Standing, the general stalked away. “Take the men to the secured huts. If the Bone Mage so much as burps, knock him out.”
“What about the other mages?” Captain Modisetto asked.
“I suppose we’ll have do this the old fashioned way. Bring the Sacerdio.”
“No,” Gabe shouted at the same time Under-Lieutenant Pena scrambled to her feet and lunged at the nearest guard.
The Alarian soldier backhanded Pena but she kept her feet, coming back swinging.
“Pena!” Meraz shouted. “Stand down now!”
Pena knocked aside the soldier’s rifle and put her other fist into his jaw. Wrenching the rifle from his slackened grip, she slammed the stock into his face, knocking him backwards. Before the other soldiers could move in, she threw the rifle down and stood back, defenceless.
“Leave the Sacerdio,” she said calmly, the right side of her face red from the only hit the Alarian managed to land on her. “Take me instead.”
Glancing at the moaning soldier on the ground, the general said, “Take them both.”
Pena was grabbed from both sides and marched away. She went willingly, head high. Dina, hauled to her feet by another pair of soldiers, sniffed and steadied herself. As Pena did, she lifted her head, red eyes fixed dead ahead, and walked between her captors.
Gabe doubled over, resisting the urge to scream. This was his fault. If he hadn’t been so stubborn about Rayen, Dina wouldn’t be here. She wouldn’t be walking away with the enemy to Luz knew what type of terror.
“Come on,” a gruff voice said, a boot nudging his knees. “Get up.”
His magic stirred. A glimmer inside the pain, a spark lit by the desire to fight back, to save Dina and Pena. It was pointless, though. His magic was about healing, not causing pain, and with his head throbbing, there was little he could do in any case.
“Maybe Captain Modisetto hurt him too much,” another voice said.
With a resigned grunt, one of the soldiers grabbed Gabe under his arm and tugged him up.
“Help him,” the soldier snapped and let Gabe go.
Before he could fall back to the ground, Botello and Pio were on either side, supporting him. Gabe got his feet beneath him, standing without their help. Victor the clerk was shoved toward them and they were herded away from Meraz and Dulce. Dina and Pena were gone, taken out of the yard. One by one, the inert mages were loaded onto stretchers and carried away, heading in the same direction as the women. Dulce crept closer to Meraz, who dared any of the soldiers to dispute it with her cold eyes.
“What about those two?” Modisetto asked the general, who had moved over to the pole in the middle of the yard.
“The little one can be held with the native women.” He looked the dangling skeleton of the mesquala up and down. “The captain,” he spat the title, “will be secured on her own. Make sure she has a double guard at all times.”
The Alarian captain frowned, clearly uncertain a mere woman needed such precautions, but he gave the orders.
Dulce was pried away from Meraz and taken to where the native women sat. Meraz stood without help, shoulders back, spine straight and, surrounded by a dozen soldiers, was marched away.
This was it. The last of the proud Tejon Company. From a hundred personnel, perhaps two-thirds had made it out of the camp, and of those that remained, only twelve were alive. And Gabe wasn’t sure how much longer the rest of them would survive.
Their little knot of guards stopped them on the edge of the yard while they conferred with the Valleymen guards.
Gabe took the chance to see what he could of the rest of the camp. His hospital was a smoking ruin and it was obvious now how the Alarians had managed to take out so many dirigibles coming in from the front. Shove a grenade in a wounded body and let them be picked up by the Delaluzians. Cold, cruel and effective. Gabe was just grateful Rayen had been unconscious at the end.
The last dirigible that was supposed to have taken the officers away sat in its cradle. Someone had powered down its engines and the balloon, slowly losing its gas, was sagging dramatically within its harness. Alarians swarmed over the remaining land-yacht, confused and excited all at once. Most of the tents were collapsed, though teams of Alarians were working to erect their own. The earthworks had survived intact and Alarian engineers were sorting out how to reattach the gates. Through the opening, Gabe could see more activity. Squad upon squad of Alarian soldiers worked outside the walls, setting up another camp. Which meant there were too many to be housed inside the walls.
