by Tanya Huff
The first shot slapped dirt up into his face.
He didn’t even break stride. They couldn’t hit him.
His front legs stretched out, rear legs bunched up under his belly driving him forward. He was close enough to see the differences in the barrel bands that said this man had one of the new rifled muskets. Close enough to see his face as he finally finished reloading. The Imperial army required four shots a minute, skilled infantry could fire five, but no one could hit a moving target from a moving coach. No one.
Pain exploded out from his shoulder as silver shot plowed through flesh and shattered bone. Flung up and back, Tomas hit the ground, rolled…
* * *
“…and we followed her back to the battlefield but were unable to find her.” Report finished, Reiter stared over General Lord Denieu’s right shoulder at the billowing wall of the command tent. The army was in control of Aydori from the border to the outskirts of Bercarit while remnants of the Aydori army used the city as cover. And occasionally as a weapon.
The general refused to march his soldiers down streets that had become shooting galleries. “He’s waiting for more artillery and more ammunition for the guns we have,” Major Gagnon said cheerfully, leading Reiter to the tent. “He’ll bomb it flat, then we’ll march over the rubble.”
Reiter waited as the general’s valet poured a glass of wine and the general took a long swallow. “There’s beastmen in the south continent, too,” he said, thoughtfully, turning the glass so the wine gleamed ruby red in the light. “I hear they’re different than our lot, slighter, but, still, I always thought they were purely a northern problem. Turns out there’s vermin all over the flaming place. Now then, Captain…” He picked up a pen and poked at the tangle, lying like a glimmer of gold across his desk. “…I think I can answer one of your questions at least. Gagnon!”
“Sir!” The major stuck his head back into the tent.
“Is that captured mage still alive?”
“He was last time I looked, sir.”
“Get him in here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, it’s funny…” Denieu took another swallow of wine. “…we spent so much time figuring out how to kill the beastmen, raising taxes, gathering silver, we forgot about the mages. They blew up the rocket station. The one by the bridge. Reports say there was a fireball.” Another swallow and then he had to raise his voice slightly over the sound of approaching soldiers. “They can throw them now. Well, not throw them exactly, it’s that they blow them our way, but the effect is the same. So much for the common…” He threw a bitter emphasis onto the word. “…belief that mage-craft has dwindled to parlor tricks and creature comforts; killing the beastmen seems to have motivated them. And I always thought it was the female mages that…”
The open flap cut off the general’s thought as Major Gagnon led two soldiers—one of them a woman, Reiter noticed, evidence of the new draft—dragging a bound and half-naked, middle-aged man, his torso marked with bruises, into the tent. They dropped him and stepped back by the canvas.
“He’s still breathing, sir.”
“Good.” Denieu gestured with his glass. “Captain Reiter, test the artifact.”
“Yes, sir.” The women in the carriages had been farther from the tangle than this captured mage. If the tangle were still working, it would have done its job by now. Reiter hooked a finger through a strand of the net, carried it to the captive mage and draped it over his head. It slipped down over one swollen ear and remained entirely visible on top of the blood-streaked hair.
“Is that it?”
“No, sir.” The tangle had worked on the girl through more hair and more debris, pulling from his hand and fitting itself against her skull. “Looks like the damage she did when she removed it is enough to keep it from working.”
Denieu grunted. “Or it never worked.”
Or this mage is too close to dead. Reiter kept the thought to himself. He didn’t want the tangle to work. He didn’t want to continue hunting the girl.
“Get him out of here, Major. I’d love to know,” the general continued as Reiter retrieved the artifact and the major beckoned the two soldiers forward, “what courtier with his head up his ass convinced the emperor to put his faith in the leftovers of ancient magic.”
As the lengthening pause seemed to indicate there was a response required, Reiter said, “Most likely the Soothsayers, sir.”
“Of course. You said they were involved. Inmates running the asylum. You want to put your faith in anything that isn’t a Morrisville smooth bore musket at three volleys a minute, you put your faith in science, Captain. That’s the future of the empire; science. Even Korshan’s rockets have a place if he could just get the flaming things to move in a straight line. They certainly performed as advertised against the beastmen.” Denieu drained his glass and held it out to be refilled. “The question now before me, Captain Reiter, is what do I do with you? I’ve got holes you’re more than qualified to fill, so…”
“General Denieu?” Major Gagnon stuck his head into the tent. “There’s a messenger out here from General Ormond. She says it concerns Captain Reiter.”
Ormond was staff, his position back at the bridge the one Reiter had decided to skip.
“You know what this is about, Captain.”
“No, sir.”
“Then send her in, Major. Her,” he added under his breath, “still not used to that.”
As far as Reiter could see, the messenger, red-faced and breathing heavily from her ride, looked like half the boys he’d had under his command. Eager and far too young.
She came to attention in front of the desk.
“Let’s have it, Corporal.”
“Sir. General Ormond’s regards. He says that if Captain Reiter makes himself known to you, he’s to be reminded his orders are from the emperor and he’s to return immediately to Karis with the mage.”
“And the general knows this how?”
“Runner from Lieutenant Geurin, sir.”
