Shadowcaster by Cinda Williams Chima
Well, then, Lyss thought. “For the queen in the north!” she cried, spurring her horse forward. Behind her, she heard Sasha and Cam shouting at her, then the rattle of hooves as they followed.
The mages never saw her coming. Mincemeat crashed into the nearest mage, sending him flying. He landed flat on his back nearly under her pony’s hooves. Leaning low out of the saddle, Lyss finished him with a sweep of her ax, then ducked as a mudback aimed a blow at her skull. She could feel the buzz as bolt after bolt of attack magic sizzled into her talisman. And then, blessedly, the bolts stopped coming.
Lyss looked around and saw that Sasha and Cam had done for two more of the mages, but the last one had retreated behind a wall of mudbacks and was lobbing flame and attack charms over their heads. As she watched, one of his bolts all but hit the young Ardenine officer.
That was when she realized: this mage wasn’t aiming at her at all—he was aiming at his own commander.
Sasha scooped up a mudback by his scruff and breeches and used him as a shield as she spurred her pony into the line of southerners. The line broke, opening a path to the fourth mage. Lyss’s first arrow bounced off his silver collar, but her second found a home, and he toppled backward.
Four mages down, Lyss thought, but her cheer faded when she looked around and saw nothing but a sea of mudbacks around her, and the young officer facing her, his crossbow aimed at her heart.
5
THE GRAY WOLF
Despite Hal’s forced march through the pass, the northerners met them before they’d reached the Vale. They made their stand at the narrowest part of the pass. Their archers had positioned themselves on the heights, where they could direct withering fire onto his men as soon as they appeared.
As planned, his veterans split up, each taking charge of a column. Six officers who know what they’re doing can accomplish a lot more than one. It also allowed Hal to keep one eye on the shape of the battle and the other on his mages.
Clearly, the northerners had at least one mage on hand, because he was busily putting up barriers to deflect their attempts to clear off the bowmen. Hal searched the enemy lines until he spotted him—a young man whose pale hair made him a good target. Hal’s own mages were veterans—so they should have known what to do on their own. Yet they wove magical barriers around themselves but initiated no offense.
“Pitts!” Hal shouted, pointing. “It’s four against one. Can you do anything about their mage?”
Pitts complied like a man half-asleep.
“A gold crown to whoever can take out their mage,” Hal called out to his own bowmen. They did their best, though they could have benefitted from a few more years of drilling. Once they’d launched their bolts, it seemed to take them forever to reload. The northerners, on the other hand, used longbows, and they were excellent shots. Their frontline soldiers fought as fiercely as any he’d seen. Though their numbers were fewer, each well-trained northern soldier was worth four of Hal’s men.
They are fighting on their home ground, Hal thought, and it shows.
As the battle dragged on, Hal was losing two or three soldiers to every one of theirs. Soon, the empire’s advantage in numbers would evaporate. When he looked to the rear, the other two battalions were nowhere in sight.
I’ve been set up for failure, he thought, as his losses mounted. But I won’t fail. I need to find a way to win.
Hal looked for the Fellsian field commander and eventually spotted him, wearing a yellow lieutenant’s scarf, mounted on a smoky-gray pony. As the lieutenant rode up and down the line, two other soldiers moved in tandem with him, as if they were linked by an invisible tether. He has a personal guard, too, Hal thought, surprised.
The guards (if that’s what they were) had their work cut out for them. The lieutenant wasn’t afraid to wade in himself. It was like he had eyes in the back of his head. If I could eliminate their commander, Hal thought, it might give us a fighting chance.
“Pitts!” Hal shouted. “Target their field officer.” He pointed.
Pitts looked, then shook his head, making the sign of Malthus. “Won’t do any good,” he said. “That’s the Gray Wolf.”
Hal heard a murmur go through the troops like a collective shudder. The Gray Wolf! It’s the Gray Wolf!
Hal looked again. Granted, the lieutenant was a distance away, but Hal didn’t see anything wolfish about him. “What makes you think it’s him?”
