Stormcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Hal was still debating whether to kill him outright or to try to take him alive and risk giving himself away when the rattle of pebbles on stone behind him alerted him to danger. He dove sideways in time to avoid being beheaded by the curved blade of the horselord who’d crept up on him. Hal rolled to his feet, his sword in one hand, a fistful of sand in the other. He managed to block his attacker’s next swing, but the force of the blow all but rattled the teeth from his head.

  Hal was no slouch, but it didn’t take long for him to realize that he was outmatched. The horselord was strong as an ox, and yet so quick on his feet that Hal could scarcely do more than dodge and feint, rarely getting in a blow of his own. The horselord’s next swing all but disarmed Hal, but the curved blade caught against his own, and Hal took that opportunity to come in close enough to fling the sand in the horselord’s eyes. When his blade dropped away, Hal drove his sword beneath his rib cage, all the way to the hilt.

  The horselord smashed his gauntleted arm across Hal’s face, pitching him backward onto the sand. Then the other sentry was there, his blade at Hal’s throat, pinning him to the beach. Hal watched in horror as the man he’d skewered yanked the blade free and tossed it aside on the sand.

  No, Hal thought, spitting out blood. That wound is not survivable, let alone ignorable. Not by any mortal man. I need to apologize to Talbot for questioning her description of the invading army.

  The way things were going, he might never get the chance.

  The two enemy soldiers were arguing now, in a language akin enough to Common that Hal realized that they were arguing over whether to kill him now or deliver him to the empress alive.

  If they took him to the empress, would Lyssa Gray be there? Could he devise a way to rescue her and the busker?

  “You know the empress will want this one alive,” one of the horselords said, pointing at Hal, and then toward the ship. “He is young and strong, and a good fighter.”

  The skewered man fingered the hilt of his sword and scowled at Hal; the man’s jaw was set stubbornly, as if he took being skewered rather personally. “Celestine has many new recruits to choose from, Hoshua,” he said. “She can spare this one.”

  “She will need many more bloodsworn in the coming days,” Hoshua said. “These wetlands have plenty of seasoned soldiers. They have been at war for years.”

  Wetlands, Hal thought. That must mean that they are from the drylands across the sea. And what did that mean—bloodsworn? Was it simply the name used for the horselord fighters, or did it have something to do with their superhuman strength and stamina?

  “I don’t want to have to keep watch on him all the way to Celesgarde,” the wounded man said.

  Where is Celesgarde? Is that where they would have carried Lyssa Gray?

  “Don’t worry, Enebish. We can chain him belowdecks. He won’t be any trouble.”

  After a heated discussion, his captors finally agreed that maybe the empress could spare this one particular soldier.

  “Take me to Celestine,” Hal said in Common, startling the two horselords, who looked down at him as if a rock on the beach had begun speaking. These bloodsworn might be relentless, but they were not particularly quick-witted.

  Enebish, the skewered man, drew back his foot and kicked him. The movement caused the horselord to stagger a bit, as if his body was catching up to the fact that it was in serious trouble. That’s when Hal heard a familiar thwack. Now an arrow shaft was centered in Hoshua’s chest.

  Hal rolled onto his side, gripped Enebish’s boot, and gave it a hard twist. Bone cracked and the horselord went down. Focus on breaking bones, Hal thought. That makes them less mobile.

  Hal scrambled over the sand to where Enebish had dropped his sword, scooped it up, and turned to see Hoshua bearing down on him, as unconcerned about his arrow as Enebish had been about being run through. The bow sounded again, and the horselord stumbled as a second arrow hit him in the back. Hal took advantage of the distraction to behead his opponent with a two-handed swing. The head splashed into the water, but the body continued to stagger around, spraying blood from its severed neck until it tripped over a rock slab and went down.

  “Matelon! Look out!” Hal turned, and Talbot was sprinting toward him, nocking an arrow as she ran. Between them, Enebish was crawling across the sand toward Hal, pulling with his arms, pushing with one leg and dragging the broken one, his dagger in his teeth. In desperation, Hal threw his shoulder against a slab of rock, toppling it over so Enebish was pinned underneath.