Hodges, Reiter figured. The boy was fast.
“Does the general want a response?”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Check with the major before you head back. I’m sure he’s got something you can take as long as you’re going.”
“Yes, sir!” The messenger snapped off a perfect salute, spun on one heel, and left the tent.
“She must be good on a horse,” the general said as the flap closed. “Even a scent of a beastman drives the big dumb brutes wild, and we can’t be sure we got all of them. I suspect there’s a few slinking around between Bercarit and the border.”
Was the girl’s beast one of them? He wasn’t sure how he felt about her finding him.
“I know Geurin’s father.” From the general’s tone, his opinion of the father was close to Reiter’s of the son. “It’s his uncle you have to watch, though. Smarmy bastard got himself a place at court. Looks like you’re returning immediately to Karis, Captain.”
“I don’t have the mage, sir.” The tangle hung limp from his fingertip.
“I’d lend you one of mine, but they’re all men.”
“It has to be a woman, sir.”
General Denieu took a long swallow of wine. “Then I guess you’ll have some explaining to do when you get to the capital.”
* * *
Mirian had no idea how long she’d been walking. Staggering. Stumbling. The best she could say about her pace was that she continued to move forward and time was passing.
Walking in the city, she’d never had to worry about the time. The clock on the Pack Hall and the clocks on the larger of the guild buildings rang every quarter hour. At home, there was the standing clock in the hall, the carriage clock in the parlor, the old mantel clock in the kitchen, and, if he was in the house, her father’s pocket watch. She’d asked for a watch of her own for the Lady’s Gift at Summer Solstice although it seemed unlikely she’d receive one; her mother considered women who carried watches o
verly masculine.
“But why do you need to know what time it is, Mirian?”
She hadn’t really had an answer for that. She still didn’t. Knowing how long she’d been walking wouldn’t get her to Karis any faster.
It took her a moment to realize that the track had ended, that she’d stepped out onto a rough road, traveled enough that only a narrow ridge of grass remained down the center line. She stopped and frowned and tried to remember what direction she’d been traveling and what direction she needed to travel in now. Her head ached almost as much as her feet and legs, and trying to pull up a coherent thought was a little like trying to pull matching ribbons from a sale bin.
Eventually, she worked out that turning left would take her back to the Aydori Road, the somewhat obvious name the Duke of Pyrahn had given the road that led to the bridge over the river. She didn’t want to go back to Aydori. Not yet. Didn’t think she could, even if she wanted to.
“Sometimes, you can only go on,” she announced to a pair of sparrows as she turned right. Yesterday morning, she’d been a different person. Today, she was walking to Karis.
It seemed to be taking a very long time.
Squinting up at the sky, she wondered what time it was. Afternoon, certainly, but how much past noon? The pocket watch she wanted had a beautifully enameled case—leaves piled one on the other, a hundred shades of green lying in a circle smaller than her palm. The pocket watch she’d likely get, if her father could overrule her mother, would be less beautiful and more practical. She was practical. She admitted it. Sensible, as she’d told Tomas Hagen.
Something on the ground stuck to her foot. Pulling her skirt in against her legs and looking down, she saw the something was black. When she lifted her foot, her sole was red. Although her broken blister had started bleeding again, it wasn’t her blood.
She found Tomas just off the road, a pile of damp, black fur, barely breathing.
His left shoulder looked like raw meat. On the one hand, he’d been lucky; the bone had stopped the silver from reaching any internal organs. On the other hand, she could see shards lying like ivory inlay about to be decoratively set into the exposed muscle.
Laying her bundle on the ground, Mirian sat, and gently lifted Tomas’ head into her lap. The Pack were very hard to kill; everyone knew that. Silver killed them because silver kept them from healing. There were professors at the university, Healer- and Metal-mages, working together studying why this was so, but as they couldn’t ask the Pack to injure themselves for science, the common belief was they weren’t making much progress. Tomas wasn’t healing so, once again, he must have silver in the wound.
Calling the metal to her was second level metals. Second. Until last night, she hadn’t even had first. But she’d cleared the metal out last night; therefore, she could do it again. She had to do it again, or Tomas Hagen would die. If duress was required, that would have to be duress enough.
Spreading her hand a hairsbreadth above the wound, she tried to think of silver but was so exhausted her mind kept wandering.
A tremor ran the length of Tomas’ body.
“Oh, Lord and Lady, Mirian, at least you’re not tied to a tree!” She bit her lip. Hard. The pain cleared her head enough for her to grab the litany of silver and hold it tight. Deadly and beautiful. Beautiful and deadly. Deadly and…“Enough! I want that shot out!” The silver slapped up into her palm, warm and no longer entirely solid. She tossed it aside and stared down at the wound. Was less bone visible than there’d been only a moment ago, or did she imagine what she wanted to see so badly?
First level healing maintained body temperature. Healer-mages neither sweated nor shivered. As society frowned on ladies sweating, Mirian’s mother had been thrilled when she’d passed the level. Mirian had never been able to master second level, a healing sleep, until she’d used it to stop Armin and, in all honesty, she hadn’t been thinking of healing when she’d touched the Imperial soldier. At third level, the professors began teaching the healing of light wounds, the students learning on pinpricks and small cuts sliced into the back of their hands. They spent weeks healing themselves before finally moving on to healing equally small wounds on each other.
