Shadowcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Conditions worsened the farther north they went. Men and horses floundered through waist-high snow. The army of Arden rarely had to move fast through a snowstorm. They did their fighting in the summers. Granted, the weather in Delphi was bad nearly all of the time, but they didn’t do too much marching around in it.

  One of the scouts reported seeing a small group of white-cloaked figures passing, going the other way. They were moving fast, wearing snowshoes, impossible to catch. Who the hell was that? Hal resisted the temptation to send a company to give chase. The mines had to be his first priority.

  They were still a half mile south of their target when the first shell fell among them, toward the rear of the column. It was canister shot, and when it exploded, the flying shrapnel tore men and horses to bits. The troops up front continued marching, unaware that anything was wrong, while those in the vicinity of the hit milled about in wild confusion.

  Another shell landed, this time toward the front of the line, and killed or injured a hundred men. All forward progress halted then, with men and horses scattered in all directions, but the snow made it slow going, and three more shells landed with brutal effectiveness before they could spread out enough to limit the damage. By now, those men who were still mounted had their hands full controlling their horses.

  By the time the second shell landed, Hal knew what had happened. How it had happened was another matter. He lifted his eyes to the horizon in time to see another missile soar into the sky.

  “The cannon!” he shouted to his second-in-command, and anyone else who would listen. “The miners have taken the cannon!” Except the idea that the desperate miners of Delphi could recognize the strategic importance of the cannon, seize them from the regulars, and actually use them against his army was hard to believe. Where was the company posted at the mine when all this was going on?

  However it happened, the guns on the cliffs were still lobbing missiles into their ranks with deadly accuracy, even though the troops weren’t packed so tightly as before. The next shot wasn’t a shell, but a load of scrap metal that spread across a wide area, killing men and horses as it fell from the sky. Soon the snow around them was stained red with blood and gore and parts of soldiers. It was a nightmare.

  They couldn’t stay where they were or they would be decimated. It was either move forward or retreat. “Charge!” Hal shouted, raising his sword above his head and spurring his horse forward. “To me! For the Red Hawk of Arden!” His officers took up the cry, driving their men toward the mines. Only, in the deep snow, “charge” was an exaggeration at best. They managed to prevent a wholesale rout, but as they pushed slowly forward, the deadly rain continued to fall, along with the snow. By the time they were close enough to the mountains to be out of range of the guns, their numbers were reduced by nearly half.

  For the second time in six months, I’m presiding over a slaughter, Hal thought. What am I doing wrong?

  For one gut-wrenching moment, he wondered if he’d been set up again.

  They were forced through a narrow ravine on the approach to the mine, and spears and lances and arrows showered down on them from both sides. Miners shooting arrows? Where did they learn to fire with such accuracy? It was almost impossible to spot the attackers in the snow; they seemed to blend in, somehow, white shadows only, constantly moving. It was like running a deadly gauntlet, death coming out of nowhere, men falling all around.

  Some of the men fled, all in a panic, shouting, “It’s the spirits! The demon spirits have come out of the mountains!” Most were seasoned fighters, veterans of campaigns in the Fells, who’d encountered deadly northern tactics in the Spirits.

  But the others pressed on, though fewer and fewer of them, and their attackers appeared in the flesh, wielding swords and lances and wearing white cloaks. They were like no miners Hal had ever seen, but like no soldiers, either. At first they were silent, and then they began howling, more and more of them, like a gale roaring through the mountains. And shouting, “For the Queen in the North! For the Gray Wolf!”

  These were not miners at all. Hal had miscalculated, seriously miscalculated, and now he and his men would pay for it.

  Hal pulled out the dispatch Shively had sent earlier, flipped it over, and scribbled a note on the back. He thrust it into Dupont’s hands. “Take this back to the garrison house and send it on to Temple Court.”

  Dupont blinked at him. “But, Captain . . . ?”

  “Go now, and that’s an order.” With that, Hal turned back to his decimated army.