Dear Luz.
And out there somewhere was the mysterious Colonel Roulier.
Ismael, flanked by two guards walked in through the opening, on his way to collect another of the fallen Delaluzians. Gabe gritted his teeth against the anger boiling up inside.
More movement at the gates caught Gabe’s eye. A squad of Alarian soldiers marched in. They surrounded a group of ragged prisoners, most of them covered in dirt, soot and dried blood. The Delaluzians carried stretchers or supported the walking wounded.
“Probably captured in the encampment,” Botello murmured.
The squad moved their prisoners into the middle of the yard, making them sit while officers met and talked. With a few curt commands, the male and female soldiers were separated.
Several more soldiers entered the camp, a single man in their midst. One arm was in a sling, the shoulder bulked up by bandages. Every step made him wince, his face bruised and cut. He was a prisoner but if he’d been in the fighting, they’d taken the time to clean him up. His plain tunic, pants and boots were clean.
“I think I know him,” Gabe murmured.
“Who is he?” Botello demanded.
The general strode across the yard, meeting the soldiers and the single prisoner. The discussion was short and to the point, the general waving the prisoner toward the gathered Delaluzian men. The prisoner took his time, walking around the seated soldiers, studying them thoroughly.
“Castillo,” Botello hissed. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He just looks familiar.”
Whoever the prisoner was looking for wasn’t with the soldiers, apparently. The general listened to the man patiently, then nodded. He led the bound man toward Gabe’s group.
“Is he one of these men?” the general asked.
The prisoner looked them over, his eyes widening when he saw Gabe. As he met the other man’s gaze, Gabe remembered.
Dem shook his head. “No, General du Serres. Rafe is not here.”
Chapter 21
The dregs of the first, horrible day of Alarian occupation passed in cold dread. Gabe, Botello, Pio and Victor were shoved into a Valleyman hut, the doorway blocked with canvas nailed to the bricks. Through careful listening, they determined four soldiers guarded them. The Alarians talked quietly, their voices muffled to the point none of the prisoners could make out the words.
“Did you hear the general?” Victor whispered. “He was looking for just one man.”
Botello grunted. “It’s a ruse.”
“With what purpose?” Pio asked sarcastically.
“I don’t know but it can’t be anything else. A single man isn’t that important. Especially a Nameless grunt from the Third Estate.”
Pio snorted. “I think you’re jealous that you aren’t considered important enough to hang a battle on.”
“Watch your tone,” Botello growled.
Grinning, Pio said, “The only thing your rank means now is that they’re likely to beat you harder.”
“No,” the lieutenant snarled. “What my rank and Name mean now is that I’m more likely to be ransomed out of here than you are.”
“You’re not the only one with a Name here, Botello.”
“But I am the one with a family wealthy enough to pay my ransom. I doubt Duke Ibarra will pay for you, Engineer.”
“I could always buy my way out of here with that little stockpile of stolen supplies you’ve been hording, Botello. I’m sure the Alarians wo
uld like all those weapons you’ve been skimming off the top of the supplies.”
Botello growled, his fists smoking.
“Enough,” Victor hissed. “We can’t fight amongst ourselves.”
Pio was the first to back down, scrambling to the far side of the hut, glaring at Botello in the dim light that snuck in around the canvas door. Botello sneered at him, but settled back against the wall.
“Hey,” Victor said. “Did anyone see where Mage Vendaval went? Maybe he got out. Maybe he could help us escape.”
“Vendaval’s probably dead.” Botello mimed holding a rifle and aiming at something moving through the air. “Shot down like a duck, I would say.”
“Thank you for your unwavering optimism in this tough situation,” Pio said dryly. “How could we ever survive without you, Second-Lieutenant Botello?”
Gabe let their bickering fade away.
Rafe. The man the Immortal Soldier was sent to hunt down. All of this was about Rafe. A whole battalion destroyed in Rafe’s name. It didn’t make sense. What was so important about him that General du Serres would do this? The boy was Second Estate, yes, and highly ranked, Gabe had discovered that much simply through observation. Just as he’d decided trying for a happy life with Dem wasn’t the whole reason they were here. There was something more to Rafe’s story, something that made him vital to whatever Alarie was doing here.
