by Morgan Rice
“Siobhan?” Haxa said. “The woman of the fountain?”
Kate nodded.
“A dangerous foe to have. I should turn you away and tell you to do what she says.” Haxa looked down at what she was whittling. “But it seems that I must give you a chance.”
Kate saw that she’d carved a series of small, flat ovals, each no bigger than a finger joint. They had symbols on them, angular letters that seemed suitable for carving into stone as easily as wood. She watched as Haxa tipped them into a leather bag.
“Pick one,” she said. “We’ll see whether I should help you or not.”
Kate reached into the bag. It seemed like a foolish way to do things, relying on no more than chance.
“Don’t just grab for it,” Haxa said. “Feel which one calls to you.”
Kate tried to do as the witch wanted, sinking into the space where she’d learned to feel for the energy of the world around her. One of the tiles seemed to feel different from the others, and Kate plucked it out.
It was blank. Haxa took it from her, staring at it, and even if she had the kind of walls Kate had come to know from witches, Kate could still tell that she was surprised.
“There were no blank tiles,” Haxa said.
“What does that mean?” Kate asked.
“It means…” She nodded. “I’ll help you. There may be a way to do it, even to free you, but I warn you now, it will be dangerous. This kind of unbinding… it could destroy you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Kate said.
Haxa looked down. “Very well, return to me at the full waxed moon, and we will see what can be done.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was, the Master of Crows had found, an art to assaulting a town or city. Foolish men charged in with siege ladders or broke against the walls like a tide. The ones who won did so by building pressure, building fear.
“Remind me of the name of this town,” he said to an aide, pointing down to the town that sat below the rise where they stood, partly hidden by trees along its ridge.
“Dathersford, my lord,” the man said.
He nodded. They were making progress. Sending his attention to the crows flying above revealed his forces spread out less like the army that they were and more like the beaters who might go before a hunt, driving game birds into the open for men to bring down. Instead of game birds, though, they drove people, pushing them toward the town, killing only those who strayed.
“I wonder how much longer that name will be spoken,” he said.
“I do not know, my lord,” his aide replied.
He looked down from the rise where he stood, taking in the city. How many lives were there within it? How many opportunities to feed the crows their due? It was a flat, old-fashioned place, encircled by walls that had probably kept out a hundred sets of raiders in the old days. There was a time when that might have looked formidable to him. Now, he knew better.
“Are the artillerists in place?” the Master of Crows asked, turning to one of his captains, Marroth. The crows told him the answer before his captain nodded, but it was still useful for men to report to him. It reminded them of their place.
“All is ready, my lord,” the captain said.
The Master of Crows shook his head. “Not all. One crew is mired in the mud half a mile from where it should be. Send riders to protect them, and porters to dig them out.”
“Yes, my lord,” Marroth said. It was always good to see the widening eyes of those who found themselves reminded of what he could do. It told them that no plot would work, no attempt to trick him or lie.
As the captain hurried away, the Master of Crows returned his attention to the fleeing groups of peasants, harried by his men to keep them moving. Some of them ran for their lives, others trudged in lines as they tried to take their possessions with them. Idly, the Master of Crows sent one of his creatures down toward a captain of the horse, landing it on an outstretched arm.
“There are peasants to the west moving too slowly,” he had the beast croak. “They have carts of food. Take the carts, drive the peasants on.”
Food was as important a weapon in war as any cannon or sword. Drive enough people into a town before a siege, and it would not be able to feed itself. There were other uses for them too.
“Here they come,” he said to the men around him. “Be ready.”
Around him, the men of his army stood, preparing for what was to come, moving with the discipline that came from knowing that failure would be punished.
Now, the fleeing peasants came into view, running in disorganized waves of humanity, hurrying across the ground before the city. The Master of Crows could feel the tension rising amongst his men, obviously eager to begin their work.
“Wait,” he commanded, watching, letting the first fleeing figures reach the town’s open gates. “Now.”
His men surged past him, down onto the flat ground before the city. They moved in a sea of ochre uniforms, covering the ground with the controlled speed of fighting men rather than the panic of the fleeing.
Even so, they quickly caught up with the slowest, their blades beginning the grim work. The screams carried over it in a way they probably would not have in a true battle. There was no musket fire to drown them out, no clash of steel on steel, only the dying of the weak and the roars of the bloodthirsty.
In the distance, beyond the violence, the Master of Crows saw the gates to the city starting to close.
“The city’s leader is foolish,” the Master of Crows observed. “He should have closed the gates days ago to keep out hungry mouths. He should have closed them the moment he knew we were coming.”
Not that it would have made much of a difference. Gates could be dealt with. For now, those of Dathersford slammed shut, the sound of it ringing out with the finality of a tomb door closing. Some of those the New Army had sent running had made it inside. More still stood out on the plain before the town, shut out from it as surely as the Master of Crows’ men were. Some ran, some struck at the gates with their fists, a few even tried to climb the walls.
