulder and rested the barrel against the top of the miniature earthworks. Blinking his eyes into focus, he sighted the tower and waited.
It didn’t take long. The archer moved out from behind cover, arrow nocked and drawn. David aimed and pulled the trigger. The archer’s head exploded.
For the moment, the enemy was no more.
There were more out there. Those he had escaped earlier wouldn’t be far away, probably securing the rest of the camp as they made their way toward the yard. But for now, he rested. He sat against the little wall, trying to breathe, feeling the odd tickle deep inside of the curse beginning to heal his latest crop of wounds. He was torn between wishing it would hurry up so he could keep fighting and hoping it wouldn’t work, that he would find the Shadows at last.
An explosion rocked the ground. A blast of heated air and ballistic debris broke the Earth Mage’s wall. David was propelled arse over head, a thousand little needles of fire lancing his exposed skin. He rolled to one knee, blinking against the dust-churned haze.
The gates had been blown clear of the wall. One had mown down the smithy, the other engineering.
When the smoke had cleared a little, and David’s ears had stopped ringing, he became aware of a new sound. Marching. Hundreds of boots stomping in time.
The army had arrived.
Slowly, David stood and faced the Alarians. Soldiers filled the opening in the wall and behind them, stretched hundreds more. The first line of soldiers made a barrier of overlapping shields and dropped to one knee. The second row raised rifles, hammers drawn back in a chorus of deadly clicks.
They fired all at once.
Chapter 20
Gabe was cold and sore, his head ached and his stomach clenched in fear and anxiety. Beside him, Dina huddled around her knees, miserable and shivering. With them were Captain Meraz, Lieutenants Botello and Pena, Ismael, Pio, Dulce, Victor and Tonio the Smith. Through the legs of their Alarian guards, Gabe could just make out Ruben, Ofelia and Jacinta. They’d been knocked out from a distance with drugged darts and were stretched out on the ground, unconscious, while a knot of Alarian officers debated the best means of keeping the mages subdued. The biggest concern, it seemed, was how a certain person called Roulier would react. As much as most Alarians detested mages, apparently this Roulier was considered an extremist by his countrymen.
Further away, David lay where he’d fallen after the barrage of rifle fire. He appeared dead. The Alarians hadn’t bothered to check for a pulse. There was no point. No one could have survived taking so many bullets. Even knowing who he was, Gabe couldn’t help but wonder if David was still alive. The steel plates in the jacket had offered some protection, but not nearly enough. His legs had been shattered, his head punctured. A few bullets had punched through the steel.
On the far side of the central yard, the Alarians had gathered the Valleymen. The silent natives had been rounded up and marched to the yard and made to sit, men and women separate. The women and children, unused to moving so far from their huts, were nevertheless composed and calm. Gabe had heard a few cries from the babies and younger children and hoped their captors weren’t mistreating the innocents. There appeared to be no losses amongst the Valleymen, for which Gabe was both grateful and annoyed. The Valley was their home, but this wasn’t their war. They shouldn’t be forced to fight, but at the same time, didn’t they care to defend their families from the intruders?
Delaluzian dead littered the yard. Soldiers, clerks, cooks, Lobo the Smith, Lieutenant Olvera. Apart from the First-Lieutenant, none of them had been urgent personnel. They shouldn’t have been in camp when the Alarians arrived. Meraz’s carefully planned evacuation hadn’t stood up to the cunning of the Alarian strategists. She knelt not far from him, securely bound, face bruised and bleeding. She hadn’t been captured easily. Dazed from pain and shock, Gabe had watched her fight to the very last when the Alarians closed around the Delaluzian survivors. Meraz had defended the remains of her staff with every dirty, nasty trick in her repertoire. Three Alarian soldiers had fallen before they’d overwhelmed her. Now, she watched the enemy with steely grimness, her back straight, head held high. If she was despairing, she concealed it well. Her stoicism comforted the remains of Tejon Company.
An Alarian officer broke away from the discussion about the mages. He was an older man, thick grey streaks in his dark hair flaring out from behind his ears like wings, clean shaven to expose a hard, square jaw and thin, mean mouth. His dress jacket of royal Alarian blue was pristine, belt gleaming, sash immaculate and so decorated with medals it was a wonder it didn’t bow his shoulders. A crest of a noble Alarian house was stitched onto the right breast of his jacket. Gabe had never paid attention to Alarian heraldry and couldn’t even make a guess as to which one it was. He carried no visible weapons. Gloved fists on his hips, he surveyed the central yard.
“Lieutenant Carufel,” he called and a younger officer came to his side.
“Yes, Mon General?” Carufel’s less ornate jacket, marked with a different crest, showed signs of combat—a slash in the material just under his ribs exposing the leather armour beneath. He had two revolvers, riding low on his hips, and a rifle in a back harness.
“See about having this cleaned up. Take the Delaluzian dead outside the walls and burn them. They don’t deserve any better.” His narrow gaze lingered on the prisoners, mouth in an almost-sneer of disgust. “The Delaluzians rejected the One God, so they shouldn’t return to His side through the grace of burial.”
“At once, Mon General.”
