“Those clouds,” said Magarteach, and gestured to the north, where the thick gray sky was taking on a darker shade. “I don’t like them. More to the point, the mages don’t either. I suspect we may have hoped in vain for spring, Sentinel, and I’m sure we’d best start getting the camp battened down.”
Chapter 3
Wind shrieked through the night. Clouds blotted out the stars, dumping snow by the bucketload onto the border camp, and the air was painfully cold, even when the wind didn’t whip it into a sandstorm of ice. It had been spring two days before. Now it was midwinter again, hard and bleak.
Out beyond the walls, magelights shone stark white on the snow, bright enough to blind any watcher who didn’t shield their eyes, but making sure that any figure approaching the palisades was visible right away. Thickly wrapped soldiers escorted the wizards out three times a day to keep them shining. It was a luxury that, like the spheres of heat surrounding the tents, had become the only way the armies opposing Thyran could hold the border through the winter.
Vivian watched the ground before her from the thin slit in her bonemask, blinked to clear her vision, and cast her gaze over every inch of the snow that she could see, looking not only for the obvious figures of twistedmen—Thyran’s shock troops—but for movement that could mean tunneling.
The cold was fine. Poram and Letar had both blessed her at her reforging. Now Vivian could face the blizzard with no more than mild discomfort, just as she could hold her hand in a fire for an hour and come away with no worse than a nasty sunburn. The monotony of the watch itself was the danger, and the weather made it worse. Snow clouded the sharpest vision after a while. Visions appeared in the cold. Voices rode the wind. It would have been easy to lose herself.
She did lose track of the time, until another figure approached her position on the walls.
Only the Sentinels and the knights had the endurance to be sentries for very long in the storm, and not many of those had blessings to match Vivian’s. Katrine was wrapped in wool and fur until she looked twice her size, and only the amethyst-hilted sword at her waist would have given her identity away if Vivian hadn’t known who else was out there with her.
“All calm on your circuit?” Vivian asked.
“All calm. You make an excellent landmark, Commander.”
“I do my best.” She peered at the other Sentinel, observing what she could between fur hood, wool scarf, and bonemask. Katrine was pale, but she’d always been pale. The droop in her shoulders was more indicative. “You’ve reached your limit.”
“So have you,” said a voice from the stairs behind them.
Vivian didn’t turn when she recognized the speaker. Nor was she surprised that she hadn’t heard the approach: Emeth was the most silent-moving of the Sentinels she knew, particularly when snow muffled her steps. “Well—” she began.
“Well, you’ve been out here two shifts, and you’ll be no damn good if you fall asleep on your feet. Katrine, love, you’re damned near blue. Alyan’s about ten steps behind me. We’ll be fine while you two get some blood into your fingers.”
“I’ll ignore the insubordination, then,” said Vivian.
“Good. Kat, Olvir said his tent’d have stew ready in a couple minutes if you want to stop in. I’m sure nobody’d mind if you brought our gracious leader.”
Nor would I trust your fingers near a carving knife just now, Ulamir put in.
Vivian’s aide was skilled in many things. Cooking was not one. “I’m told I make illustrious company,” she said, and let Katrine take the lead.
Wizards took care of the inside of the camp as well as the outside. Down off the walls, the wind was already less fierce, but a faintly yellow transparent shield a foot or so in, anchored by glowing yellow crystals every few yards, blocked the rest of it, leaving only adequate air to keep everyone breathing. A significantly larger transparent sphere sat further in, radiating heat to two circles of tents.
The wounded and those who cared for them got the closest spots. The healthy soldiers took the outside, supplementing magic with braziers, fires, and body heat.
Olvir’s tent was large, with a glow from inside that hinted at the brazier. Those inside were singing as Vivian and Katrine approached. The smell of cooking food drifted out along with the music, making Vivian’s stomach growl. It had been a long watch.
“Come in, please!”
She’d always admired Olvir’s voice, which had the clear depth of a great horn. It was perfect for shouting orders across noisy battlefields. Now it cut cleanly through the wind. In its own way, it was as much welcome—as much shelter—as the light and the scent of stew.
* * *
Swords always gave Sentinels away, even when they were swathed in furs and wearing bonemasks. The amethyst in Katrine’s Lothelas glinted in the brazier’s light, and Olvir only took a moment longer to connect the sapphire with Vivian.