“I’ve seen him before, in the borderlands, and in the Fens. He always fights with two guards at his side. He’s a demon. If you try to kill him, he turns into a wolf.”
Hal struggled to be patient. “You’ve seen this with your own eyes?”
Pitts shook his head. “Nobody’s seen it and lived to tell about it.”
Hal could sense panic rising all around him like a flood tide. He needed to put a stop to it.
“I don’t know about you,” Hal said, “but I’d rather face a wolf than a demon.” He urged his horse forward, closing the distance between them as much as he dared. Unslinging his bow from his shoulder, he reached into his saddle boot, drew out an arrow, nocked it, and let fly.
Hal was not the best bowman in the king’s army, but at that distance, he might have hit his mark had the Gray Wolf’s guardian not shoved the lieutenant aside so that the arrow flew harmlessly over one shoulder. Hoping for a second shot, Hal wheeled his horse. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pitts, his hand on his amulet, loose a torrent of flame straight at him.
It struck his gelding dead on. The horse screamed and went down, but Hal had already leapt free. He landed, rolling to his feet in time to see another one of his mages taking his own shot at him. That missed, too, but Hal knew that his luck couldn’t hold forever.
Hal ran a zigzag toward them, sending up a prayer, all the while knowing there was no way he could get to all of them before one of them got lucky. He imagined the message his father and lady mother would receive—that he’d been killed in a losing battle. Would his father suspect the truth?
His prayers were answered in an odd sort of way when three spatterbacks plowed into the mages, sending them flying.
It was the Gray Wolf and his two guardians.
Hal stood frozen, watching them make quick work of three of the mages. But Pitts retreated a short distance away, set his feet, and slammed bolt after bolt of flame into the officer he called the Gray Wolf. The lieutenant did not turn into a wolf. In fact, he scarcely seemed to notice. Did that mean that Pitts was right, that the Fellsian officer was some kind of witch or demon?
With that, Pitts must have spotted Hal, because he shot a torrent of flame straight at him, nearly incinerating him.
That broke into Hal’s trance, stirring him to action. He ripped a bow and packet of arrows from the grip of a dead soldier, mounted a riderless horse, and charged toward Pitts just in time to see the mage go down, an arrow transfixing his chest.
Hal wheeled, nocking an arrow, and found himself face-to-face with the lieutenant, who’d just taken the shot. Hal understood several things in rapid succession.
First, demon or not, this enemy officer had withstood a torrent of magical attacks with no apparent damage.
Second, the lieutenant was a woman. Though she was tall as many men were, her features were unmistakably feminine, and her long hair was woven into a thick braid the color of autumn wheat. Her skin was darker than that of many northerners, her brown eyes as fierce and proud as any raptor’s.
Third, she and her companions had just saved his life by killing four mages who were supposed to be on his side.
Fourth, all he had to do was let fly, and the so-called Gray Wolf would be done for—assuming arrows worked better on her than magery.
But he couldn’t. For what seemed like an eternity, they sat on their horses, staring at each other. Two soldiers on opposite sides, each trying to survive. Hal realized that he had a lot more in common with this fierce lieutenant than with the thrice-damned king of Arden. And he owed more to the men un
Hal lowered his bow. The battle is lost, anyway, he told himself. Those dead mages were the only edge we had.
The lieutenant grinned, her eyes crinkling in amusement. “Better watch your back, flatlander,” she said. She turned her pony and galloped back to the safety of her forward line.
With that, Hal called the retreat, hoping that his decimated troops still remembered that command.
6
AFTER THE DANCE
Lyss walked the now-quiet battlefield with General Dunedain, Shadow Dancer, Mason, and Littlefield. Darkness was falling. As the sun descended in the west, the Spirit Mountains sent long shadow fingers across Queen Court Vale, reaching for Alyssa Peak. The dead from both armies were still being carried from the field. In the surrounding hills, funeral pyres were burning, smudging the face of the rising moon. One of them burned for Captain Starborn, who’d died doing what he loved best—killing southerners. Even the usually impassive Dunedain wept when she heard the news. This was a loss they could ill afford.