  By the time the army of Arden stood before the mines, there were only a few hundred of them left. They were surrounded, fighting for their lives, and Hal saw no one who looked like a miner. Hal was standing back-to-back with another soldier, fighting three attackers hand to hand, when the soldier’s body jerked, then slumped to the ground, leaving Hal’s back unprotected. As he turned, something struck him on the back of the head, knocking him flat on his face in the snow. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes in time to see a white-clad soldier standing over him, raising his staff for the killing blow.

  Hal twisted, trying to avoid the blow, but it still landed, and he didn’t remember anything after that.

  22

  IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER

  When Hal awoke, he was lying in a stone chamber, on a hard pallet on the floor. His sword was gone, his wrists and ankles were manacled together, and his head hurt like fury. There were torches stuck into the walls at intervals, and as he lifted his head, he could see other bodies on other pallets around the room. None of the others wore the red hawk. He was the only one.

  The last thing he remembered was that he was fighting for his life in front of the Number Two mine and somebody clubbed him in the head. Why, then, was he still alive?

  Shadowy figures moved among the injured in the makeshift hospital, tending to them. The healers were dressed in nondescript clothing, and he didn’t recognize any of them, but then he wasn’t sure he would recognize any miner of Delphi, anyway.

  One of the attendants noticed he was awake, left the room, and returned with a weatherbeaten woman in torn and bloodstained copperhead garb, her hair a mass of trophy braids. She wore a wicked-looking dagger at her waist.

  What would a copperhead be doing here? Other than serving as just one more embellishment to Hal’s living nightmare. He eyed the dagger, weighing his chances of grabbing hold of it. When he looked up at the copperhead’s face, the challenge in her eyes was plain to read: Try me.

  Maybe later, Hal thought. He needed to find out where he was now in order to plan an escape.

  “Get up, flatlander,” the copperhead said in Common.

  Hal planted his feet and attempted to rise, but apparently took a little too long, because the warrior gripped his arm and jerked him to his feet, none too gently. Hal tried to pull free. That set his head spinning, and he braced himself against the wall to keep from toppling over or spewing on the floor.

  “Where am I?” he asked, playing for enough time to regain his balance.

  From the copperhead’s expression, Hal might have been a cockroach she’d squashed under her boot. “I’ll let Captain Gray tell you anything she wants you to know,” she said, giving Hal a shove toward the door. “She’s the one that spared your life, though I don’t know why.”

  Glad it wasn’t up to you, Hal thought. And then: Who the hell is Captain Gray?

  They threaded their way between the pallets and out of the room and into a narrow tunnel, black rock on either side. A fine black dust lay over everything.

  Still in Delphi, after all. Hal’s muddled brain finally matched up the dots and he realized he must be underground, inside one of the mines. He had never been down one before. The air was rank, oppressive, almost too thick to breathe. The length of chain between his ankles allowed him just enough room to shuffle along quickly. He had to pay close attention or risk falling on his face on the rocky floor.

  They came to a side tunnel, guarded by two stone-faced, sp
attercloth-clad soldiers. Highlanders. What were they doing here?

  And then he remembered. There had been northerners at the mines, fighting alongside the miners.

  His escort conferred with the Highlanders, and Hal was ushered into another chamber hewn out of the rock. A woman dressed in brown-and-green spattercloth was seated behind a makeshift desk made out of ammunition crates, scrawling something onto a page. Her coloring was different than that of Hal’s escort, and her honey-colored hair was woven into one fat braid, beaded and feathered as well. She wore a scarf—the kind used by northern officers to distinguish rank. A captain’s scarf. This must be Captain Gray.

  Just behind her stood another woman in the same colors who could make three of most men. She was all muscle, and her head nearly brushed the roof of the cave. Something told him that this was the captain’s bodyguard.

  Lately, it seemed that he could use one himself.

  Hal stood awkwardly, just inside the door, his escort next to him, for what seemed an eternity, while everyone in the room ignored him.

