Catalyst Moon: Incursion (The Catalyst Moon Saga Book 1)

by Lauren L. Garcia

  Several minutes later, as they were cleaning up the last traces of the battle, Cobalt's squad rode up – without a mage in tow. The captain only briefly glanced at the burning bandits and the covered bodies upon the wagon before approaching his fellow officer. “No sign of the moon-blood or her escort,” he said, frowning. “But we found something else that needs our attention.”

  “More Canderi?” Dev asked.

  Cobalt nodded once, briskly. “Aye. We tracked them to a village not far from here: Parsa. The locals have tried to fend them off, but they need us.” He glanced around at the others and raised his voice. “Mount up, lads and ladies. We've got work to do.”

  Cobalt ordered Mica and a reluctant Gray to first head down the road, where his squad had found the remaining Starwatch sentinel's body, then to travel to Whitewater City to return the fallen sentinels. Meanwhile, the others in both squads prepared to move. There was a flurry of final preparations: tightening girths, daggers and swords sliding silently into their sheathes.

  By now, the sun was high enough to steal through the trees and glint off of hematite armor. Plenty of light to see the road ahead. It should have been a good omen, but Milo's throat was tight and he could not stop stealing looks at the wagon as he adjusted his saddle's stirrups, thus lingering behind the others.

  It was because of this that he heard Flint and Dev's quiet conversation behind him.

  “Another dose?” Flint asked.

  Dev did not reply immediately. “I'll be fine.”

  “But so soon after the last one?”

  There was nothing deferential in her tone, which might have accounted for the lieutenant's sharp exhale. But his voice was soft. “This is normal, for a cinder of my years.”

  Flint scoffed. “You're barely thirty summers!”

  Saddle secure, Milo glanced over his shoulder to see that Dev's head had dipped and his armored shoulders slumped. “I'm not like you, Flint,” the lieutenant said. “A little hematite doesn't go as far for me.” Dev turned, saw Milo, and straightened in his saddle. “Come on, burnies,” he said sharply, angling his horse for the road, where the others had gone. “Time to move out.”

  “Yes, ser,” Milo said, mounting quickly.

  For whatever reason, Flint now rode at his side, leaving Dev to lead the way. The tightness in Milo's throat eased when he glanced at his sister. Despite her rough edges, he could never forget that they'd shared a womb; they shared the same blood. Mira – no, Flint – was here, so he was not alone. Whatever else happened, this was where he belonged.

  NINE

  Modest was probably the most diplomatic way to describe the village of Parsa, but all Milo could think was muddy. Parsa squatted in a small valley, surrounded by sodden fields and gangly trees. The roads were mostly mud, too, with ragged, wooden buildings hunched on either side of narrow byways. The village reminded Milo of the toy-towns he and Flint used to make out of empty jugs and broken cups when they were children.

  The ground at the village gates was pockmarked where the villagers had stood in defense of their home. A few had fallen, never to rise again. Milo murmured a prayer to Nox and Mara as the squads rode by the bodies. Within the village itself, drifting smoke distorted the view and added a sharp, acrid tinge to the air. Weapons clattered nearby, with shouts echoing through the climbing smoke. Screams followed.

  Cobalt lifted his fist and the two squads halted. “Sounds like they're at the center of the village. Fan out. Surround the barbarians and try to come up from behind.” He pulled his sword free of its scabbard. “Try to keep at least one alive enough for questioning. Kill the rest.”

  “Take care,” Dev added. “You've all seen what these creatures are capable of.”

  Milo's stomach churned at the memory. Two squads from Starwatch, slain. Their numbers weren't any better.

  “They were ambushed,” Flint murmured beside him. Startled, Milo looked at his sister, but she did not spare him a glance. “We know what we're walking into. We'll be fine.”

  He took a deep breath and nodded. The squads lunged as one; a wave of dark gray that glinted in the morning light. They tore through the village, through the mud and mire, and within a few breaths, they fell upon the battle.

  Or what was left of it.

  The Parsans had gathered before the village temple to make their last stand. Bodies lay scattered like so many fallen branches around the homely wooden building. A handful of wide-eyed, bloodied folk stood outside the temple doors, backs to one another, axes, shovels, and pitchforks raised alongside a few rusty swords.

  Six Canderi surrounded them. Six! To take a village! Even if Parsa was small, as villages went, Milo would not have believed the story if he'd heard it over supper.

  The Canderi moved like... Sweet Mara's mercy, he could not help but think they moved like jackals, or wolves, or some other wild creatures. The barbarians stood on two legs, but they were as different from Milo as the moon Seren was from the rest of the world. Just before they seemed to note the sentinels' arrival, they darted before the villagers with an unnaturally smooth, liquid gait. At the sound of the sentinels' approach, the Canderi turned from their soon-to-be victims, and swept, snarling, toward the armored men and women.

  Their eyes should have been the vibrant blue of their kind, but pinpricks of stars burned instead, almost bright enough to blind.

  Not human, surely. But what? Demons?

  Fear snagged at Milo's heart but he pushed it aside. Mara will protect us. He reached for his sword, but he'd already drawn it. His body knew what to do; his mind would catch up. He tightened his fingers around the hilt. Tor will give us strength.

  ***

  Later...

  Mud and mire, sucking first at his horse's hooves, then his own boots when his horse was gone. The thick wet sounds of metal meeting flesh and the shrieks that followed. Not human cries – though there were too many of those – but strangled, fierce animal noises. No time to consider them. No time for anything but the fight.