Even when we win, we lose, Lyss thought.
Most of the queendom’s dead and wounded were from Lyss’s own squadron. She’d fought with some of them since the summer she’d turned twelve, just a year after Arden stole her father and brother from her.
A battle is like a deadly sort of dance, Lyss thought. We learn the steps by sparring in the practice yards, by marching up and down the field in the hope that we’ll remember the moves when we’re distracted by the smell of blood and the shrieks of the wounded and death howling toward us from all sides. We go into battle to the cadence of drums and guns, but our dance cards are blank. We have no idea who we’ll dance with that day, when death might cut in, and who’ll leave the floor alive.
Officers attempt to call the steps, but after a certain point, nobody is listening. It all comes down to what happens in each of dozens of intimate meetings: advances and retreats, moves and countermoves. As an officer, Lyss had to try to manage the field, but, like any other soldier, if her time came, she would die alone.
The wounded had long since been delivered to the healers in the town. Among the wounded was Finn, who’d suffered a blow to the head. Lyss had already been to the healing halls, where she’d spoken to all who were well enough for visitors. Finn refused to see anyone, which was one more worry. He shouldn’t have gone back into battle so soon, Lyss thought. No wonder he wants to serve the queendom a different way. Still, the healers said that Finn would recover, and that was something to be grateful for.
The story of the charge against the southern mages had spread like wildfire, adding more glitterbits as it traveled. Soon it would be an entire battalion of mages, led by the king of Arden himself. The only thing Lyss liked about that version of the story was the thought of having Gerard within bowshot.
Lost in a muddle of thought, Lyss trailed after the others. On the one hand, they had won an important victory against what had appeared to be impossible odds. On the other hand, she now knew that a good part of the battalion they’d faced was as young and green as the grass along the Dyrnnewater in June. Untrained, untried, untested on the battlefield—lucky to know which end of a sword to poke with. Yet they’d been sent into the van with their young captain like sheep to a slaughter while Karn’s more seasoned troops melted away. And a slaughter it was. The enemy losses were extraordinarily high, compared to their own.
The difference between us and them is that the king of Arden doesn’t care.
If they were sheep, the mudback captain was the sheepdog, by turns leading them into the fray, turning them away from danger, snapping at their heels, calling them to order when they fell apart. She could see the bones of his tactics. He’d done what she would have done in his place—fashioned a simple attack strategy in the hope that they could carry it out. He’d done the best he could with a bad situation. And, then, in the end, he was betrayed.
Sasha and Cam said she must be mistaken, but Lyss knew what she’d seen, and what she’d seen was four mages turning on their commander—gunning for him instead of the enemy on the field. And that same commander standing down when he had the chance to put an arrow in her throat.
Why would Karn lead with these younglings? And why wouldn’t he relieve them when they needed it? Didn’t he care whether he won this battle or not? More importantly, where was Karn now?
Was it all some sort of distraction or decoy? A red herring? Was Karn teaching someone a lesson? Were the mages rising up against their southern handlers? There was a story there—Lyss knew there was a story, but she would probably never hear it. All in all, it was a hollow sort of victory.
“Lieutenant Gray!”
Startled, Lyss looked up to find herself the center of attention.
“Wherever you were, I hope it was a pleasant journey,” General Dunedain said.
“Oh, uh, no, not exactly,” Lyss said. “It’s just that, after a battle, there’s a lot to think about.”
“I agree,” Dunedain said. “I’ve been thinking, too.” She held out her hand. “Give me your scarf.”
Lyss, confused, blinked at the general. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand.”
“Your scarf, Lieutenant,” Dunedain repeated impatiently. Patience was not the general’s strong suit.
Lyss reached up and fingered the yellow scarf around her neck. Her battle-weary mind stumbled around, unable to hit on an explanation. “I know it needs washing, but—”
“It doesn’t need washing,” Dunedain said. “It needs replacing. Now give it here.”
