Prologue I
The dead stretched as far as the eye could see.
Sir Roger stood at the edge of the field and watched as his men, the victors in the savage engagement, looted the bodies of the dead. Weapons, tunics, money … all belonged to the victors. Here and there, a wounded man was put out of his misery by a quick stroke of a sword or the cut of a knife. The medical tents were overflowing with friendly casualties. No one was going to waste time and resources saving enemy lives. It wasn’t as if common-born prisoners could be ransomed.
He heard a man shout as he held up a dead body wearing silver armour and a purple cloak, both stained with blood. Sir Roger’s eyes narrowed as he recognised the dead body: Lord Redford, a man who’d once been nothing more than a penniless nobleman at King Randor’s court. He’d clutched his title, Sir Roger recalled, and sneered at his inferiors because it was all he really had. There had been lesser-ranked men – and women too – who’d wielded true power. Perhaps that had been why Redford had thrown his lot in with the Noblest. It had been his only hope of regaining wealth and power that had been frittered away long ago.
And he died on the field, Sir Roger thought, as he watched the dead man’s body being stripped bare. He was too brave or stupid to run when we sprang our trap.
He couldn’t find it in him to enjoy his rival’s death, or the humiliation his body had suffered in the aftermath. It lay on the ground now, as naked as the day it was born, while the men who’d found him hurried towards the rear. The armour alone would bring a pretty penny to the men, if they sold it to the merchants who hovered around the army like flies on shit. They probably wouldn’t keep it for themselves. The Sumptuary Laws forbade common soldiers to wear silver armour. Sir Roger had his doubts about the wisdom of that. A skilled archer could put a bolt through a man from right across the battlefield … and silver armour merely told the archer who to target. The conventions of war hinted strongly that aristocrats should be left alone – they could be captured and ransomed – but cold practicalities suggested otherwise. An army might come to pieces if its commander was killed.
It was a sobering thought. He’d walked amongst the dead, after the fighting had ended, in hopes of finding familiar faces. But there had been no sign of any of the senior Noblest, not even Hedrick or Simon Harkness. The former was no surprise – Hedrick Harkness was a coward in a world that frowned on the slightest hint of cowardice – but the latter was odd. Simon Harkness was a man’s man. The thought of him running from the battlefield was … unthinkable, somehow. Sir Roger had met the younger man. Simon had always looked as if he had something to prove. The question marks over his parentage had ensured it.
They probably planned for defeat as well as victory, Sir Roger thought, ruefully. The Noblest had gambled by striking directly at Alexis, but they hadn’t risked everything on one throw of the dice. That had been smart of them, Sir Roger admitted, yet … they might have won if they’d thrown everything they had at him. We came closer to defeat than I want to admit.
He heard trumpets blare and turned, just in time to see a golden horse appear at the edge of the battlefield. Ice ran down his spine as he realised that King Randor himself had come to see the dead … he hastily bushed his armour down, trying to look as presentable as possible as his monarch rode towards him. His personal bodyguard followed, looking more than a little uneasy. Sir Roger didn’t blame them. The enemy army had been shattered and put to slight, and Sir Roger had deployed cavalry to chase down and slaughter the survivors before they could regroup, but a single man with a crossbow could change the situation in an instant if he took a shot at the king. Or one of the newer rifles, if one was to be found. Lady Emily had talked about snipers eventually being able to target a man from miles away.
“Your Majesty,” he said, going down on one knee. “The field is ours.”
“So I see,” the king grunted. He surveyed the battlefield for a long moment, then slowly clambered off his horse. “You may rise.”
Sir Roger did so, careful not to look up too blatantly. The king was the king, even on a battlefield. He had to be shown proper deference at all times. And yet, something was nagging at the back of his head. Something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t an imposter, he thought, but something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
“The enemy army has been smashed, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. “We captured forty-seven prisoners.”