  Breathing hard, Hal bent down, resting his hands on his knees, and tried not to spew sick all over the sand.

  Talbot knelt next to Enebish’s head. She swore softly. “He’s dead,” she said, glaring at Hal. “I wanted to interrogate him.”

  “Sorry,” Hal muttered. “But I . . . ah . . . questioned him before he died.”

  Talbot eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean? What did you find out?”

  It was the first time he’d interrogated someone from the wrong end of a sword, but he knew more now than he had before.

  “They’re Empress Celestine’s army,” Hal said. “They sail out of her capital at Celesgarde, wherever that is. That’s where they likely took the busker and Captain Gray.”

  Hal and Talbot chose new mounts from among the long-legged desert horses in the temporary paddocks on the beach. They stole weapons and other gear from the dead horselords. Hal wasn’t in love with the curved blades the pirates carried, but now he knew from experience that they were good at removing heads with a single swipe, which seemed to be one of the few ways to put these demon soldiers down for good. Their bows were strange, also—lightweight, with limbs that curved back toward the archer. Hal was good with a crossbow, and fair with a longbow, but it would take practice to learn how to use one of these.

  They rode west toward Fortress Rocks, continuing until their horses were exhausted. When they didn’t dare push them any further, they found lodging at an inn along the road. To say they found lodging was being generous. The inn was already packed with refugees heading inland. Hal and Talbot slept in the barn, in a stall with three other people. Talbot had a small amount of money, but all Hal had were a handful of unfamiliar coins he’d taken from Enebish.

  To say they slept was being generous.

  Hal rose at first light and saddled his horse. He’d named the stallion Bosley because he was balky, full of himself, and obsessed with getting at the mares. Hal filled the panniers with food for several days, his quiver with arrows, and lashed a blanket roll behind his saddle. He was swinging open the barn doors when Talbot appeared, her hair in a tangle, wiping sleep from her eyes.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  “This is where we say good-bye.” Hal led his mount out into the stable yard, with Talbot hard on his heels.

  “What do you mean, good-bye?” Talbot planted herself in his path. “You’re coming with me to Fortress Rocks, and then on to Fellsmarch. The queen will want to question you along with me.”

  “I have business in Arden,” Hal said. “I need to go home.”

  “You are a prisoner of the queen,” Talbot said, “and it’s not my place to decide to set you free.”

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” Hal said, but she didn’t crack a smile. He sighed. It was unfair for her to keep playing by the book when he’d already strayed so far from it. “After what we faced together in Chalk Cliffs, do you really want to shed blood between us?” He knew Talbot well enough by now not to suggest whose. He swung up into the saddle, and Talbot gripped the stallion’s cheek piece. Never a good idea where Bosley was concerned. He showed his teeth, jerking his head to one side so that she lost her hold. Hal reined in, forcing the stallion back a few steps.

  Talbot drew her sword. “I like you, Matelon,” she said, “but I can’t just let you ride back home when you are a prisoner of war.”

  “We’re all prisoners of war, aren’t we?” Ha
l said, but that gained him no ground. He leaned down toward her, using all the persuasion at his command, which, admittedly, wasn’t much. “Look, I know you don’t want to go back to your queen and report that you lost your commanding officer, your post, and your prisoner. If I had my way, I would go after that ship even if I had to row all the way to Celesgarde.”

  By now, Talbot was nodding her agreement.

  “But,” he said, which stopped her nodding. “I’m tactician enough to know that the only thing I’d likely achieve by doing that is an early grave. We need more information. We need more firepower. And the only connections I have are in Arden. Holding me hostage and hoping my father responds for the first time in his life is a waste of time. I can do your queen and your queendom a lot more good by going home and making a case in person than by cooling my heels in a dungeon in Fellsmarch.”