Was she being demoted? Booted out? Lyss managed to undo the knot, slipped the scarf off, and handed it to Dunedain. The general tucked it into her carry bag and pulled a wad of fabric from her pocket. She thrust it at Lyss. “Here’s a new one.”
It was blue. Captain’s blue.
“I know you don’t stand on ceremony, Captain Gray,” Dunedain said, grinning, “so you won’t be disappointed by a field promotion. This salvo needs a new commander, and I’ve chosen you.”
Lyss stood clutching it. “But . . . Littlefield and—and Mason . . . they’ve got a lot more experience than I have, and—”
“I don’t want the job,” Littlefield said. “Blue clashes with my eyes.”
“And I can’t count high enough to be a captain,” Mason said.
Shadow took the scarf from Lyss and knotted it around her neck. “It’s you, Captain Gray. Deal with it. And when we get to town, you’re buying.”
“You’re the one getting married,” Lyss said. “You’re buying.”
“I’m buying on my wedding day,” Shadow said. “You’ll have to wait until then.”
And then they were all laughing, and embracing, and making the kinds of threats and promises that comrades make when one battle is over and the next not yet begun.
They’d just reached their horses when they heard a pounding of hooves and saw the silhouette of a rider against the night sky. He reined in next to them, saluted General Dunedain, and handed her a dispatch tube. “We had a bird from Fortress Rocks, ma’am,” he said. His expression said it was bad news.
Fortress Rocks! Lyss glanced at Shadow. His betrothed, Aspen, lived at Fortress Rocks.
Dunedain weighed the tube, unopened, in her hand. “And?”
“While we were occupied in the pass, Karn took the rest of his brigade north.” The soldier swallowed hard. “It’s bad, ma’am. The town’s destroyed. They burned everything that was burnable, stole everything that was stealable, and blew up the keep. They slaughtered everyone.”
Lyss’s heart sank. Fortress Rocks was a beloved symbol of northern resistance. It had never fallen to a foreign invader—not even during the Wizard Wars. Until now.
Shadow had gone dark and still, in the way only an uplander can. “Civilians? They killed civilians?”
The soldier nodded. “It was nearly all civilians,” he said. “Since it’s far from the border
“What about survivors?” Shadow persisted.
The soldier shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Dunedain pulled the paper from the tube, scanned the message, and swore.
“May I see it?” Shadow stuck out his hand.
Dunedain didn’t want to hand it over, Lyss could tell, but she did. Shadow read it, twice, then handed it back. He looked like he’d been gutted, yet was somehow still on his feet. Lyss took a step toward him and put her hand on his arm, but he shook her off.
“This brigade of Karn’s,” he said to the messenger, his voice icy and flat. “Do we know where they are now?”
“We thought they might go straight on to Chalk Cliffs, but it appears they’ve turned back south, hotfooting it back to Spiritgate. By now they’ve likely met up with what’s left of them that we fought. There’s no way we’ll catch them now.”
“If they are in the Seven Realms, I’ll find them,” Shadow said.
Lyss knew, in her bones, that Aspen was dead. That was bad enough. But somehow she had to prevent her friend from throwing his life away, too.
She gripped his shoulder. “Shadow, please. Let’s ride to Fortress Rocks,” she said. “There . . . there may be people there who need our help. That’s what’s important now.”
He just stood there and looked at her, his face as expressionless as any granite face of Hanalea Peak, his eyes black and opaque as twin caves.
“Please, Shadow. The bastards will still be there when we go hunting them.”
That had the force of truth. Evil always seems to flourish, while the good die young.
After a long pause, Shadow nodded. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”
7
BACK IN THE CAULDRON
Lyss and her party began the long descent from the eastern mountains, following the valley of the Dyrnnewater down into the Vale. It had been nearly three months since Queen Court and Fortress Rocks—events Lyss needed to remember, and learn from.