He’d seen her here and there since they’d talked, but both of them had always been very occupied with their duties as the camp prepared itself for the storm. As she pushed back her hood and unstrapped the bonemask, leaving her charcoal-rimmed eyes bare, Olvir found himself at a loss for words. Having spoken of weighty matters, it was hard to find his way to the lighter ones.
Fortunately, singing took care of it. There were five others in the tent, and two of them were silent, but Morgan and the two baritones with her were vigorously making up for the lack.
“O that my love were in my arms,” the verse wound to a conclusion, the singers’ low tones providing a comforting counter to the high shrieking of the wind beyond the walls, “and I in my bed again.”
“Not that I’d insist on a bed,” said one of the men, tipping Morgan a wink.
Vivian laughed. “That’s the difference between twenty and forty, good man,” she said. “I’d take the bed in a heartbeat right now, with love or without.”
“So would I, if I’d been standing out for a day,” said the other man who’d been singing. He dipped the ladle into the stew and held it up, offering the handle. “Come get ’round a bit of turnip and let’s-call-it-bacon.”
The two women stepped forward, but then Katrine stopped and turned, peeling off her bonemask in the meantime. She tilted her head slightly, in the manner of a hunting hawk, and looked at the men who hadn’t been singing. “I’m afraid I need to ask who you are.”
Olvir hadn’t recognized them either. They’d come in with the others, back from refreshing the lights. Their faces looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place them, particularly as they’d kept their hoods up and were half-buried in piles of fur. He’d thought the cold must have lingered for them—some felt it more easily than others—and hoped they’d feel better after stew.
“Why?” asked one. He had a strange voice, low and clotted. That might have been his wrappings, or an earlier injury, but given the way Katrine was acting… Olvir rose to his feet.
“I’m Jan,” the other said quickly, his voice similar. “He’s Bres.”
Morgan and the soldiers around the stewpot had been watching quietly, but now the man who’d winked at Morgan placed the ladle in the stew, shaking his head. “Nobody named that in our outfit,” he said.
“It could be a simple mix-up,” said Olvir, though he remained standing, and he was aware of precisely how far his hand was from his sword. “The storm confuses things. Which regiment are you from, gentlemen?”
The one who’d given names sucked a wet breath through his teeth. “Criwath.”
“There’s a lot of Criwath,” said Vivian. “I think you’d better take those hoods off. A look at your faces could clear up a fair amount.”
Olvir liked giving the benefit of the doubt, when he could, but he wasn’t stupid, and Katrine’s judgment was sound. His sword was out and in his hand when the “men” changed.
It only took a second. Their faces crumbled like the
snow outside. Red muscle glistened beneath, apparently bare of skin. Faces and arms stretched too long, claws shot through leather gloves, and mouths gaped to reveal three rows of black barbed teeth. These were the twistedmen, Thyran’s creatures, coming out of disguises that they’d never worn before.
Ignoring everyone else in the tent, they both rushed toward Olvir.
The Fireforged
On sale July 2021
Acknowledgments
My agent, Jessica Watterson, and my editor, Mary Altman, gave me the opportunity to finally write the world I’ve been creating for years, and the entire Sourcebooks crew helped me get the Sentinels and their stories out there—my most profound thanks to them! I’m also indebted to my family and friends for their encouragement, and especially to my friend Sophia Khan, who hosted me while I was in the UK writing large parts of this book and kept me well fortified with Nando’s, excessive desserts, and true crime.
About the Author
Isabel Cooper lives outside of Boston, where she spends her days editing technology research and her nights doing things best not discussed here. (Actually, she plays a lot of video games.) Her family is not an evil cult as far as she knows, though they do live in a town best known from an X-Files episode.
You can find her sporadically updated blog at isabelcooper.wordpress.com.
Also by Isabel Cooper
Dark Powers
No Proper Lady
Lessons After Dark
Highland Dragons
Legend of the Highland Dragon
The Highland Dragon’s Lady
Night of the Highland Dragon
Dawn of the Highland Dragon
Highland Dragon Warrior
Highland Dragon Rebel
Highland Dragon Master
Stormbringer
The Stormbringer
The Nightborn
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