The king smiled, cruelly. “Aristocratic prisoners, of course.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. No one bothered to take commoners as prisoners. The mercenaries might switch sides, if given a chance, but half-trained peasants were useless. It was easier to put them to flight, or execute them, than keep them prisoner. “I believe the highest-ranking prisoner is Lord Galashiels. He was taken prisoner by …”
“Execute him,” King Randor ordered.
Sir Roger felt his mouth drop open. “Your Majesty?”
“Execute him,” King Randor repeated, steel in his voice. “Execute them all.”
“Your Majesty …”
“Do I have to repeat myself?” King Randor’s eyes flashed with rage – and, for a moment, something else. But it was gone before Sir Roger could see it clearly. “Execute them!”
Sir Roger braced himself, wondering if the next words he said would be the ones that got him sent to the block. The king was clearly in a vile mood. Whatever had happened in Alexis – and Sir Roger had only heard whispered rumours – had been indisputably bad. Lady Emily had been meant to face the headsman for the first and last time … had she escaped? Or had something else happened? He didn’t dare ask.
But he had to argue for his men. “Your Majesty, the prisoners were captured by my subordinates,” he said. It would be more accurate to say that the prisoners were largely captured by common soldiers, who’d then been forced to surrender them to higher-ranking officers, but the king wouldn’t concern himself with such trivia. “They have a right to claim the ransom.”
“The prisoners will have nothing to pay the ransom with,” King Randor growled. His fists clenched. “Their families will be wiped from the rolls.”
Sir Roger paled. “Yes, Your Majesty. But …”
The king snorted. “Inform the captors that they will be paid a reasonable amount for their captives,” he ordered. “But execute them all, at once. Their heads are to be prominently displayed on Traitor’s Gate.”
“It will be done, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. He summoned a messenger with a nod. “If that is your command, it will be done.”
He swallowed, hard, as he turned away to issue the orders. Aristocrats might die on the battlefield, but to execute them after they’d been captured for ransom … it wasn’t done! Who knew what would happen if a loyalist fell into enemy hands? Sir Roger shivered at the thought, knowing that the Noblest would certainly retaliate in kind. Any loyalist who was captured would be lucky if he was only beheaded on the spot. It wouldn’t be long before both sides were locked in a competition of horror that ran all the way down to the bottom.
And how many loyalists will remain loyal, he asked himself, when the king puts us all in danger?
“A good start,” the king said, once the orders were issued. He was surveying the battlefield, pausing here and there to exchange brief words with his men. Sir Roger could see, at times, the fighting prince the king had once been behind his permanent scowl. “How badly did we hurt them?”
“We broke their advance force, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said, after a moment. He knew better than to depend upon estimates. One scout had reported an enemy army of over a million men and promptly been scourged for exaggeration. “Between here and the other two battlefields, I believe we killed around five thousand men. It is hard to be sure.”
“But we broke them,” King Randor said.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger assured him. “Their army showed us their backsides and ran. I already have horsemen hunting them down.”
“And it will take them a long time to regroup, particularly if they have no contingency plans for defeat,” King Randor mused. “Very well. I want you to deploy half your cavalry to secure the roads into the Harkness Lands. We’ll relieve Castle Blackstone, then move against Harkness itself. We will not give them any time to regroup.”
“As you command, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. “But cavalry alone will not be …”
“Your musketmen and cannoneers will follow, once the bridges are secure,” King Randor added. “We will not give them time to regroup and obtain more weapons. I want Baroness Harkness crushed before my treacherous daughter has a chance to rally her own forces.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Roger said. Behind him, he heard a shout of protest. “It will take her some time to muster the strength to challenge you …”
“But the Noblest” – the king spat – “and I will weaken each other, if our fight goes on for too long. She will have the time she needs, unless we end it now. Pass the word, Sir Roger; this is total war. Those who do not submit themselves will be destroyed.”
He turned, remounted his horse and cantered away, his bodyguards following him. Sir Roger stared after his king for a long moment, then turned … just in time to see the last prisoner be beheaded. Sir Roger had seen death before – he’d seen men die jousting as well as on the battlefield – but the sight still chilled him. It represented a new kind of warfare, a warfare that was – in its own way – as merciless as the muskets and cannons Lady Emily had introduced to the battlefield. This was no mere skirmish, no test of strength between the king and his barons; this was total war. Randor would be the undisputed master of his kingdom or nothing.