  “How, exactly, could you do us good?” Talbot asked, scowling. “And why would you, once you’re home?”

  Hal had lots of possible answers.

  Because I’ve fallen for your Captain Gray. Because, when it comes to choosing between her and the despicable Montaignes, it’s no choice at all. Because I’ve never seen a people so devoted to their line of queens. Because, after swimming for so long in the political swill of Ardenscourt, I’ve gotten used to breathing clean air here in the north.

  Because I’m a fool for lost causes.

  “Captain Gray and I had an argument about the war,” Hal said. “I told her flat-out you were going to lose. I told her we had better weapons, a bigger army, deeper pockets, and an entire empire to draw upon. It’s a total mismatch. Only a fool would bet on you.”

  Talbot’s face was getting redder and redder. “And she said . . . ?”

  He laughed. “She disagreed.”

  “What’s your point, Matelon?”

  “The point is, now I’m not so sure. Winning a war depends on more than armament and numbers. An army can’t fight on heart alone, but it can’t fight without it, either. That said, the empress Celestine and her army of bloodsworn scare the hell out of me. I’ve never seen soldiers like them. From what Enebish said, she has an endless supply. After Chalk Cliffs, I am sure of one thing: if the Realms cannot unite against the threat from the east, we will all lose.”

  Talbot nodded grudgingly. “Maybe so, but if you think that after twenty-five years of war, Queen Raisa is going to bend the knee to the empire, you’re wrong.”

  “I didn’t say the empire. I said the Realms. Give your queen my regards.” With that, Hal set his knees to the stallion’s sides. As he rode away, he was reasonably sure that Talbot wouldn’t put an arrow in his back. Mostly because she didn’t have a bow in her hands. Still, the tension didn’t leave his back and shoulders until he rounded a turn and was out of sight.

  16

  PRODIGAL SON

  Hal rode south over the Alyssa Plateau, taking the path he’d traveled after his escape from the debacle at Queen Court. He crossed into Arden west of Spiritgate, but he didn’t feel any safer on the southern side of the border. For all he knew, the empress was attacking ports up and down the coast. For all he knew, he was a hunted man in Arden.

  Once he was well into Arden, he began asking questions about the state of the dispute between the king and the Thane Council. But when your sources are tavern gossip, you get creative and conflicting stories.

  Some said King Jarat had freed all political prisoners and was negotiating with the thanes in a new spirit of collaboration. Some said that the full power of the army of Arden would take the field against the thanes any day now.

  Another common line was that Queen Marina had seized power and was running the kingdom in the name of her son. Still others expected that Jarat’s betrothal would be announced any day, bringing one of the powerful thane families to his side. If not Jarat’s, then his sister’s.

  In short, the information was as reliable as tavern gossip usually is. Nobody recalled hearing anything about Lady Matelon or her daughter, but almost everyone had heard that Thane Matelon and his surviving son were gathering troops in the countryside.

  Hal wondered if word had reached his father that he was alive, and held captive by the Gray Wolf queen. Or if the messages the wolf queen had promised to send had been intercepted by his family’s enemies. Or if she’d sent any messages at all.

  He considered taking ship from Spiritgate to Middlesea, but, given what he’d seen at Chalk Cliffs, he decided to stay as far away from the coast as possible. He traveled overland, hoping that the passes through the Heartfangs would be open by now. Anyone keeping watch for him wouldn’t expect him to come that way.

  After a series of frustrating delays due to the dregs of an especially hard winter, he made it through the mountains in time to meet spring as it climbed the western slopes.

  Hal methodically stripped off layers of clothing as the snows thinned, then disappeared from all but the shadiest spots. After a year in Delphi, and his winter travels through the frozen north, the scent of earth and flowers went to his head like the ten-year brandy his father reserved for special occasions.

  His desert horse Bosley seemed as pleased as Hal to be leaving the cold mountains behind.

