The Burning Kingdoms

by Sally Green

  Catherine’s mind went back to the demon world and her time there with Ambrose. He’d hated it. He’d have much preferred to be in the battle aboveground. Tzsayn took her hand and leaned into her, whispering, “Sir Ambrose has more lives than twenty cats. He’ll be back.”

  Catherine nodded and smiled. She thought again of how Ambrose had talked of lives being held by thread. Each of the men in his Demon Troop was another thread that was supporting him. And, somehow, she still felt bound to him herself. That thread would never break—they were always going to be connected.

  “Anything else?” Tzsayn looked around the group, but no one spoke. “Then the army will move out to their forward positions tomorrow morning. The scullers will attack tomor-row night, the land army at dawn the following day.”

  Once the others had left, Tzsayn said, “I wish I could be with my men. It doesn’t feel right to be sending them into battle while I lounge here in my tent.”

  “I doubt you’ll be lounging. And it wouldn’t be safe,” Catherine replied, refraining from adding that it was practically impossible. Tzsayn was improving every day, but he wouldn’t be fully fit for weeks, and even then would have to relearn how to ride with only one leg.

  He took her hand again. “The queen needs to be safe too. I know you want to ride out with your men but I’m still not happy about it.”

  “I’ll remain well back, don’t worry. I can’t fight, but perhaps I can inspire.”

  “You won’t be tempted to throw a spear again?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I confess I’ve tried the smoke, but it no longer works for me. I must be getting old.”

  Tzsayn smiled. “You’re not old. Though I’m glad you’re not going to be tempted to use it. I’m still frightened of losing you.”

  Catherine kissed him. “I’ll be careful. My future with you is too bright to risk.”

  * * *

  • • •

  In bed that night Catherine clung to her husband and hardly slept. She wanted to savor every moment with Tzsayn, feeling his body next to hers. But all too soon it was morning and Tanya was helping her to dress.

  Catherine wore a simple white silk shift, over which was her skirt of chain mail. Then came the breastplate, which still contained the small bottle of demon smoke secured inside. She considered removing it but decided against it. The smoke had always brought her good luck. Maybe it would again. She held the breastplate firmly to her body as Tanya positioned the backplate and strapped the two tightly together.

  “I don’t see why I have to stay in camp,” Tanya complained, tugging on a strap. “You should have a maid with you.”

  “I’m not out for a pleasant jaunt through the countryside, Tanya. I’m leading an army.”

  But in truth, Catherine was thinking back to how she had lost Sarah in Tornia and Jane outside Rossarb. Maids didn’t fare well in battles and she couldn’t bear to lose Tanya.

  Outside, the men were ready. Tzsayn made a short appearance before the troops to much cheering and shouting. Catherine was delighted to see how just the sight of her husband lifted the spirits of the Pitorian army.

  Tzsayn turned to her and said, “Don’t do anything rash. If you are hurt, I won’t be able to bear it. So, for me, please, please stay safe.”

  He kissed her and the men cheered, but Catherine hardly noticed. She stroked his cheek and promised, “I will.”

  Davyon was sitting astride his huge horse at the head of the blue-hairs, who outnumbered the white-hairs standing beside them ten to one. They would bear the brunt of the fighting, with Catherine’s men providing support on the flank.

  Catherine mounted her own horse and they set off together. They split at the stream just outside the camp, Catherine’s white-hairs heading due north to the River Ross, Davyon and the blue-hairs turning west to the coast road before they too swung north. Once over the shallow stream, Catherine took a last glance at the camp and Tzsayn. She was sure he was there somewhere, looking back at her. Then she turned away and set her gaze forward, toward the far gray wall of the Northern Plateau.

  MARCH

  ABASK, CALIDOR

  THE BOYS swarmed down the steep-sided valleys of Abask. March was in his home country, the land where his mother, father, and brother had died, slaughtered by Brigantines, by Aloysius. And now March was running with Brigantines and servant to Aloysius’s son. And this, more than anything, hurt and shamed him. But what surprised him was that Harold was aware of how he might be feeling. As they ran, the prince said, “You’re in your old country, March, but now you’re fighting with your father’s enemies. What’s that like?”