The Master of Crows’ army fell on them and slaughtered them, men, women, and children. They cut them down as they ran, or begged, or even tried to fight. There was no mercy.
“Bring the spikes, and load the cannon,” the Master of Crows said.
His captains hurried to obey. For his part, the Master of Crows set off on a slow walk across the battlefield, strolling through it as calmly as if he’d been wandering along a promenade. There were screams and moans from those who were merely wounded rather than finished, their cacophony adding to the sight of mangled flesh and the stench of death.
The Master of Crows stopped outside the walls, where his aides were already setting up impaling spikes. As he watched, they dragged a couple of the wounded peasants toward them, ignoring their screams.
“Please,” a woman begged. “I’ve done nothing to you. You don’t need to do this. Show some mercy!”
The Master of Crows regarded her impassively. “And what good would mercy do? What fear would it bring?”
He listened to the wounded scream while his men executed them.
Only once they were done did he turn back to the city. Its walls were lined with men now, still little more than a rabble, although with a few more fighting men amongst them than the villages had held. It was the way of things: men kept their armies close to them, not wasting them on those further away.
The Master of Crows gestured, and horns blared.
“I will give you three choices,” he said, his voice carrying with echoes as every crow in the city repeated it. “The first is to surrender now. If you do that, you will lose nothing but your freedom. This city will become mine, and you will continue your lives. You have one turn of the glass to decide.”
Very deliberately, he had one brought forward, his men turning it.
“We’re safe behind our walls!” a fat man in the rich clothes of a merchant called back. “I’m the mayor of this town
, and Dathersford will not surrender to you! We have stood through war before. You do not scare us.”
“As you wish,” the Master of Crows said. Even so, he waited the full turn of the glass, letting those within have time in which to watch the writhing agony of those on the impaling spikes, giving them time in which to see the ones that still stood empty.
Finally, the last grains of sand ran out, and the gates were not open. He turned to Marroth. “Begin.”
Trumpets blared to give the first signal, and artillery roared in response. Cannon blared with the kind of power that had once belonged only to sorcerers. Mortars threw stones up to fall within the city. Muskets sounded, firing at anyone foolish enough to keep their heads above the parapets once it began.
Walls that had stood through centuries of previous violence cracked and crumbled as cannonballs struck them. The gates that had slammed closed so defiantly turned into things composed of splinters that jabbed at those beyond. The New Army tore the protections from the city as surely as a servant taking away an unwanted cloak.
Finally, the Master of Crows held up a hand. The bombardment ceased almost instantly, leaving silence that only seemed greater for the noise that had gone before. He spoke again, and again, his words were carried by the crows.
“Your first choice is gone to you, but you have two more. You can surrender now, or you can fight on. If you surrender, you will lose a little. One-third of the city will be taken as slaves, while your leaders will be executed. My men will have one day of looting before they leave. That is the price of not surrendering at once. If you fight… not one soul within the city will be spared. No two bricks will stand together. Dathersford will cease to be.”
Very deliberately, he turned the glass again.
He waited, standing still even as his men started to move into position to begin their assault on the town. They set themselves near the breaches, but also brought the cannon around to bring down the rest of the walls if required.
The sands were almost gone by the time the small delegation came through the gates, visibly shaking. The fat man who had called down his defiance was at their head, his hands bound behind him as some of the city’s guards shoved him along with a coterie of others.
“These are the leaders of the city,” one of the men said. “We wish to accept… we want to accept your offer.”
The Master of Crows smiled, gesturing for his men to move forward.
“Tell the men that they have one day,” he said to his aides. “And get the slave lines marching back to the boats. After that, we need to be ready to move again.”
“Yes, my lord,” Marroth said.
Behind him, the Master of Crows heard the screams as the executions began. He smiled at that, knowing how much the fear would do when they finally got to Ashton.
Soon enough, it would be the Dowager on a spike, and her kingdom would be his.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sophia stood by Ishjemme’s docks, staring out in the hope that one of the incoming ships would bear good news. She watched as ships and smaller boats came and went, hoping each time one pulled up to the docks that it would bring with it the one message she wanted to hear:
Sebastian was coming for her.
She’d started by looking out from the castle’s walls, but that hadn’t been enough for her. What if Sebastian came and found himself turned away, or was even attacked as one of Ishjemme’s enemies? Sophia couldn’t stand for that to happen, so now, each day, she came and stood by the docks, waiting and hoping.
Briefly, she saw a young man whose broad shoulders reminded her of Sebastian, and she found herself starting forward without even thinking about it. Then the young man turned and Sophia saw that his features were too round, his beard a full thing that had no place in her memories. She stepped back again with a sigh.
Beside her, Sienne pressed against her leg to comfort her. The forest cat went everywhere in the city with her, looking around with a mix of curiosity and superiority that only a cat could manage, and leaving her side only to snatch fish heads from passing fishing vessels.
“Are you still waiting for Sebastian?” Kate asked.
