Sacrifice

by A. C. Cobble

  Not a man on the airship hesitated at dropping the explosives, though. It gave some satisfaction, to attempt to strike back, but after two days, every man on board knew it was futile. The shades were as dead as they were ever going to get.

  “Any problems, Sergeant?” cried a voice from the forecastle. William Wellesley, their commander, a man determined to strike back, even if his blows passed unnoticed through the ghosts of his enemies.

  “No, m’lord!” McCready shouted back. Then turning to this squad, he called, “Fire on. Drop.”

  It was all they could do.

  4

  The Prince II

  He held his hands over the fire, rubbing them together, forcing the stiff joints to move.

  “It’s warmer in the tent, brother,” remarked William.

  “You were right, earlier. The men should see us outside in the same conditions they are in,” he responded. “It helps morale.”

  William grunted and he followed his brother’s gaze. Followed it down the foothills of the Sheetsand Mountains, over the moor, to where the pall of black smoke still hung in the air three days after they’d arrived. A day after they’d ceased their bombing, the smoke still clung to the coastline, hanging there like an unwelcome funeral banner over Northundon.

  “You think we should return to Southundon?” asked Edward.

  “What is there to do here, brother?” responded William, pacing anxiously. “We sank every Coldlands longboat within twenty leagues of shore, we carpeted Northundon and everything around it with fire. I don’t doubt we just executed the greatest single expenditure of military might in history. I certainly can’t recall anything like what we just did in Duvante’s histories. The airships, the red saltpetre munitions… Edward, everything that can be killed in that city has been killed. Why are we lingering here?”

  Prince Edward Wellesley studied the coast far below them. He didn’t answer his brother.

  “Edward, our scouts report some of the shades have begun to venture out of the city limits. The priests say they cannot contain them. They claim those shades are bound to the bones of Northundon, but they don’t know how far they can venture from there. I’m told it’s likely no farther south than the mountain range, but Edward…” William gestured to the wall of rock that rose behind them. His brother didn’t respond. He insisted, “We’ve done what we can. Northundon is lost. It’s all lost. What are we waiting on?”

  “Some of the raiders fled before we could stop them,” remarked Edward.

  William frowned at him.

  “Two more airships are due to arrive tomorrow. Their holds are filled with red saltpetre munitions, brother. Enough that we can carry this fight to the Coldlands themselves. If we return home to Southundon, we’ll add weeks to the time it will take to bring the fight back to our enemies. With time, they’ll be ready for us.”

  “Days, weeks, what does it matter how long it takes,” complained William. “What can they do? What can they do against our airships? Shoot an arrow at us? Yell at us? Throw rocks? I know little about the spirits they’ve called, brother, but I know they cannot fly. We’ve proven that by floating above them the last several days.”

  Edward shook his head. “Do not become overconfident.”

  “Nothing can stand against our airships,” declared William. “But our weapons do nothing to the shades, and the priests won’t go near the place. I am neither overconfident nor scared, but I can recognize a fruitless stalemate when I see it. It’s not just me or the men. Think about Oliver. The boy is stuck here with us looking down at Northundon. His city, destroyed. His mother, lost in the rubble. It’s not good for the lad, Edward.”

  The prince didn’t argue. His brother was right. The shades in Northundon could not harm them, and they could not harm the shades. That did not mean it was all the Coldlands’ sorcerers were capable of, though. No, on their home terrain it wouldn’t be all they could do, not by far. And given time, there was no telling what they would come back to Enhover with. That was why they had to strike — to strike now — before the fleeing longboats returned home with word of Enhover’s new technology. They had to get there before the frigid land’s sorcerers figured out how to defend against assault from above. They would, given time, and that’s why Edward knew they had to wait on the resupply and then move ahead. If they meant to finish it, to end the scourge of the Coldlands sorcery once and for all, it had to be now.

  “Go see to your men, William,” he instructed. “Tell them they did well. Tell them their prince is proud of them.”

  “Why don’t you tell them yourself?” questioned William.

  “Because I’m going back inside where it’s warm, brother.”

  He reached over and slapped a cold hand on William’s back. Before he ducked into the tent, he called over his shoulder, “When the resupply arrives, have the men ready to go. We will not be turning back until this is over.”

  “Shackles,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  His father’s chief of staff, a man who loomed like a lion over a towering pile of paperwork, looked timid and out of place in the war camp.

  “Your father, m’lord,” murmured the man. “He is not well.”

  “Then why are you here?” questioned Edward. “Shouldn’t you be by his side?”

  “Some might say the same about you, m’lord,” snapped Shackles, cutting his eyes to the prince and then back to his boots.

  “The flight north got you feeling bold, did it?”

  Shackles glanced at William before turning to meet Edward’s gaze. “M’lord, your father is not well, but he is not dead. Even sick, he is still the king. As long as he is the king, he rules Enhover absolutely. The congress of lords, the prime minister, it all functions at his command. I and the other ministers have no authority to… to do anything but obey his orders. I can monitor him, keep loyal staff around him, try to exert my influence, but the staff are not traitors to your father, m’lord. Neither am I. Until something changes, he is the king. His orders are law.”