  March found it was more and more of a struggle to slip back into his blank servitude, but he tried. “Abask died years ago, Your Highness. This land is empty now and times have changed. I must fight for my own future.”

  “Times have changed indeed. Now we boys will rule the world.”

  We? No, you want to rule. Anyone who gets in your way will be killed. All I can do is try to ensure Edyon never crosses your path.

  Harold looked down at Calidor before him. The view was an idyllic scene of woods and green farmland; wherever the Calidorian army was, it wasn’t here. “Thelonius is hiding in his castle, I can feel it. He’s terrified to meet us.”

  “Perhaps he thinks you will stay at the wall and await the main Brigantine army.”

  “Like my father wanted me to do. Those old men are out of touch with modern warfare. Their days are numbered. I am the future. The boys’ brigades are the future. Nothing will stop us. I’m going to make history.”

  And on they ran. Some boys inhaled more smoke as they went. They didn’t stop to eat or drink—the smoke was all they needed. They ran south down the hills, crossing fields to join the road to Calia. The first Calidorians they saw were at a village on the road. An old man stood in front of his cottage and stared at them. In the distance March saw some villagers fleeing for the trees. Harold gave the order for them to be killed. March was shocked that the boys didn’t hesitate. These were ordinary people, not soldiers, but Harold didn’t care.

  At the next village more were killed, but Harold was already getting bored of it. It was a diversion from his real task, and it was slowing them down, so the boys ran through the villages, but they didn’t chase those who fled.

  The boys ran all day, and it was only when the sun was low in the sky that March saw the sea and Calia Castle before it. As they neared, the sky darkened as night fell, and torches were lit on the highest battlements. Somehow the walls of the castle looked taller than March remembered, even though he’d lived much of his life here. Mostly he’d been inside looking out. Now, looking up, even with smoke flowing through him, he couldn’t see how Harold could take these walls. If Edyon was in there, he was safe.

  March had expected that Thelonius and his army would be waiting for them outside the castle, but they met no opposition.

  Harold muttered, “He’s gone to the border wall. He’ll be on the coast road, plodding up there to join the bulk of his army and confront Thornlees.”

  March tried to make out the flags at the very top of the castle. It was hard to see in the dark, but he was sure that Thelonius’s flag was not flying. Harold seemed to be correct: Thelonius would be heading to the point of invasion, not expecting the boys’ brigades to move so quickly through the mountains.

  So Thelonius was not here, but what about Edyon? Was he up there looking down on March? March was sure Edyon wouldn’t be involved in any fighting—Edyon was so hope-less he wouldn’t even try. All March could do was hope that the Calidorian army and the castle wall would do their jobs.

  Rashford came over to report to Harold. “Your Highness. There’s no sign of opposition outside the castle. We’ve been through the city. It’s mostly empty.”

  “Everyone’s withdrawn into the castle. They’re like women—too frightened to come outsi
de. Well, we’ll just have to go in after them.”

  Harold positioned the brigades around the castle and tasked them with finding a way up onto the ramparts. The boys set to work using grappling hooks and ropes attached to spears. But, even with the power of the boys’ throws, few hooks reached the ramparts and, although the spears did reach, most were quickly thrown back down. The Calidorian guards were lined along the castle battlements and seemed to be having fun, even shouting encouragement to the boys who were climbing the few ropes that stayed in place, and allowing them to get partway up the ropes before cutting them. All the while, arrows rained down on the boys—sometimes in thick volleys, then nothing, then just a few arrows aimed at boys throwing spears, followed by another thick volley. Although the boys had shields, some were hit.

  The night wore on and Rashford reported to Harold that many boys had been hit by arrows; some had healed with the smoke, but seven Bulls had been killed, along with forty other boys. “The Calidorian tactics are working nicely for them,” he complained. “They’re sitting up there laughing at us.” Rashford looked angry and added, “Eventually we’ll run out of smoke or boys.”

  “And have you a better plan, Bull leader?”