Tomas’ wound was not small, and Mirian had never healed as much as a hangnail on herself.
She spread her hand just above the wound again and thought of flesh and bone and skin all growing back together. Thought of Tomas up and running. Thought and thought and never managed to find the place where she knew.
When she moved her hand, nothing had changed.
Tomas had certainly healed quickly from his more minor wound. Although, he’d changed almost immediately…
Did the change, and its reworking of flesh and bone see the wound as a flaw and correct it?
If he healed as he was, taking the time that kind of a wound required, he’d never use the leg again.
But if the injury was corrected…
“Tomas! You have to change.” She didn’t know if he could even hear her. “Tomas!”
Another tremor, more powerful than the first. Was he trying to change?
“Look, you think I smell amazing, so pay attention to me! You have to change!” Bending forward, she exhaled over his muzzle, unsure of how much more of her scent she could get to him given that his head was in her lap. “Tomas!” Another exhale. “Change!”
The tremor became a shudder, arms and legs lengthened, grew pale, he turned his face into her skirt and screamed. His shoulder looked better, not healed completely but, as far as Mirian could tell, the bone was whole and the flesh beginning to knit.
“Hurts.” She could feel the word against her skin.
“I know.” His skin glistened with sweat. “I have water.”
“I…have to…to change…again…”
“Drink first.”
“No. Won’t have…the courage if I…wait.”
The second change resulted in an oval scar, shiny and smooth. No fur grew on it or in the swollen flesh around it. Tomas lay with his mouth slightly open, panting rapidly, eyes wide.
Mirian settled them both into a more comfortable position, stroked her thumb over the soft black fur between his eyes and said softly, “Sleep.”
Karis wasn’t going anywhere.
Chapter Six
DANIKA HAD HEARD TWO SHOTS not long after they’d turned onto what passed for a road in this part of Pyrahn, but as the bouncing had to be worse on top of the coach than it was inside, she very much doubted Corporal Hare had hit anything, regardless of how good a shot he thought he was. Given that that they were still moving, that the horses hadn’t been hamstrung, that the soldiers hadn’t fallen screaming, that they continued to bounce about, she knew Hare couldn’t have missed a shot at any of the Pack.
And he couldn’t have hit what he shot at.
Couldn’t have.
A sudden lurch threw her sideways and Tagget grunted as he shoved her away. Between the sound of the wheels on the road, the creaking of the coach, and the pounding of hooves both before and behind, she had no idea if his grunt was a complaint or merely an observation.
The Hagen family coach she’d been taken from had been designed to absorb much of the road’s roughness, cushioning the necessity of travel from the unpleasantness. Imperial mail coaches were designed to get across the empire as quickly as possible. Sufficient padding had clearly been considered an unnecessary extra so when she bounced off the seat, her landing was, for all intents and purposes, uncushioned and the only reason the four of them weren’t tossed about like leaves on the wind was that the interior of Imperial mail coaches provided so little room they supported each other whether they wanted to or not.
Private Tagget was as insufficiently padded as the seat, his elbow and shoulder both annoyingly bony.
Danika was aware it might be considered foolish to resent a lack of comfort in her current situation—captured by enemies of Aydori, hands bound, her mage-craft contained, her unborn child threatened—but it helped
to keep the hysteria at bay. The farther they moved from the border, the more she wanted to weep and scream and throw herself at the soldiers guarding them, ripping their throats out with her own entirely inferior teeth.
She remembered reading an article about the Imperial army drafting women and thinking it wasn’t a terribly practical idea. If an army of men should be wiped out, the women remaining could manage with only the men who’d been unsuitable for war, but it took strong and healthy women to have strong and healthy babies. Of course, the Imperial army had no intention of being wiped out so, perhaps, extended as the army was, they were, in their own mind, being entirely practical. Here and now, she merely wished she’d had the same opportunity as those unknown women to learn how to fight.
Tagget had jammed himself into the corner of the coach, both hands wrapped loosely around the barrel of the musket he held between his legs. His eyes were closed under the flat brim of his bicorn and he seemed to be as relaxed as possible under the circumstances. Corporal Berger held a position similar to Tagget’s, but his slouch was a lie; every muscle tense, his eyes locked on the blur outside the small window in the top half of the door. He gripped his musket so tightly that the knuckles of his right hand were white, the fingers of his left tapping patterns across them.
Unbound, she could pull the air from their lungs and hold it from them until they collapsed, gasping for breath. She’d never used her mage-craft to hurt anyone, but she thought…no, she knew she could hurt these two men who were taking her away from her home. As though it sensed her desire, the net increased its constant pressure against her head. Or within her head; Danika wasn’t sure which. She breathed shallowly, almost panting, until the pain passed.
What could she do with the limited mage-craft it allowed her?
Berger bounced into Kirstin, swore, and jerked away. He was panting, much as she’d been. Was he in pain?