  “And what orders has my father been issuing?” questioned Edward.

  “He was upset about the way you left, m’lord,” murmured Shackles. “For a long time, he has not been happy with your and Lilibet’s studies. He is furious that you defied him and came to lead the men against the Coldlands. He did not like you exposing yourself to their sorcerers, and he wonders when it will end. He’s angry, emotional, and I believe it is reflected in some of the decisions he is making.”

  “That is ridiculous,” claimed Edward. “It will end when they are destroyed. He may not like it, but what does he expect, us to forget what happened?”

  The prince pointed down the hill and across the moor where smoke still hung above the ruins of Northundon.

  “The Coldlands attacked us!” interjected William. “Why is the old man not furious at that?”

  Oliver shifted, drawing the gaze of the three men. Hesitantly, he said, “As long as there are Coldlands sorcerers, we will be in danger of this happening again. With surprise on our side, we destroyed many of their men and their longboats. Next time, maybe they will not stop at Northundon. Maybe they will call some more potent spirit. Grandfather may be upset at Father, but only because he has not seen what we have seen. If he saw…”

  William placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed it. Edgar Shackles swallowed uncomfortably. Edward smiled. Only thirteen winters, but the boy cut right to the heart of the matter. The Coldlands were weakened, but so was Enhover. As long as the sorcerers survived, another Northundon was possible.

  Edward glanced at Shackles, worried about the one thing he thought might disrupt his plans. “What orders has my father been giving?”

  “Your father believes that the ongoing war with Finavia has depleted us, Prince Wellesley. He believes that with a new front, Enhover will be sorely pressed. He sent a messenger to Finavia and has requested a delegation to discuss the terms of a peace agreement.”

  William cursed, but Edwa
rd merely held the chief of staff’s gaze. “Did my father stop the shipment of munitions?”

  “He did not,” admitted Shackles, glancing at the two airships up the slope from them. They hovered, twenty yards above the rocky slope, anchored to the earth by stout ropes. “He sent an order, but I made sure it did not arrive at the airship bridge in time to prevent the vessels from embarking north. I am doing what I can, m’lord, but there are limits to what a man in my position is capable of.”

  Edward tried to ignore his younger brother’s muttered curses. William, for all his flaws, was not one to back down from a fight. He, like Edward, felt that Enhover should occupy a larger place on the world stage. Negotiating with Finavia while Northundon still burned was unacceptable. Finavia would smell blood in the water and would press them hard. Whatever terms were offered would be detrimental to Enhover. Any agreement they signed while backpedaling from the attack on Northundon was certain to be crippling to their budding colonial expansion. No, it was not time to cower within their shores, hiding behind their walls. It was time to attack, to show what they were capable of. William would understand that, if nothing else.

  “What do you want, Shackles?” asked Edward. “Why did you come?”

  “Your father is not well, m’lord, and I’ve served as his chief of staff for many years now. I’m afraid that while I’m very good at doing that, I have few other skills.”

  “I understand,” remarked Edward, his hand cupping his chin.

  “My son, too, will be seeking a position soon,” added Shackles. “You spoke of it before.”

  “Your son who is a friend of Philip?” asked Edward.

  “He is.”

  “If he is as loyal a friend as his father, I think he has no need to worry about finding a secure placement. Perhaps even some land to provide income to his father in retirement?”

  Shackles bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

  “Edward,” William interjected. “You need to return to Southundon. You’re the only one who can stop Father from this madness. A treaty with Finavia now, when we have the airships, the means to finally bring the fight to them? It’s madness, brother.” William spit, his hand gripping the basket-hilted broadsword hanging at his hip. “We have to stop father before he does something we cannot undo.”

  “You go,” instructed Edward. “Travel back to manage father and I will lead the men against the Coldlands. Take Oliver with you. He’s seen enough war.”

  Oliver opened his mouth to object, but Edward cut the boy off with a curt shake of his head. It was good he was eager to seek revenge for Northundon and his mother, but the next stage of the campaign was going to be dark and dangerous. It would be no place for a boy.

  William frowned, his hand still protectively gripping Oliver’s shoulder. Shackles coughed and raised his hand.

  “What?” asked Edward, glancing at the chief of staff.

  “As a… a friend,” stammered Shackles, “I hope my advice finds a welcoming ear?”

  “Go on, then.”

  “The congress of lords knows that when your father passes, you will be the king. You are the one who will rule them. They respect Duke Wellesley, but he’s…”

  “Just the younger brother,” remarked William dryly. “Do not worry, Shackles, you are not the first man to say it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Shackles. “To… to defy your father’s orders, m’lord, I believe they will want to hear it from you.”

  Edward’s fists clenched.

  “M’lord,” continued the chief of staff. “I could have sent word with one of my ministers, but I came myself. I came because I believe this is important. I will not tell you how to conduct this war. I do not have the skill in military matters to advise on what you should do about the Coldlands, but I do know Enhover’s ministry and the prickly attitudes of our peers. You should return to Southundon. You should be there as long as your father is… is in the agitated state he is. He thinks to protect Enhover, but…”

  “I do not—”

  “Brother,” interrupted William. “Shackles is right. You have to go back. You’re the only one who has a chance of superseding father’s commands. The lords, the ministers, they will listen to you. With father ill, they know what is in store for them if they do not. But you’re the only one. They’ll find excuses to brush me off, to ignore your sons, or undermine Shackles. It has to be you, Edward.”