  Rashford shook his head. “No, Your Highness. My apologies, I shouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me.”

  “No, you shouldn’t. Now do something useful and bring me the leader of the Wasps.”

  The boy, Tiff, soon joined them. He was smaller and younger than Harold, with thick black hair and deep-set eyes.

  “Your boys are the best climbers, Tiff. Can any of them climb that wall?”

  Tiff squinted at it. “There are narrow fingerholds in the stone. If it’s like that the whole way up, it’s possible, but it ain’t easy. Not many could do it. Perhaps me, Ned, and Shardly.”

  “Then take them and do it while it’s dark. We’ll withdraw, make them think we’ve given up for the night. You go to the south side. Find a way to the battlements, and once you’re there, hold the position. We’ll throw ropes up to you on spears. You’ll have to defend the position while the rest of your brigade join you. It’s an opportunity for the Wasps to show the other brigades that you are the best.”

  Tiff grinned. “We’ll show ’em.”

  “Yes, you will have the glory. The Bulls are not so brave as you.” Harold gestured to Rashford. “Their leader is quaking with fear.” Rashford looked aghast, but raised his chin as Harold continued: “You can take your Bulls on the night patrol. Or is that too frightening, Bull leader?”

  “My boys can do that, Your Highness.”

  “Ensure the Calidorians don’t counterattack from the castle. Check again that they’ve no troops hidden in the surrounding area.”

  Rashford bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness.” And he turned and ran back to his brigade.

  The boys withdrew out of range of the arrows and set up camps, lighting fires, eating food stolen from the homes in Calia. It appeared that they didn’t expect the Wasps to succeed in their assault, at least not anytime soon. But Harold couldn’t rest; he went to watch the Wasps, and Sam and March, of course, had to go with him.

  The three climbers were each trying different routes but all seemed to be stuck at different points about a third of the way up the wall. There was a slight overhang at that level, and getting past it seemed impossible. One boy fell with a faint cry. Harold cursed him for making a noise. The boy wouldn’t make a noise again, though, as the fall had certainly killed him.

  Tiff was stretching up past the overhang when his legs slipped. March winced; he didn’t want them to get in, but he didn’t want to watch Tiff die. But then Tiff was moving faster. He’d made it. He’d found a route. The second boy now climbed across to the same place. After a bit of a struggle, he made it up to join Tiff.

  “Well done, Wasps.” Harold pumped his fist. “Go and tell the brigade leaders to prepare their boys and get them to join me here, Sam. The Wasps will do this.”

  And the two Wasps began moving up together, slowly and steadily heading for the ramparts above, but had the cry alerted the Calidorians? March stared at the silent castle and willed it to be so.

  Tiff reached the rampart, swung onto it, and was out of sight for a moment; then he reappeared and helped the other Wasp up as the brigade leaders joined Harold.

  A spear with a rope attached was sent hard and fast up to the rampart. The throw was perfect. The spear skimmed up past Tiff, and he reached out and caught it as it slowed at the top of its flight. Another spear was sent up as Wasps began to ascend the first rope.

  They’re going to make it. Where are the Calidorian guards?

  And, as if in answer to March’s question, a shout went up from the castle. A guard had spotted the Wasp boys. It was impossible to see what was happening on the ramparts. There were only two small Wasps up there, but two boys on smoke were worth about six men.

  There was more shouting from the Calidorian guards, but more Wasps were climbing the ropes at speed, and the ropes weren’t cut down. Whatever the guards were doing to try to stop them, it wasn’t working. The Wasps were climbing over the ramparts. Tiff appeared and waved.

  They’re in. They’ve made it.

  But the Calidorians would counterattack. Could the Wasps hold it until more boys joined them?

  “Bring everyone to this point,” Harold shouted. “Send up more ropes! I want more boys up there now.” He ran to the castle wall to climb a rope himself as a body fell from above. It landed with a horrible, dull crunch on the paving in front of March, who jumped back, swearing and shaking. Harold didn’t flinch, but merely stepped over the body of the Calidorian guard that was bleeding and broken at his feet.