Sir Roger shivered as the bodies were left to rot on the muddy ground. He couldn’t help thinking that it boded ill for the future.
And when this is done, he asked himself bleakly, will any of us have a future?
Prologue II
It wasn’t her throne room.
Alassa sat on the chair, which she resolutely refused to call a throne, and studied the map without really seeing it. It wasn’t her chair either. It had belonged to either Lord Hans or Lady Regina of Swanhaven and Jade, when he’d been appointed Baron Swanhaven, had never bothered to replace it. Alassa was tempted to wonder if it had belonged to one of the earlier barons – it was uncomfortably hard, particularly for a pregnant woman – but she didn’t care enough to ask. The staff were skittish around her. Jade hadn’t made enough of an impression to banish memories of Lord Hans and Lady Regina. Merely asking might cause a panic.
She stroked her growing abdomen, wondering when she’d feel the baby kick. The healers had assured her that it was a normal pregnancy, so far, but Alassa wouldn’t feel truly secure until the baby was pushed into the world. Male or female, it would be proof that she was fertile, that she could carry on the dynasty. It was odd to realise that one of the few things she had in common with her father, the few things she’d actually acknowledge, included a determination to have a heir, but it was easier for him. Her father had had hundreds of mistresses, desperately hoping that one of them would bear him a son. Alassa needed to bear a son of her body. It didn’t seem fair, somehow.
I could have killed Father, she thought, remembering the moment – three weeks ago – when she’d had her father in her sights. If she’d pulled the trigger, she could have put a bullet right through his head. And who knows what would have happened then?
In truth, she wasn’t sure why she hadn’t pulled the trigger. Her father and her had never been particularly close, even before he’d locked her up in the Tower of Alexis and thrown away the key. She wanted, she needed, to take the throne that had been her birthright from the moment it became clear that her father would not have a legitimate male child. And she knew her father’s reign would be bad for the kingdom. He’d already tried his hardest to execute Alassa’s closest friends.
I was weak, she told herself, although she wasn’t sure if that was actually true. Could a daughter kill her father? Could a daughter take the throne after she killed her father? She’d hardly be the first monarch to inherit after her predecessor died under dubious circumstances that no one dared look at too closely. If I’d killed him …
The thought was like a stab to the gut. She knew, deep inside, that she hadn’t wanted to kill him. A daughter should not kill her father. She’d always assumed that her father would die and she would succeed him, not that she’d kill him. She had spent too much of her life looking for his approval to want to kill him. A dead man couldn’t smile at her when she did something clever and give her his blessing. She’d always envied Imaiqah’s easy relationship with her father, even though that had nearly got Imaiqah killed. King Randor had never had time for his daughter.
She touched her abdomen again, gritting her teeth. There was no choice, not now. She had to kill her father, directly or indirectly, or he’d take her child. Alassa had no doubt, not now, that her father would have had her killed, after the baby was born. Killed … or banished to some desolate castle in the badlands where no one would think to look for her, while he raised her child in his own image. She had to kill her father for the sake of the child. She had no choice …
… But she didn’t like it.
The wards quivered, just slightly, as Jade passed through the outer layers and stepped through the door. Alassa rose, then threw dignity to the winds and ran towards him. Jade was hot and sweaty and smelt of mud, but she didn’t care. She pressed her lips to his and kissed him as hard as she could, enjoying the brief sensation. She’d been lucky in Jade. Other husbands would have tried to take power for themselves. That would not have meant a happy marriage.
“You should be taking more care of yourself,” Jade said, touching her abdomen gently. “Really …”
“I have to be active,” Alassa reminded him. She understood his concern – and she even shared his fears for the baby – but there were other considerations. “The people have to see me on the throne.”