Just who was Rafe? Rayen had called Dem Demetrio in her delirious prattle about the ambush in the tunnels, and just as Gabe was short for Gabriel, Rafe was short for... Rafael.
It hit Gabe so hard he couldn’t breathe for a long moment. Lungs seized up as if he’d just been punched in his sternum, Gabe stared at the far wall, an image of the boy on his surgery table floating before his eyes. Black hair, blue eyes, the same blood disorder as he’d found in Princess Beila Cielo Ibarra Najera de Ibarra. Rafe... Rafael... Prince Ramiero Rafael Ibarra Najera de Ibarra.
Fucking Saints!
Gabe should have recognised him. He’d spent three months in Ibarra, flouncing from highbrow dinner to ball to picnic, surrounded by the cream of de Ibarra nobility. He’d spent an afternoon with Princess Beila, listened to her prattle endlessly about her adored older brother, Ramiero. He’d played hoop-ball with Prince Aden and now that he compared them, the resemblance was ridiculously apparent.
David. The bloody Immortal Soldier had known exactly who he was chasing down and he hadn’t said a word, not even after Gabe had saved his ungrateful life. Well, he wouldn’t do it again. He’d let the man rebuild himself next time, see how he liked that. Or maybe Gabe would help him, but leave off something vital. Maybe he would take something Exposito wouldn’t like being without for a while. Not just a finger for Gabe. No. He’d take what every man feared losing and keep it in a jar, bring it out on special occasions and smile while everyone laughed at how small it was.
Saints damn it! There was no one to blame for his blind stupidity but himself. No. Gabe was the only idiot in this situation.
So, why was the heir to Ibarra pretending to be a regular soldier in a war his father had started?
The Alarians had to know who he was. They’d probably tortured the information out of Dem, and now they were here to find the prince and... what? Hold him ransom? Use him to make Duke Ibarra pull out of the Valley? Either way, all that mattered now was, where was Rafe?
Sleep was all but impossible, with Pio and Botello muttering at each other and Victor, who did manage to get to sleep, snoring. The dull throbbing in his head kept Gabe from anything deeper than a light doze. By the time morning sunlight pushed in around the canvas Gabe had no answers, a massive headache and a desire so insistent for a cigarillo he was ready to kill.
Pio and Victor were sleeping and Botello was picking at his fingernails, his block of a head tipped back as he contemplated the thatched roof. The pressure in Gabe’s head increased as he stood.
“What are you doing?” Botello asked.
“I don’t know,” Gabe admitted, going to the door. He scratched at the canvas.
“What?” an Alarian demanded.
“I need to see your general.”
One of them grunted. “The only way you’ll get to see him is if he wants to see you.”
“I’m a Bone Mage. He was talking to me yesterday, wanted to know if I could help him keep the other mages under control. I can do that now. He needs to know that.”
There was a speculative pause outside, then the first soldier peered in through a small gap. “I’ll pass your message on, but don’t expect anything.”
“Thank you. I also need to piss.”
“Hear, hear,” Botello joined in.
The soldiers agreed to take them one at a time to the latrine. During the walk, Gabe took in as many details as he could. White Alarian tents had blossomed like flowers after the rain and several corrals holding horses now took up the space where the smithy and engineering tents had been. Valleymen were busy filling in the holes the Alarians had entered through, singing as they shovelled. Alarian soldiers bustled here and there, the scent of cooking food coiled through the still air making Gabe’s stomach grumble and the clang of a smith at work echoed between the walls.
If it weren’t for the uniforms, it would have been like any other day in the camp. The similarities struck a sour chord. It was all so familiar, but at the same time, so different.
At the latrine, there were other Delaluzian prisoners being marched in to relieve themselves. None of them were allowed to talk or linger, but Gabe did see a familiar face in the line of men.
Palo de Torres.