Beside Dina, Ismael moaned. The Sacerdio touched his arm, part in sympathy, part to keep him quiet.
The general turned and looked at him. “You object, priest?”
Ismael swallowed, glancing at his fellow prisoners, most of whom gave him keep-quite glares. He chose to ignore them.
“Please, sir,” he said, his voice small, “if you will not allow our dead to be returned to Delaluz and interred in our catacombs, I would like to at least offer our fallen a final blessing. It wouldn’t take long.”
Lips twisting into something that could be mistaken for amusement, the general waved aside the guards surrounding the Delaluzians. With the lieutenant at his shoulder, he walked into the circle and stood over the Dean. Dina cringed and Gabe leaned into her, offering what comfort he could, though his own heart raced fast enough to cause him concern. There were, after all, no other Bone Mages about to mend his heart should it explode.
Ismael’s shoulders shivered once, then he looked up at the towering enemy and faced him with a mixture of fear and determination.
“Tell me, little priest, if our situations were reversed, would you allow an Alarian priest the chance to offer our dead the final rites?”
“Of course,” Ismael said, horrified anyone would think him so cruel as to deny another person their religious rights.
“Of course.” The general exchanged a dry smile with the officer. “But it’s not your decision, is it, priest.” His icy blue eyes cut to Meraz. “Captain, would you allow it?”
Meraz met his gaze with one as c
old and impersonal. “No.”
The general smiled. “Let us compromise, little priest. You may perform whatever rites you can manage as you carry your dead outside to the pyre.” He stepped away from the prisoners. “Carufel, organise a guard for our industrious priest.”
“You can’t make him do it alone,” Tonio said, surging to his feet. The Smith loomed large and impressive against the lean soldiers of Alarie. Several guards rushed forward, points of their blades settling against Tonio’s throat.
Unimpressed, the general glanced at the Smith. “You wish to help him?”
Eyeing the half dozen swords mere inches from taking his life, Tonio nodded.
“Well, I’m sorry but you can’t.” He nodded to several of the soldiers. “Take him away and have him flogged.”
Pena and Pio both made small, impulsive motions to defend Tonio but a sharp glare from Meraz held them back. Tonio, teeth bared, let himself be herded away. As soon as he and his guards were clear, the Smith swung a meaty fist at the Alarian walking beside him.
Remembering the power Tonio could pack into a punch, Gabe winced at the loud crack of the soldier’s nose breaking. Face simply pouring blood, the Alarian crumpled to the ground, his nose non-existent, the broken shards of cartilage and bone buried in his brain.
Tonio barrelled into the next soldier, knocking the sword out of his hand. The Smith slapped his hands to either side of the Alarian’s head and twisted sharply. As the dead man toppled over, Tonio spun. The sword thrust aimed for his exposed back missed, scraping along his side instead, tearing his shirt and getting caught in the heavy material. Pulled off balance, the soldier staggered right into the knee Tonio thrust up into his groin. Slamming a hand down on the back of the doubled up man’s neck, Tonio killed another of the enemy.
It all happened so fast that when the gunshot sounded, Gabe was surprised to see Tonio stall in mid lunge. He teetered for a long moment, arms wide, feet apart, a single line of blood drawing down his forehead, across his blunt nose and over his open lips. Then the huge Smith crashed to the ground, face first.
Lieutenant Carufel lowered his revolver and holstered it.
“I’d suggest, little priest,” the general said blandly into the stunned silence, “that you begin with your large friend there. Carufel, take care of this.”
The young officer saluted and while he directed some of his men to see to their freshly dead, he himself fetched Ismael from the group of prisoners. The Dean shook so hard he could barely stand.
“Ismael,” Gabe whispered, his heart clenched into a tight, hard knot.
Ismael tried to smile as the lieutenant took his arm. “It’s all right. I want to do this. That way I can give all of our dead the final blessing.”
“Come,” Carufel said, his tone kindly.
Dina sobbed as Ismael was led away. Gabe took her hand and squeezed it, wincing as the small Dean knelt by the huge, supine form of Tonio and lowered his head in prayer. The young lieutenant looked away, his gaze meeting Gabe’s for a fleeting moment. It wasn’t long enough for Gabe to see what was in the Alarian officer’s eyes, but the solicitous way he touched Ismael’s shoulder, urging him on, gave Gabe some hope the Dean wouldn’t be treated too roughly. Nodding to the lieutenant, Ismael stood and, taking a deep breath, grabbed Tonio’s thick wrists and hauled. The huge Smith failed to move.
“Dear Luz,” Meraz murmured.
It was a horrible sight. Ismael strained and grunted but the body barely moved an inch.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the general snapped. “Carufel, have someone help him get it moving at least.”
The lieutenant waved forward two soldiers, who took the Smith’s hands from Ismael.
“Captain!” the general shouted as the guards closed around the diminished numbers of prisoners, blocking their view of Ismael and his horrible task.
“Mon General.” A man stepped to the general’s side.
“Have you discovered how to keep the mages under control yet? It’ll only be a matter of time before Colonel Roulier finishes organising the troops outside the camp. I’d prefer them to be safely stashed before he decides to take matters into his own hands.”