It was an odd thought. Her father had never worried about the good opinions of anyone who didn’t have a title. They were less than nothing to him, unless they did something that merited ennoblement. But Alassa … most of her friends were commoners. Neither Emily nor Imaiqah – nor Jade, for that matter – had been born noble. It was hard to understand, sometimes, why commoners couldn’t do as they were told, but she thought she could use it. She’d just have to remember not to repeat her father’s mistake once she was secure on her throne.
And I have to seek popularity, she thought. What choice do I have?
“I suppose,” Jade said. She knew him well enough to know that it wasn’t the end of the argument, but there were too many listening ears near the throne room. “You’ll be pleased to know that the first regiments are marching out now. If your father does decide on a lightning strike at Swanhaven, we will be ready for him.”
Alassa nodded. She understood little of military strategy – she’d certainly never been allowed to lead troops into combat – but Jade could fill in the gaps. Her father had only a handful of options if he wanted to crush the rebels before it was too late. A direct stab at Swanhaven was perhaps his best bet. He’d be a fool to target Cockatrice before Swanhaven was neutralised.
“And if he doesn’t, we can take the offensive,” she added. “It will take him months to crush the barons.”
“Let us hope so,” Jade said. He wasn’t as confident as herself that the Barons would manage to delay the king for long. The Noblest were a pack of traitors. They’d come apart if the king managed to land a few solid blows. “We probably need to start planning to move against Winter Flower.”
Alassa frowned. A month ago, the thought of ravaging Winter Flower from one end to the other would have been very satisfactory. Alicia, Baroness Winter Flower, had had the nerve to bear King Randor a son. Babe in arms or not, Alexis was a deadly threat to Alassa’s position. But Alicia had risked her life – and worse – to help Jade and his friends spring Alassa from the Tower. Alassa honestly wasn’t sure how she should react to Alicia now. Her emotions were a mess.
“Yeah,” she said. She reached out and held him, tightly. “But we can do that later.”
Jade smiled. “As you command, Your Highness.”
Alassa elbowed him. “We’re alone,” she said. “You don’t have to be formal.”
And she kissed him again.
Chapter One
The night was warm, uncomfortably warm.
Emily lay on the hillside and peered down towards the castle below. It wasn’t much of a castle – it was really nothing more than an oversized blockhouse – but it blocked the bridge crossing the River Swanhaven and prevented traffic from moving between Swanhaven and Winter Flower. Emily didn’t need to be Alexander the Great to understand the strategic significance of the otherwise unimportant castle. As long as it remained in the king’s hands, it made it impossible for Alassa to move an army into East Swanhaven and secure her borders with Winter Flower. Worse, perhaps, it prevented the river trade that countless communities depended upon to survive. The economic damage would cause all sorts of problems on both sides of the divide.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the building. She was no expert in castle design – she’d never had the chance to study the mechanics at Whitehall – but she had to admit that it would be difficult to take by conventional assault. It was positioned neatly in the middle of a river, forcing any would-be attackers to advance along the bridge if they wanted to reach the gates. They’d be exposed to archers, perhaps even musketmen, along the way, even if they were protected by siege engines. And getting a catapult – or a cannon – into position to bombard the castle would be tricky. Emily silently admired the designers. They’d taken a small building that should be impossible to defend and turned it into an impregnable fortress.
And we can’t even starve them out, she thought. She’d seen the manifests. The castle had enough supplies to keep a company of soldiers fed for months. Somehow, she doubted King Randor had skimped on the supplies. We simply don’t have the time.
And yet, there was no choice. The castle – and the bridge – had to be taken. Fording the river was supposed to be impossible, at least in large numbers. Alassa had teams of engineers working on pontoon bridges, but they thought it would be several weeks before the bridges were ready. By then, King Randor could have moved an entire army up to the border, blocking his rebel daughter from driving on the capital. Emily shuddered to think of just how many people would die if Alassa had to force her way across the river. The waters would turn red with blood.