  When the captain finally set aside her paperwork and looked up at him, Hal’s heart almost stopped. It was the officer from Queen Court Vale with the raptor eyes—the one who’d handed him his ass and then saved it by killing his own mages.

  Hal could tell by her amused expression that she remembered him, too. “Happy Solstice, Captain Matelon,” she said. “May the sun come again.”

  Solstice? Hal had forgotten all about the holiday. He should have known by the bits of evergreen tacked up on the walls.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Hal said. Personally, he’d have to say that it wasn’t off to a very good start. “If you know who I am, you have the advantage of me.” He’d thought that was a fine turn of phrase, but the northerners seemed to find it funny.

  “Yes, Captain,” the officer said. “I do have the advantage of you.” Everybody laughed. Even the fierce-faced copperhead smiled. When the merriment died down, she added, “I’m Captain Gray, of the queen’s Highlander army.”

  Captain Gray. The Gray Wolf. It all made sense now, except—

  “But the Highlanders never come south of the Spirit Mountains.”

  “Surprise.” Gray’s smile grew wider, toothier, almost . . . wolfish.

  There were two other people sitting on crates nearby. One was a scruffy-looking man with torn, bloodstained clothing and a bristle of beard. The other was a tall, slender girl in finely made civilian trekking gear, her midnight hair done up into an elegant knot. She looked like she would be more at home in one of the salons at court than in the Number Two mine. Maybe it was because she was the only one not wearing somebody else’s blood.

  She noticed him looking at her, because she said, “Captain Matelon, I am Julianna Barrett, the queen’s liaison to the Patriots of Delphi.” She gestured toward the scruffy man. “Perhaps you know Fletcher, here. He’s one of our local partners.”

  Hal studied the man, then shook his head. “Forgive me,” he said. “Perhaps we’ve met, but—”

  “I’ve been out of the mines a few years now,” Fletcher said. “I run the leather shop in town. I made some boots for you once. Other than that, I always went out of my way to avoid you.” He grinned, exposing highly variable teeth. “Welcome to the free city of Delphi.”

  “Our newest friend and ally,” Barrett added.

  “Your newest . . .” Hal stopped and organized his thoughts. “You’ll never hold Delphi. Our armies will come north again in the spring. You know they will.”

  “And we’ll be ready for ’em next time,” Fletcher said. “We won’t be caught napping again.”

  Gray didn’t look particularly worried, either. “Perhaps we have more surprises in store for Arden. Perhaps if this place were defended properly, it wouldn’t be so easy to take. Perhaps, the Maker willing, your despicable king will be dead by then.” That last part she said with considerable venom.

  It’s personal, Hal thought. I wonder why.

  “Well,” Hal said into the charged silence. “It seems that a lot can happen in a day.” He paused. “What about my men?” he asked. “Where are they?”

  “Your troops here at the mines fought bravely,” Gray said. “Unfortunately, very few of them survived. At present, a few hundred of your men are huddled in your indefensible headquarters, trapped between us and the militia in town, trying to decide who to surrender to. So far, the miners have taken the town from the Ardenine blackbirds, killed most of them, and driven the rest out of town. As I understand it, not many got away. People are truly angry in this city of Delphi. Perhaps you can explain it?” Gray raised an eyebrow. When Hal said nothing, she added, “If you ask me, I think your men would be better off surrendering to us than to the Patriots.”

  Hal had to agree. But he still couldn’t quite put this puzzle together, how a miners’ riot turned into an invasion.

  “Your father is Lord Matelon, correct?” Barrett said.

  “Aye,” Hal said, seeing no purpose in denying it.

  “It was Captain Gray who recognized you and intervened to save your life,” Barrett said.

  Hal glanced at Gray, then away. “If you’re thinking about demanding a ransom from my father, he won’t pay it.”

  “Why not?” Captain Gray again. “He doesn’t want you back?”