  Now Hal looked down over the valley that he’d called home from birth. Though he hadn’t spent much time here since he’d left for the army at the age of eleven, it was still the center of his personal compass. He scanned the scene below, looking for signs of disorder.

  The river was out of its banks, but that wasn’t unusual this time of year, when the melting snows in the mountains sent waterfalls roaring down the lower slopes of the Heartfangs. The runoff fed the northern branch of the Ardenswater that joined her southern sister on the way to the sea.

  From the looks of things, the tenants had already been working the close-in shares. New crops greened the better allotments near the river. But other, less fertile fields lay fallow, suggesting that some who normally worked the fields might have been turned to bloodier work.

  At least the keep wasn’t ringed by armies flying the red hawk, and the manor house still stood intact amid his lady mother’s gardens. The dying sun colored the low hills to the west and smoke curled from the kitchens that would be preparing the evening meal. The joy of homecoming was tempered by the knowledge that his mother and sister weren’t there.

  Nudging his horse into motion, Hal began his descent. He’d only just reached the flatlands at the bottom when he saw horsemen riding hard toward him. Hal rested his hand on his curved sword until the riders were close enough that he could see that they wore the spreading oak signia pinned to their clothes. Militia, then, not his father’s regulars. Hal didn’t see any familiar faces.

  Nobody seemed to recognize Hal, either. And why would they? He was a scruffy stranger on a stolen horse carrying an exotic blade.

  The horses were motley, and the riders were, too, so Hal guessed they were farmers and farmers’ sons, called into service. All except for their officer, a corporal who rode a fine horse with elaborate trappings and looked to be about twelve years old. He wore a different signia than the others—the shield and cross. Hal racked his brain, trying to recall what house that was.

  “State your name and business,” the baby officer said. “You’ve crossed into Lord Matelon’s holdings.”

  Before Delphi, Hal would have freely volunteered his name and business at the border of his father’s lands to people wearing his signia. But he did not know for sure who these people were and he’d developed some skills at staying alive off the battlefield as well as on it.

  “I’m here to see Lord Matelon,” Hal said, holding on to his own name for the moment.

  “Is that so?” The corporal looked him up and down, taking in Hal’s stubble of beard and his travel-stained clothing. “Why would he want to meet with you?”

  “That’s between me and Matelon,” Hal said.

  “Then you should know that he’s not here.”

  Then where is he? Hal was tempted to sa
y. Instead, he said, “Of course he’s not here. He’s going to meet me here in two days’ time.”

  “Then come back in two days,” the boy said.

  “What’s your name, Corporal?” Hal barked it with enough authority that the boy replied before he thought it through.

  “It’s Rolande DeLacroix,” he said.

  “Son of Pascal?”

  The boy blinked at Hal, as if surprised he would know the name. “Yes, he’s my father.”

  That was it, the shield and cross belonged to the DeLacroix, though a bunch of grapes and a cask would be more accurate. They were a family of wine merchants, originally from Tamron, highly skilled at avoiding any actual service in the war, which was why Hal hadn’t recognized their signia at first.

  There was something else, though. Hal tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. “Brother to Estelle, then?”

  Estelle DeLacroix was mistress to King Gerard, and her family had prospered when she became his favorite. Hal usually didn’t follow court gossip, but he knew all this courtesy of his mother’s and sister’s newsy letters while he was in exile in Delphi.

  The letters had stopped, of course, when Delphi fell and the Matelon women were taken hostage, so he was no longer up to date.

  Rolande flushed scarlet. “Estelle was my sister, yes, until swiving King Gerard executed her for treason. Like she would try to kill him by putting an adder in her own bed. How stupid would that be?” Rolande clapped his mouth shut then, as if realizing how much he was revealing to this scruffy stranger and a dozen onlooking farmers.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your sister,” Hal said, and meant it. “So, what are you doing here? Has your family allied with White Oaks?”

  “White Oaks has allied with us,” Rolande said loftily. “I’ve been charged with organizing local forces to protect the keeps in the area while my father and his allies march on the capital.”