She turned to look at Cat, lying next to her. He looked odd in the darkness, the night-vision spell washing his face of colour. She wondered, absently, how she looked to him. She’d donned a pair of dark trousers and a shirt – and concealed her hair under a cap – but she wasn’t hidden from his gaze. She hoped she was hidden from the castle’s guards, if they were watching the hillside. They’d set up protective wards, of course, as soon as they’d crawled into view, but a single charmed arrow would be more than enough to ruin the mission. King Randor had encouraged his archers to develop their skills, handing out rewards to any who proved able to hit a target at over two hundred metres. Emily was all too aware that they were far closer to the castle.
The king won’t have sent his best archers up here, she told herself, although she wasn’t sure she believed it. King Randor had a lot of archers. He needs them down south in Harkness.
“There’s no way we’re going to get close to the castle without being seen,” she muttered, trusting in the spell to hide her words. Sergeant Miles had taught her just how far sound could travel in the night air. “What do you think?”
“Agreed,” Cat said. “We don’t even dare try to swim to the castle.”
Emily nodded. She was a confident swimmer – Sergeant Miles had taught her – but the river was too dangerous to take lightly. They might be able to make it to the castle walls, if they were lucky, yet there was no way they could take any supplies with them. Their magic might be enough, but it might not be. She reached out with her senses, feeling – gingerly – for protective wards. The castle had two, both very limited. It suggested there was no sorcerer in residence.
“King Randor doesn’t have enough sorcerers to risk one here,” Cat said, when she pointed it out. “He’ll be keeping them close to home.”
“Let’s hope so,” Emily said, doubtfully. King Randor might not have many first-rank sorcerers, but he could have hired a dozen magicians and put them to work. He’d need someone to help keep his disparate forces connected, if nothing else. A communications sorcerer could make good money during wartime. “Do you really want to risk flying to the castle?”
Cat glanced at her. “Do you see any other option?”
Sergeant Miles would kill the pair of us if we suggested flying to him, Emily thought. In theory, the plan was perfect; in practice, if there was even a fifth or sixth-rank magician in the castle, the plan was suicide. It wouldn’t take much magic to disrupt their spells and send them plunging to their deaths. But it would give us a chance to take them by surprise.
She shook her head, trying to conceal her nervousness. Flying to the castle was exactly the sort of plan Cat would devise, despite the dangers. Hell, the dangers were one good reason why no one would expect them to try to fly. But she wasn’t anything like so confident that the plan was a good idea. And yet … she couldn’t think of anything better. They simply didn’t have the time.
“I’ll alert Sergeant Rotherham,” Cat said. “You wait here and watch for signs of trouble.”
Emily nodded and turned her attention back to the castle. It was a dark brooding mass, barely visible even though the night-vision spell. No lights shone from its arrow slits, the better to ensure its occupants remained accustomed to the dark. Emily wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. King Randor would have wanted to show off his strength as much as possible, particularly if he was running a bluff. The castle might be undermanned, given the circumstances. Randor had had no reason to expect trouble from Swanhaven or Cockatrice – he’d had Alassa and Imaiqah imprisoned until they’d been broken out – and he might have withdrawn the troops to the south.
But they were patrolling during the daytime, Emily reminded herself. The locals had been very clear on that point. And they’ve been interrogating and searching everyone who wants to cross the bridge.
Cat scrambled back to her. “The sergeant’s putting his men in position now,” he said, as he stood. “Are you ready?”
No, Emily thought. “Yes,” she said, quietly. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” Cat said. He winked at her, a brief flashing expression in the darkness, then cast the first spell. “Try and stay over the river. It might save your life if you lose control of the spell.”
Or get blasted out of the sky, Emily thought, as she cast her own spell. She felt her body slowly rise into the air, gusts of wind pushing at her as she slowly levitated her way towards the castle. What are the odds of surviving if we crash into the waters?
She tried not to think about it as they glided over the river and headed up towards the castle, her eyes probing for signs of watchmen on the tiny battlements. There would be someone on watch, she was sure, even if the castle’s wardens thought themselves impregnable. She dreaded to think what the king would do to any of his people who allowed themselves to be surrounded during the night. She’d watched a man get beaten to within an inch of his life merely for falling asleep when he was meant to be on watch.