  “I’m going to assume he wants me back,” Hal said. “But he doesn’t believe in paying ransoms or meeting the demands of hostage takers. Though he might use my death as a means to rally his bannermen.”

  “Well,” Barrett said, with a wry smile, “from what I’ve heard about your father, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  “Whatever you decide to do with me, I’d ask you to show mercy to my soldiers. They are good men, mostly, and here under orders.”

  Captain Gray fingered her braid. “Shall we show them the same mercy afforded our captured troops by the king of Arden?” she said in a voice as hard and cold as tempered steel.

  “Hopefully not,” Hal said, startled into honesty.

  The two of them stared at each other for a long moment.

  Finally, Gray settled back in her seat. “If your remaining troops surrender,” she said, “we will treat them as humanely as we can, as prisoners of war.”

  “Thank you,” Hal said.

  “If . . .”

  Here it comes, Hal thought, my opportunity to prove what kind of man I am. “If?”

  “If you write a message to the duty officer at your headquarters, giving permission for their surrender under those conditions,” Gray said. “I also want you to write to your father, and tell him what has happened.”

  Hal waited for the rest, and when it didn’t come, said, “That’s it? No demands?”

  “No demands,” Gray said. “We just want him to know. Nobody should have to wait and wonder about a loved one gone missing.” Again, there was an unexplained edge to her voice.

  “It would probably be best to send it via my brother Robert at Temple Church,” Hal said. “That would be the surest way to get it to my father these days.” Without its being intercepted.

  “We’ll see that it gets to him,” Barrett said.

  Gray tapped her pen against paper. “I wondered if you could help me with something. We’ve been looking for someone we understand is currently in Delphi, but we’ve been unable to locate him. Perhaps you can help. A Lieutenant Karn?”

  “Karn?” Hal shouldn’t have been surprised. Northern spies were everywhere. “He was here, but he’s gone now. He left a few weeks ago.”

  “Too bad. Do you know what he was doing here?”

  “Fighting the plague,” Hal said. “That’s what we were told.”

  “And is there plague in Delphi?”

  Hal hesitated, unsure what he could say without betraying his command. “Lieutenant Karn said there was plague in Delphi, so there must have been. I never saw it, myself.”

  Gray came to her feet and dusted off the seat of her breeches. She was a tall one, too—she almost
matched him in height. “The miners say they haven’t seen any plague, either. So why do you think Karn was here?”

  Hal met the captain’s eyes, and for some reason found himself telling the truth. “This is just a guess, but I believe he was looking for a particular girl.”

  Gray studied Hal, then nodded, as if she’d decided to believe him. “Why did he leave, then?”

  “I believe he found her,” Hal said.

  23

  FLAMECASTER

  The saddlery in Middlesea was a busy place, and the tanners and jorimers should have been used to custom orders from the multinational clientele who came and went through the port. Still, the clerk behind the counter raised his eyebrows when Jenna Bandelow gave him the sketch of what she wanted made.

  He turned the drawing this way and that, as if thinking that he had it upside down. “What’s this for again?”

  Jenna had her story ready. “I’m a performer in a traveling show,” she said. “I ride the elyphants and gryphons. Our gryphon’s grown out of his tack again.”

  “Gryphon?” The man’s jaw set stubbornly. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Come out and see,” Jenna said. “Only five steelies for standing room. We’re here all week.”

  “Five steelies! Not likely,” the clerk snapped. “I got little enough money and I’ll not be wasting it on the likes of you.”

  Jenna shook her bag of coin. “If you’ve got so little coin, I’d think you’d be eager for the business. Can you do it or not? Elsewise I’ll spend my little bit of money someplace else.”

  The clerk studied the drawing some more, then looked up with a crafty expression. “This here’s going to be pricey, ’cause it takes a lot of leather to make it adjustable. Do you really need this much tolerance in a—?”

  “This gryphon’s growing fast,” Jenna said. “I want to be able to use this for a year, at least.”

  “Hmm. Does it need to be brain-tanned steer hide? And brass fittings? That gets to be—”