The Sentinel Mage (33 page)

Harkeld looked over his shoulder. Dareus rode there, his face weary.

A snowy-white owl glided out of the deepening dusk. They followed, the horses picking their way carefully between the boulders.

The water, when they found it, was a thin rivulet. Harkeld dismounted, biting back a grunt of pain; the muscles in his legs had stiffened during the short ride.

The horses drank first, and then the men. He gulped thirstily, then cupped his hands and splashed water over his face. The headache still sat behind his eyes, but the urgent thirst was gone. Harkeld sat back on his heels and wiped his face. Around him were the dark shapes of men and horses, and a jumble of boulders.

So this is Masse.

H
ARKELD SLEPT LIKE
one dead, rousing to sunlight on his face and the sound of voices. He pushed up on an elbow, seeing soldiers, horses, rock. They’d been too weary to pitch the tents last night.

The rock stretched in all directions: rounded boulders, craggy hillocks, ridges striped with bands of pink and red.

Beside him, Justen pushed back his blanket and sat up. He yawned widely. “Morning, sire.”

Several people clustered around a small fire—soldiers, two of the witches. The smell of frying ham suddenly assaulted Harkeld’s nose. His stomach growled loudly, telling him it was hungry. He thrust aside the blanket and stood. The muscles in his calves and thighs protested.

Justen groaned as he stood. “Ach, my legs.” He hobbled a few steps. “I feel like an old man.”

Harkeld grunted a laugh.

The smell of food was mouthwatering, but Harkeld washed his face first, clambering stiffly over the boulders and crouching to dip his hands in the thin trickle of water. Back at the fire, chewing salty fried ham, he examined the map of Masse with Tomas and the witches.

“We’ll follow the river,” Tomas said. On the map it traced a snaking course north and east. Two thirds of the way along its route a ruined tower marked the ancient city of Ner, abandoned centuries ago when the Massen Empire had fallen.

Ner, where the first anchor stone awaited him.

“Where’s Captain Anselm?” Tomas asked.

“There.” Gerit pointed to a stretch of waterless plateau on the map. “Following Ditmer’s tracks. He’s headed for the river, which he should reach here.” He planted his forefinger on the parchment. “Some time tomorrow afternoon.”

“And Ditmer? Where’s he?”

Gerit’s finger shifted north-east several inches.

“We need to eliminate Anselm before he catches up with Captain Ditmer,” Dareus said.

Tomas tapped the map. “Anselm will reach the river here?” He glanced at Gerit.

Gerit nodded, chewing.

“Then let’s meet him there.”

T
HEY RODE HARD,
that day and the next. It was like riding over a frozen sea of stone. Some ancient force—wind, rain—had scoured the rock into waves and troughs. Late in the afternoon of the second day, Petrus spiraled down from the sky. “They’re less than a league away,” he said, once he’d shifted.

Innis was aware of the weight of the sword strapped to her back. Her mind supplied her with a flash of memory: the sickening crunch of bones beneath her blade, the spray of blood. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
I can do this.

“Any scouts?” Tomas asked.

Petrus shook his head. “They’re hurrying. At a guess, they’re close to running out of water.”

Tomas nodded. “Let’s do it, then.”

Dareus spoke: “Prince Harkeld won’t fight.”

The prince’s head jerked around. He opened his mouth to protest.

“Your men outnumber them,” Dareus told Tomas. “He’s not needed.”

Tomas met his gaze for a moment, and then nodded.

Innis felt a surge of relief. Prince Harkeld clearly didn’t share the feeling. His mouth closed in a grim line. His horse shifted restlessly, as if his hands had tightened on the reins.

“You may have Cora,” Dareus said. “She’s a fire mage. And the shapeshifters.”

Dareus beckoned her aside while Tomas spoke with his soldiers. “I want Ebril to be Justen,” he said in a low voice. “You be a hawk. Watch. Don’t become involved unless it’s necessary.”

“But can’t Ebril—”

“It’ll be a useful experience for you.”

Watching men kill each other?
Innis bit her lip. She nodded.

“Observe their tactics,” Dareus said. He beckoned to Ebril. “Go. shift.”

Innis glanced at Prince Harkeld. He was listening to Tomas, his expression dour. The differences between the two princes had never been more obvious—one in soldier’s uniform, giving orders to his men; the other in plain trews and jerkin, forced to watch.

Innis hurried behind one of the waves of rock. Ebril joined her. She stripped quickly, thrusting the clothes at him.

She shifted into the shape of a hawk, magic stinging along her bones, and flew back to the others, landing on a bundle of firewood lashed to one of the packhorses. Ebril returned and took his place alongside Prince Harkeld. The soldiers were checking their weapons, readying themselves for battle. “Let’s go,” Tomas said. He turned to Petrus. “You’ll lead us?”