  Edward kicked a loose rock and watched it bounce a dozen yards down the rocky slope. He hadn’t planned to return to Southundon until the Coldlands was nothing but ash. He needed the place to burn. He needed it more than anything. They had to destroy that place, destroy their sorcerers, the artifacts and texts that those practitioners had accumulated describing their dark art, but if his father…

  He glanced at his youngest son. Oliver stood next to his uncle William, his eyes darting between the men. Edward wondered what his son would do. If he was older, would he mindlessly pursue revenge, or would he steady to ship at home?

  Oliver met his gaze, hard-eyed, his face blank. An impulsive boy, but smart as well. His look gave nothing away, which was telling enough.

  “I will carry our banner, brother,” declared William. “I cannot command father or the peers, but I can command our men and our airships. I can fight this fight for House Wellesley. You must fight the other.”

  Edward turned to his younger sibling. He saw determination, but they needed more. They needed to be ruthless. “William, nothing can remain of the Coldlands. No one, no thing. It all has to burn. The Coldlands can no longer exist, brother. The pain they caused, the destruction they wrought… It will happen again unless we remove every trace of those people and their culture.”

  “I understand,” said William, steel in his voice.

  “Any evidence of their sorcery, their artifacts, their writing, it must be destroyed,” insisted the prince.

  “I—”

  “William,” said Edward, taking a step forward and putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “The threat remains as long as the knowledge remains. As long as there is some hint, some clue, of how they accomplished what they did, Enhover is in danger. For us, for our people to be safe, we have to end the Coldlands’ sorcery. Anything that may point to an entry onto the dark path must be eradicated, wiped clean from this world. I have never tasked you with a more important mission, brother. You must destroy it all.”

  William swallowed.

  Edward pointed, his hand steady and straight. He pointed down to the coast, where in the morning sun, they could see the dark smudge of smoke that obscured the tumbled ruin that had once been Northundon.

  “I will not return, brother, until it is done,” assured William. “With my own eyes, I will ensure that every trace of what these monsters are capable of is destroyed.”

  Edward and William stepped together and embraced. When they were done, Edward turned to Edgar Shackles. “As soon as the munitions are unloaded, we’ll return to Southundon.”

  “I am ready,” said the man.

  Edward gripped his brother’s shoulder. “By the circle, William, cleanse the stain of sorcery from this world.”

  “Father,” said Oliver.

  He turned to his son, an eyebrow raised.

  “I would like to go with William.”

  “No, boy, not yet,” replied Edward.

  “I’m not a child!” exclaimed Oliver. “I’ve seen what they are capable of. Allow me to seek revenge for the Crown, for mother.”

  Edward offered his son a wan smile. “No, you are no longer a child. You are old enough to understand that sometimes our responsibilities do not match our desires. Like me, you are needed in Southundon, even if we’d prefer to face our enemy with sword and fire. When we tell my father about what we’ve found here — Father, the peers, the ministers, and the Church, I want them to hear it from you. You, the Duke of Northundon, will issue the call to war for our people. It will be your voice that raises our banners and inspires our men. You will fight this wa
r, son, but not all battles are conducted with steel and explosives. You understand that I need you with me?”

  “The Duke of Northundon,” whispered his son.

  “The city is gone,” replied Edward. “Shades inhabit the ruins. Someday, though, perhaps you can reclaim it for the Crown. Someday, you might be able to right this wrong. Until that time, or until you decide to give it up, you shall remain the duke.”

  “I will not give it up,” declared Oliver. “I am of this place.”

  “Good,” responded Edward, nodding to his son. “Good. Duke Oliver Wellesley, prepare to travel. When the vessels are unloaded, we fly south.”

  5

  The Sergeant II

  “McCready,” hissed his man. “You see that?”

  “I do,” he replied.

  He frowned, crouched behind an icy rock, his breath clouding the air in front of him. The moonlight reflected off the snow and ice that seemed to perpetually cover the place, but that wasn’t what drew his gaze. Moonlight wasn’t what lit the night.

  Down below them, the village they were meant to reconnoiter was on fire. Half a dozen structures were lit with red and orange flame. Coldlands huts, constructed of branches and mud, were burning fitfully. Whoever had set the fire had been determined, he knew, but they’d been unsuccessful. He and his men had attempted to burn similar villages scattered across twenty leagues of frozen forest. You couldn’t just toss a torch against the structures. The winter-hard wood was coated in thin layers of ice, so it took significant heat to keep it burning. Then, there was the mud, used as caulk to seal the gaps in between the logs. It wouldn’t burn no matter what you did. To properly destroy the little huts, you had to tear them down. Tear them down, stack them up, and then burn them in a proper fire. That, or use oil. You could burn it so hot that no amount of melting ice or sticky mud would keep the fire from the wood.