A flicker of motion caught her eye. She tensed as she saw the lone watchmen, leaning against the battlements as he surveyed the darkness. His face was a pale shape against the shadows, peering constantly from side to side … he never looked up. Emily wasn’t really surprised. The odds of being attacked from the air were very low. There were people in Cockatrice who were experimenting with hot air balloons and gliders, but so far results had been mixed. It would be years before the Nameless World’s armies deployed parachutists against their foes.
Cat dropped down towards the battlements and landed neatly, one hand snapping up in a casting pose. The guard whirled around, then froze as Cat hit him with a freeze hex. Emily landed beside him, feeling a flicker of sympathy for the guard. If they won, he’d be spending the rest of the war in a POW camp; if they lost, he’d be in deep shit with his superiors when the spell wore off. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t simply carried to the battlements and thrown into the rushing waters below.
“Got him,” Cat muttered. He stopped in front of the door and muttered a charm. The lock clicked open without resistance. “Shall we go?”
Emily let Cat take the lead as they slipped into the castle. The stairwell was strikingly narrow, tight enough to make her feel claustrophobic and dark enough to make her acutely unsure of what was waiting at the bottom. Cat had to bow his head to avoid cracking it against the stone roof. Emily felt her hair brush against the roof as they reached the bottom and opened another door. It led into a small guardroom. Four men were sitting at the table, drinking and playing cards. They looked up and stared in horror as Cat froze the first two …
“Intruders,” a third shouted. “Intruders …”
Emily froze him, then swore as the fourth grabbed an earthen mug and threw it at them. She sidestepped it neatly and froze the guard a second later. It was too late. She could hear clattering in the distance as the rest of the guards realised that the castle was under attack and scrambled to its defence. Cat shoved the guards to one side and walked to the nearest doorway. The sound of clattering was growing louder.
“They’re in their armour,” he muttered. “It might be charmed armour.”
Emily nodded and readied her spells. Charmed armour could absorb or deflect a handful of curses, but a series of spells would be more than enough to overwhelm the protections someone had worked into the metal. She wondered, as the sound grew louder, if Randor had assigned charmed armour to the guards. If there was anywhere he should have sent the armour, save for Alexis itself, it was here … but charmed armour was expensive. Randor might have hesitated to send the armour anywhere outside the capital.
The first three men appeared, wearing conventional armour. They should have been weighed down by the sheer weight of metal, but they moved with surprising speed. Emily had long-since ceased to marvel at just how fast the knights and guards could move, or how strong they were. Knights had to work hard to earn their spurs, training for years before they were deemed ready to wear their lord’s colours. They couldn’t simply pick up a gun and start shooting.
Cat threw the first spell, freezing the first guardsman in place. Emily joined him, but the guards kept coming. They were using their frozen companions as human shields. Emily was almost impressed at the concept. Whoever was in charge on the other side had clearly thought fast. Worse, they’d realised that the freeze spells would protect their victims from anything else hurled in their direction. They were better than standard wooden or metal shields.
Clever, Emily thought. And futile.
She gathered her magic, then summoned a wind and blew it down the corridor. The guards wobbled, then tumbled over backwards, thrown downwards by the sheer force of the wind. Cat snapped out spells, freezing every soldier who came into view; they crashed, hard, against the stone walls and fell to the ground. Emily allowed herself a moment of relief, then ran forward. A handful of guards were moaning in pain and she froze them on the spot. It would give the poor bastards some relief until the spells wore off or were removed.
“We have to get down to the gates,” Cat snapped, as he moved past her and down the corridor. “Once the sergeant is in, we can search the castle properly.”
Emily nodded and followed him as he found another stairwell leading down to the ground floor. The stench of horseshit rose up to greet them. Emily forced herself to breathe through her mouth as they reached the bottom and looked around, hunting for the gatehouse. The horses were an unexpected bonus – Alassa’s cavalry would be delighted to have more horses – but she’d never liked the mangy beasts. Despite Alassa’s best efforts, Emily knew she would never be anything more than a marginal horsewoman.