Petrus nodded. He became a hawk again, flapping up into the sky. He circled once, then set off westward, flying low. The soldiers and Cora followed him. The clatter of hooves and jingle of harnesses was loud in the empty landscape of rock. Innis glanced at Prince Harkeld. His mouth was tight as he watched the men leave, his jaw grim.

She spread her wings and launched herself into the air.

CHAPTER FORTY

K
AREL CAUGHT
Y
ASMA
as she exited the bedchamber. “What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.

The little maid avoided his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m not a fool, Yasma. Something’s happening.”

“She’s taking less poppy juice. That’s all.”

Karel shook his head. It was more than that. The princess was more alert, yes, but her manner had changed too. She seemed purposeful. And that scared him.
She’s up to something.
“What’s going on?” he asked again. “Tell me, Yasma. Please.”

She looked up and met his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Karel stared down at her. She was afraid. He saw it in her face. “Is it dangerous?”

Yasma bit her lip. She nodded.

Fear blossomed in his chest. “She’s not planning to run away?” If she was, what would he do? Help her, and sentence his family to bondservice again? Betray her?

“No, not that. Karel...” Yasma laid her hand briefly on his arm. “If you knew what it was, you’d agree with what she’s doing.”

“
Tell
me!”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I gave her my word.”

Karel clenched his hands, frustrated, helpless. He glanced at the door to the bedchamber. To question the princess, to demand answers, would mean his dismissal. “Yasma—”

“Trust her, Karel.”

“I do trust her!” Frustration made his voice harsh. “But how can I protect her if I don’t know what she’s up to!”

Yasma flinched. He’d frightened her.

Karel unclenched his hands. “I’m sorry, Yasma. I just...” He rubbed his brow with hard fingers.
I want to keep her safe.
He sighed. “If she gets into trouble, if either of you needs help...I’m here.”

Yasma smiled at him, sudden and sweet. “I know.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

H
ARKELD WATCHED THE
soldiers ride from sight. The sound of hooves lingered briefly after they’d gone. He lifted his gaze to the hawks. The girl was smaller than the others, darker. In a few moments, the shapeshifters were out of sight too.

Dareus mounted. “Let’s find a good campsite.”

Find a campsite? While Tomas and his men were riding into battle?
Women’s work.
Harkeld bit back the words. It took conscious effort to not take out his frustration on his horse, not to jerk at the reins or dig his heels into its flanks.

They followed the river for a mile and then halted. “What do you think, Prince Harkeld?” Dareus asked courteously.

He glanced around. Rocks. “Fine,” he said, and dismounted.

They tended to the horses and laid wood for a fire. Harkeld kept glancing westward. Was that the clang of swords he heard? The hoarse shouts of fighting men?

He stood still for a moment, his ears straining, but heard only Justen whistling between his teeth as he worked.

Harkeld looked at the closest ridge. Its crest curled like a wave. Perhaps from the top he might see something. “I’m going for a walk.”

Dareus looked up sharply, and then nodded. “Justen,” he said. “Go with him. Make sure he doesn’t get too close to the fighting.”

Justen glanced at Harkeld. He grinned, and rolled his eyes.

I
NNIS CIRCLED WHILE
Tomas set his ambush in a narrow, winding gully. The archers crouched behind the cover of the ridges on either side, hidden. Swordsmen on horseback waited just out of sight, around a bend.

She watched Captain Anselm’s party trot closer, watched the Lundegaardan archers raise their bows. A cry of warning hovered on her narrow hawk’s tongue. Anselm’s soldiers were enemies, but they were also
men.

The archers loosed their arrows, swiftly nocked again, fired a second time.

Chaos erupted in the gully. Tomas and his swordsmen surged forward, shouts bellowing from their throats.

They looked like dolls, small figures poking toy swords at each other—but they weren’t dolls, it wasn’t a game. Those tiny, glinting sticks were real swords, shearing through real flesh and bone. Maiming. Killing.

Innis looked away.

A useful experience, Dareus had called it.

Innis circled. She watched the archers poised with their bows drawn. She watched Cora on the southern ridge, crouching, her plait dangling down her back, ready to use her magic if needed. She watched Petrus and Gerit hovering low over the battle. She didn’t watch the slaughter, the deaths of the outnumbered men. She heard it, though—heard the ringing as sword blades clashed, heard the shouts and screams.

One man turned his horse and spurred it back up the gully. Tomas’s archers loosed arrows at him. The arrows missed, smacking into the gully walls, shattering against the stone. Gerit swooped low, following the man.

I hope he escapes.

Innis dipped her right wing, turning away, ashamed with herself for having such a thought. The fleeing soldier was the enemy. He’d come to Masse to kill Prince Harkeld.

Movement near the river caught her eye. Prince Harkeld and Justen stood on one of the curling ridges. The prince shaded his eyes and looked towards the battle.

Innis circled, measuring the distance from the gully to Prince Harkeld. Almost half a mile. He was safe. She glanced down. Few of Anselm’s soldiers were still alive. Four swordsmen fought desperately, and two archers crouched behind the cover of a dead horse.