  Harold started to climb, and March and Sam followed. March pulled himself up in the same way that he’d climbed the border wall, but this was different; this was much higher, and, although the smoke made him strong, looking down was terrifying. As March reached the top and leaped over the ramparts, Harold had already joined the fight, killing three men with the first three strikes of his sword. Sam was close to him. Their strength and swordsmanship together were making all the difference. The other boys pressed after them and March followed at the rear, stepping on bodies that now lay two deep on the ground. March wasn’t entirely sure who to cheer for. He wanted the Calidorians to win but didn’t particularly want to be tossed over the ramparts to the ground below.

  However, the Calidorians weren’t winning. They were falling back. They weren’t outnumbered, but they couldn’t put more men on the narrow battlements, and Harold and the boys were cutting through the defenses. Soon there was no one left to fight, at least not at this level, but the boys were still far from taking the castle. They were merely in possession of an outer ring. They had to move up and in, but the boys had gained confidence, and it seemed the more they fought, the more they wanted to fight, as if the smoke fed the desire. As for March, he hadn’t thrown even one of his metal shots. All he did was walk over the bodies of the fallen, his thoughts with Edyon.

  Just stay safe, Edyon. And please, let the Calidorian guards inside do a better job.

  Harold was enjoying himself. “We’re nearly there, boys. We can do this. We can destroy our enemies. A famous victory for my boy army and for Brigant. Calia Castle will be ours.”

  More like a famous victory for Harold.

  March thought of using his shot. Could he get Harold in the back of the head? Probably, but the boys would turn on him if he tried anything. Then he’d have no chance of helping Edyon at all.

  By now some boys were copying the Wasps and trying their climbing skills. A few failed and fell back, but it wasn’t long before the first boy reached the battlements above and sent a rope down. He’d met no opposition. The Calidorians must have retreated farther into the castle keep. That was where they’d have their final defense.

  Harold knew it too. “The castle
is nearly ours. Calia is nearly ours. They’re terrified of us, boys. One more assault and the victory is ours. Kill them all. Kill them all!” The boys screamed with delight as March followed Harold up another rope and then along the terrace, where there was open access. It had never been imagined that anyone could climb this high. The boys ran past March—coming to the main group of guards, who fought together. The men towered over most of the boys, but the boys were too fast and too strong. The men were brought down one by one. Some tried to run, but it was hopeless. The boys swarmed across the rooms and terraces, children cutting adults to pieces and shouting with glee as if at a fair.

  And it wasn’t just soldiers who were killed but unarmed townsfolk and servants. The boys didn’t care—they attacked anyone in their way. Men’s heads were sliced from their bodies; blood made the floor slippery; shouts and screams came from all over the castle. It was mayhem, and the boys were loving it. March was horrified. These people weren’t soldiers. But there was nothing he could do for them. The only thing he could do was try to ensure Edyon was safe if he was here, but how he’d do that, March had no idea.

  He’ll have gone. He can’t possibly be here. They’d send him somewhere safe.

  But March had to be sure. In the mayhem, hoping no one would be keeping close track of his movements, he ran to the private quarters, to the rooms of Thelonius’s eldest son. This room would surely now be Edyon’s. And it looked that way: the clothes and boots seemed to have been made for him, a parchment on the table was addressed to him. This was his room. The bedsheets were in a tangle as if Edyon had just risen, as if his servant had had no time to make the bed.

  That means he’s been in the castle recently. He’s still here somewhere. Oh, no, Edyon.

  March ran from room to room. He knew this place intimately. Knew the quickest way through. The bedchambers were all deserted; Thelonius’s rooms were also empty, but as he ran, three other boys arrived, gasping with delight at the riches around them, riches they’d never even seen before. One boy was throwing silk cushions in the air, another was pulling on tall black boots, while the third was marching through the rooms, shouting, “Where are the crowns? I want a crown!” The boys were delirious with success and didn’t know what to do with it. March was shocked. He had no love for this place, and yet he’d grown up here and had a respect for its order and calm and beauty. But there was no time to think of it now; he had to find Edyon.