While Sophia had spent her days wandering around the city, enjoying learning about her uncle’s home with the aid of Rika, Jan, Endi, and Oli, Kate had mostly spent her time beyond the walls with Frig and Ulf. She had hunted with them while Sophia had spent her time learning about the different clans of the dukedom, and had toured defenses while Sophia had spent her time trying to learn a few fragments of the local dialect and understand the alliances that Ishjemme had built.
“He’ll come,” Sophia said, knowing that Sebastian would follow if he could. She had to believe that. Her fingers found the ring he’d given her. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
“If he comes, they’ll announce him at the castle, in the warm,” Kate said. She didn’t sound as though she really believed he would be following.
“It’s not just Sebastian,” Sophia said. “There might be news of our parents.”
“Because you sent a message,” Kate said. She sounded as though she wasn’t any more hopeful about that, although she also sounded as though she wanted to be.
If we can find them, we will, Sophia sent across to her.
It doesn’t mean we should be waiting on the docks, Kate sent back. They want to talk to you at the castle about allies, and diplomacy, and…
“And other things you’re too busy hunting to bother with?” Sophia guessed.
“Not just hunting,” Kate said, and for a moment, her expression was serious. I found someone in the hills who…”
What? Sophia sent. Don’t leave me waiting for you to finish.
“News! News from the Dowager’s kingdom!” a sailor called out. It was enough to distract Sophia instantly from the question of whom her sister might have met.
“What news?” Sophia asked, turning toward the man with all the speed that hope could muster. She reached out with her powers, hoping to see the answers even before she heard them. When she did, she all but staggered with it, mouthing her disbelief even before the sailor had said it.
“They say that Prince Sebastian is to marry Milady d’Angelica in an effort to rally the hopes of the kingdom,” the man said. “They say—”
“I’m pretty sure we don’t want to hear any more of what they’re saying,” Kate said beside Sophia. She put a hand on her shoulder, and Sophia could feel her there, steadying her, holding her up. “Go and tell it at the castle.”
Another time, Sophia might have called her out on her rudeness, but right then, it felt as though she didn’t have the breath for it. Her heart felt like it might explode with the pain that wrapped around it, and she felt sick in a way that had nothing to do with the usual rigors of pregnancy.
“He can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “He can’t. It must be a mistake.”
“You saw it in his thoughts,” Kate said. “The news is all over Ashton. It’s real, Sophia.”
Her sister hugged her, helping her from the edge of the docks to a crate that Sophia could at least use as a seat. Sophia was grateful for that, because otherwise, she suspected she might collapse from the sheer shock of it.
“Not her, though,” Sophia said. “Anyone but her.”
She didn’t mean that. She didn’t want anyone marrying Sebastian at all. She wanted him running to her, speeding his way across the intervening sea using whatever ship he could hire, commandeer, or steal. She wanted him there declaring his love, not getting married. If he had to, though… not Angelica. The choice of her seemed almost calculated to hurt, because she was everything that Sophia wasn’t, everything that a prince was supposed to want.
“You had to know that he would do this,” Kate said. “I met him, remember. He wants to play the part of the dutiful lover, but he gave me a ring for you rather than follow you himself, and then he was standing over you with a knife…”
“That was Angelica!” Sophia insisted. It came out louder
than she intended.
“I know you believe that,” Kate said. “But I also know what I saw.” Sophia saw her shake her head. “Maybe it was both of them. This marriage… it says to me that they might have been in it together. Maybe it was a way of making sure that their marriage could work.”
Sophia couldn’t believe that. She wouldn’t believe it. Sebastian wouldn’t do something like that, and it had definitely been Angelica wielding the knife. Right then, that almost didn’t matter, because the news of the wedding hurt almost more than the knife had.
“You need to forget about him,” Kate said.
“I can’t,” Sophia insisted.
“You know it’s the right thing to do.” Kate ruffled Sienne’s ears, but to Sophia’s surprise, the forest cat growled softly. “Hey there, Sienne, do you not want me to do that, or do you just not want me upsetting Sophia?”
If you know it’s upsetting me, Sophia sent, why say it?
“Because sometimes we have to do things that hurt now, because we know that they’ll be good for us later. Like with Sebastian. I guess it was probably wonderful being in love with him, but I know it’s hurting you now. Maybe a little more pain now is worth it if it stops more in the future.”
It isn’t just a little more pain, Sophia sent. She didn’t feel as though she had the strength to speak words aloud right then. Besides, it meant that she could let Kate feel some of what she felt, the raw anguish that came with learning about the wedding.
That’s what I mean, Kate sent back. He’s already hurt you so much.
That’s not Sebastian, Sophia insisted. It’s just…
“It’s everything around him,” Kate said. “It’s the fact that his parents had ours murdered. It’s the part where he has an evil brother who thinks the world is his plaything. It’s the part where he cast you out, then toyed with your feelings by coming after you, then went to his new bride. It’s whatever role he played in trying to kill you!”