A hand grabbed her cap, yanking her backwards. It came loose, allowing her hair to tumble down. Emily heard someone gasp behind her – clearly, her assailant hadn’t realised he’d caught a woman – and then threw a hex over her shoulder. Her attacker flew backwards, still holding onto her hair. Emily hit the ground hard enough to hurt, but rolled over and stunned her assailant before he had a chance to stick a knife in her. The stable boy – she thought he was a stable boy – looked disconcertingly young. She rather doubted he was even in his teens.
Poor kid, she thought. It was far from uncommon for children to be given adult responsibilities – the stable boy might well have been fostered to one of the men upstairs – but it never ceased to surprise her. And he’ll be going into the camps too.
She heard the sound of a fireball behind her and spun around. Cat was standing by the door, trading hexes with a pair of men in armour. Emily thought they were sorcerers, at first, but then she saw the wands. It was unlikely they had any real magic, then. A person with a spark of power – but very little else – would probably not be able to use a wand, not in the way Alassa had used hers six years ago. No, someone else had charged the wands and issued them to the soldiers.
And issued them with charmed armour too, Emily thought. It was a neat little trap. Cat could take out one soldier, but the other would get him. But whoever had planned the ambush hadn’t realised that there were two attackers. I can get the other one …
“You take the one on the left,” Cat said, as the two armoured men started to advance. A fireball struck Cat’s wards and exploded, the heat of the flames scorching the stone walls. “I’ll take the one on the right …”
“I’ve got a better idea,” Emily said. “Hang on.”
She stepped forward, shaping a spell with her mind. The guardsmen didn’t have any idea how their wands worked. They were merely jabbing them at their targets, trying to force them back before they ran out of magic. Emily wondered, as she finished the spell, just how much magic had been invested in the wands. It couldn’t be that much. Apart from her batteries, anything used to store magic leaked with terrifying speed. The wands might already be on the verge of dying.
A fireball slammed into her wards and detonated with a loud bang. Emily ignored it, concentrating on her magic. She cast the spell a moment later, ignoring Cat’s puzzled frown. The guards seemed to hesitate, then jabbed the wands at her again … and stumbled backwards as the wands exploded with terrifying force. Emily smiled as the guards hit the floor, their armour ruined by the blasts. She’d turned the air surrounding them into pure oxygen. Their own fireballs had exploded the moment they’d been cast.
Cat ran forward and froze both of the guards, muttering spells to put out the fire. “Emily,” he called back. “What did you do?”
“I’ll explain later,” Emily said. She was surprised the technique hadn’t been reverse-engineered three years ago, when she’d used it against Master Grey, but it was quite possible that no one had been able to figure out what she’d done. The Nameless World hadn’t realised that air was a combination of gases, one of which was explosive in sufficient quantities. “We have to get to the gates.”
“Down here,” Cat said. “Watch my back.”
Emily nodded as Cat hurried down the corridor and into the gatehouse. It was remarkably simple for a castle’s portcullis, although she supposed the designers hadn’t been able to make it as secure as they would have liked. The building wasn’t big enough for a proper gatehouse.
It’s still pretty secure, she thought, as Cat used magic to force the cogs to move. It must take at least four strong men to open the gates without magic.
The portcullis opened with a rattling sound. Emily tensed, glancing back the way they’d come. If there was anyone in the castle still able to walk, they knew where Emily and Cat were. She moved to the corridor and listened carefully, but she heard nothing. A moment later, Sergeant Rotherham and his men flowed into the castle. They looked around admiringly, their eyes lingering on Emily. She felt herself flush. They admired Cat, both as a combat sorcerer and a soldier, but they practically worshipped her. She didn’t feel very comfortable with it. There was no way she could live up to the legend.
“Search the building, then bring the prisoners outside,” Cat ordered. “And if you find any papers, I want to see them.”
“Yes, My Lord,” Sergeant Rotherham said. He looked at Emily. “My Lady?”
Emily sighed, inwardly. “Do as he says,” she said. “We need to have this building secured before dawn.”
The Chrishanger 