Gabe was not liking what was being said about this Roulier. It reminded him of the things Sol had revealed about his years in Alarie. The Crusader movement of the Dark Years was still alive. They’d gone after Sol the moment his identity as heir to Roque had been discovered. Gabe didn’t want to think what might happen to Ruben, Jacinta and Ofelia if this Roulier turned out to be one of the fanatical Crusaders. He wondered if it was too late to agree with Duke Ibarra and claim he wasn’t a true mage.
“The medics believe it would be dangerous to keep them sedated for long periods. Otherwise no one’s been able to subdue their magic powers. We just don’t know how.”
The general clasped his hands behind his back, head lowered in thought. He turned to the prisoners again, studying them. His gaze lingered on Meraz, lips twisting into something close to disgust before moving on. Likewise, he discarded Pena, Dulce and Dina. In the Alarian opinion, women had no place in the military. The rock-hard gaze considered the men, eyeing Pio and Botello before settling on Gabe.
“Him.”
Limbs snap freezing, Gabe stared at the general. Was he to be the sacrificial offering to the Crusader to keep the other mages safe? He should have listened to Sol and stayed in Roque.
“No,” Meraz hissed as Gabe was grabbed.
“You will keep your lips sealed, woman,” a soldier snapped, jabbing the stock of his rifle into the captain’s back, “or I’ll do it for you.”
Meraz grunted but her eyes blazed, hands curling into fists.
“Captain,” Gabe said, staggering away with his captor, “please.”
She gritted her teeth but nodded once, sharp and firm.
The general spent a moment looking Gabe over, eyebrows raised. When he saw the black glove, he smiled.
“A so-called Bone Mage. What do you think, Modisetto? Should we be worried about his magical attacks?”
The Alarian captain smirked. “I shouldn’t think so, Mon General.”
“What’s your name, Mage?” the general asked.
Gabe didn’t know what to do. He had no training in these sorts of situations. Should he give his real name or a false one? Did it matter? Weren’t they all going to end up like Tonio anyway?
“Your name,” Captain Modisetto snapped. “Hurry up now.”
Deciding to take a lesson from David, Gabe said, “I have no name.”
The general laughed, his captain joining him.
“Oh, I find that incredibly hard to believe,” the general said. “Just looking at you I would say you have four names. A mage of the Second Estate, not dressed in military robes. I smell a story. What is your name?”
Glancing at his fellow Delaluzians gave Gabe no direction. Half shook their heads, half nodded encouragement.
The decision was taken from him, however, when the captain reached out and grabbed his head. The man’s fingers dug hard into the lump left by falling debris from the exploding hospital.
A ragged scream tore Gabe’s throat on the way out. He crashed to his knees, fierce agony blinding him. Shouts of protest were vague sounds behind the rush of pain. The immediacy of the pain died almost at once, resorting to a series of hard, dull throbs as blood pounded through his head. Gasping for air, Gabe opened his eyes to see the knees of the Alarian officers.
“Now,” the general said, his tone as dry as before, “what is your name?”
“Gabriel Xavier Castillo Ramos de Roque.” It rolled off his tongue without conscious thought.
“De Roque? Well, that’s interesting. Tell me, de Roque, how would you suppress your fellow mages’ abilities?”
“You can’t. The only way to do it is to keep them sedated and your medics are right. Long term sedation is very dangerous.”
The general crouched and looked him in the eye. “Are you saying the only safe mage is a dead
mage?”
“You can’t kill them,” Gabe whispered.
“Oh, I can kill them. The question is, should I? This is war, after all, and they are my enemy. But, I would rather not kill them. I need as many expensive bargaining pieces as I can get. Now, as a Bone Mage, what can you do to solve my conundrum?”
Gabe shook his head.
“Healing sleep,” Dina murmured from behind him.
The general leaned past Gabe to look at Dina. She clamped her mouth shut and lowered her head, shaking under his scrutiny.
“And who are you?” the general asked.
Dina sniffed but couldn’t speak.
“She’s a Sacerdio,” Gabe said. “My aide. Not anyone dangerous.”
“What’s this healing sleep she mentioned?”
“It’s something I can do for grievously injured patients. After I treat them I put them in a deep sleep to aid their recovery.”
“Could you put the mages into this sleep?”
“I could, but only for a couple of days at most. After that it becomes as dangerous as long term sedation.”
The general smiled and it wasn’t nice. “Look at that. There was a solution after all. Can you put them into this sleep before they wake up?”
“No. I’m in too much pain and it’s upsetting my concentration.”
“Can’t you heal yourself?”
A sarcastic snort escaped Gabe before he could stop it. “A Bone Mage can’t use their magic on themselves.”
“A pain relieving drug then,” the captain suggested.
“The quantities I would need to ease this pain would make me all but insensible.”
“Then how long do you think before you’re capable of working your magic on the other mages?” the general demanded.
“I don’t know,” Gabe snapped. “I’ve never been in this sort of pain before. And your trained monkey didn’t help matters.”
The general’s jaw clenched.
Excellent. Gabe had managed to annoy the wrong person. Why hadn’t he listened to Meraz when she told him to get his self-destructive tendencies under control?
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