Gabe had to smile. If there was one thing Palo was, it was a survivor. Seeing him gave Gabe a small surge of hope.
On the way back to the hut, Kimotak stopped shovelling and waved at Gabe. “Hello, ndargo.”
“Hey, Kimotak. How’s Udagi and the worm?”
The native grinned. “Good, ndargo, good.”
“They treating you all right?”
Kimotak held up his shovel. “They give us job. Just like you.”
Gabe swallowed the bile surging up his throat. Yes, the similarities were horrible indeed.
“Come on,” his guard prompted.
As they reached the hut, a soldier approached them.
“The general wants to see the Bone Mage.”
Gabe was put between two new guards and marched to the yard.
Here, more natives were filling the holes and most of the dead had been cleared away. Only a few Delaluzian bodies remained and the weary, stoop-shouldered form of Ismael knelt by one of them, praying. Beside him stood Lieutenant Carufel. When Ismael finished his blessing and went to stand, he staggered, almost toppling over. Carufel caught him and when he was steady, helped him gather up the arms of the dead body. Together they took the body out through the re-hung gates.
David was gone. Just what Ismael had thought he could do for the Immortal Soldier was beyond Gabe, but he was proud of the Dean for having the courage to try. It was more than Gabe had done.
Where the command tent had been, another pavilion had been erected, white like the other Alarian tents, but trimmed in royal blue. Inside, the similarities continued. Clerks and officers hurried about, exchanging papers, having brisk, hushed conversations and striding in and out as if the future of all Alarie rested on their shoulders.
In a secluded corner, General du Serres held court with Captain Modisetto and another man with the look of power about him.
“Ah, Mage Castillo.” The general nodded to the captain. “You already know Geraud Modisetto. This,” he waved at the new man, “is Colonel Gael-Jason Roulier. Roulier, this is Gabriel Xavier Castillo Ramos de Roque. The company Bone Mage.”
Despite the anxiety exploding in his guts, Gabe didn’t miss the general’s expression as he introduced the colonel, clearly keen to see how this meeting would progress.
Roulier was older than the general, his hair completely white but shaved close to the scalp, face deeply tanned and lined. He w
as lean and tall and his sleepy eyes reminded Gabe of Duke Galo de Giron. If they hid the same sly intelligence as Galo’s did, Gabe wouldn’t be surprised.
“A Bone Mage,” the colonel mused, giving Gabe a slow once over.
Here it comes. Gabe tensed between his escorts, wondering if he was fast enough to push one of them into the colonel’s path and make his escape.
Roulier sneered. “Hardly looks worthy of the title. A de Roque, you say?”
“Apparently,” Du Serres said as if he didn’t quite believe it either.
“I wasn’t aware the Delaluzian duchies had begun sharing commodities.”
“Who are you calling a commodity?” Gabe demanded. One of his guards grabbed his arm, pulling him off balance, ready to follow through with a blow if indicated.
Roulier and du Serres smiled, grim and cold, but neither ordered a reprimand. The guard shoved Gabe away as if touching him was disgusting.
General du Serres said, “I’m not so sure they are. We’ve already been made aware of Duke Ibarra’s deviousness in this whole affair. I wonder if putting a de Roque noble and mage in the middle of it all is part of his grand scheme.”
All three officers looked at Gabe expectantly.
He held up his hands. “I know nothing of Duke Ibarra’s deviousness. All I know is he sent me here as punishment for something I did in Ibarra.”
“Punishment?” Roulier asked. “What did you do?”
Gabe met his gaze, trying to find something in his half-lidded eyes. “I saved a life.”
“Interesting.” Roulier’s chilly tone sent a shiver down Gabe’s back.
“I understand you’re now ready to help us with your fellow mages. Is this correct?” du Serres asked.
“I’m ready to try.”
“Try?”
“I would be lying if I said I was certain I could do it, but I’d rather hurt myself trying then let you hold Dina and Lieutenant Pena wherever it is you have them.”
The corner of du Serres mouth went up. “Honesty at last. Modisetto, escort the Bone Mage to his fellows.”
Dead Bones Page 29