  Hematite sang through Milo's blood, granting him strength and power. He and Beacon cut down the nearest Canderi, a female with long, pale braids. Despite having several of Rook's arrows sticking out of her back, she got in a few good swipes before she fell. How in Ea's name was that possible? No matter; she was dead. Milo and Beacon moved on to the next Canderi: a tall male, with cloth wrapped around his claymore's hilt. Cobalt was already keeping him preoccupied. And there! A gap in the barbarian's defenses. Milo lunged. He didn't remember what had happened to his horse. He only knew blood; burning in his veins, clogging his nose with its iron-red scent, painting the mud and the armor of his sentinel brothers and sisters.

  Mira. Somewhere, she screamed. His heart froze. He sprang back from the Canderi – who crashed to the mud, shrieking – and whirled to search for his twin. Damn the smoke and so much gray armor! Damn the streaming sunlight that played tricks on his eyes. Flint was everywhere, but nowhere, until...

  There! Tor help her...she was on her feet, standing before Lieutenant Dev's prone form, helmet gone but sword steady as she faced a bear of a Canderi who raised a wicked claymore. There was nothing in his gaze but cold starlight.

  She was strong, his sister, but she was alone. Milo darted forward. “Mira!”

  If Flint heard his call, she did not show it. She ducked away from the Canderi's blow and stuck her sword in his gut. The barbarian screamed at her – another frenzied shriek that made Milo's skin crawl – but the brute did not drop his weapon. No; he shook off her strike and swung again, too quickly, and for all of Flint's speed, she would not be fast enough this time. The claymore descended, singing through the air, singing for his sister's life.

  To Milo the world slowed. Even his steps crawled as the mud held him back. He fought the earth itself to reach her side.

  Please, sweet Mara. Please, strong Tor. Please let me reach her in time.

  The gods were not always kind; Milo had proof of that. But sometimes they were merciful. With his next breath he st
ood at Flint's shoulder; with the next, he lifted his sword to join hers. Together, they were strong enough. Milo dug his heels in the mud and held the Canderi in place, and Flint struck his gut again and again, harder each time. In the moment of his death, the barbarian screamed and the hairs on Milo's arms stood at attention. At last the Canderi dropped to the mud, staring at the sky with sightless, human eyes.

  The world sharpened and sped to its normal pace. Other than a few scratches and a bloody nose, Flint looked hale; her black hair, just like his but longer, was in a messy plait and her eyes were bright, huge and round in their shock. Somewhere in the back of his mind he decided that later on, he'd be pleased that he'd surprised her. Then she turned away and knelt in the mud, where the lieutenant lay.

  “Dev...”

  The officer had lost his helmet during the fight; his face was paler than Milo had ever seen, with a grayish tinge. Traces of stubble from his last shave – surely, that was days ago, now? – clung to his cheek. Flint covered it with her muddy glove.

  The lieutenant studied her before his mouth pulled into a faint smile. He parted his lips, as if he was about to speak, but no sound came out. Flint shook her head. “Don't,” she whispered. Please.”

  Milo glanced around; the others moved slowly, picking through the remains of the Canderi. The world around him was muted. The fighting had ended, but no one had noticed the twins. Throat dry, he dropped to his knees beside his sister, already reaching for the small mend-kit in his belt. Maybe it would be useless, but he had to try and help. “Here, I have some thalo–”

  Flint ignored him.

  “I can get Beak–”

  “No...” But she wasn't looking at him. All her attention was on Dev, who took one, weak breath and went still.

  Milo closed his eyes. “Nox bring your spirit safely over the threshold. Tor guide your steps into the next life. The One keep you in all your days.”

  “Shut up, Milo.” Her voice was sharp, but broke on his name. She curled over their commanding officer as if trying to shield him. Her body seemed to shrink in on itself, like she was trying to make herself smaller, less visible. Milo used to do that, too. But that was a long time ago, and there was nothing for her to fear if they were together.

  He reached for her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mira–”

  He felt the stinging blow on his forearm before his eyes registered his sister's movement. “That's not my name anymore,” she ground out, blue eyes hard. “Stop saying it!”

  Ice swept through his veins, replacing the burn of battle with cold uncertainty. He stammered, “I... I'm sorry.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  Milo's mouth opened but nothing intelligent came out. He should really be used to that by now. “I wanted to help–”

  But Flint shook her head. “You made everything worse. You always do.” She hunched over, more than before. “Just go away.”

  Something sharp stabbed his heart. He glanced down, but his armor was intact. “Flint, I'm sorry, I just–”

  “Go away,” she snarled, still not looking at him. “Now. Leave me alone.”

  “Burnies.” Captain Cobalt's sudden voice made the twins stand at attention, though Flint was blinking rapidly. “You separated from the group. What...”

  Cobalt trailed off as his eyes fell on Dev's body, and he went still.

  Milo opened his mouth to reply but Flint beat him to it. “Ser, the lieutenant was drawn away from the center of the battle. I moved to assist. But– ”

  She faltered, but Cobalt nodded, his pale eyes narrowing down at the fallen raider. “Understood.”

  The scarred captain studied Dev's body again and ducked his head. When he looked up, his gaze was hard and dark as his name. “Help the others where you can. Before we return home, we'll see to the villagers and that this,” he kicked the raider's body, “filth is disposed of.”

  TEN

  By Stonewall's reckoning it took them the better part of the day to reach the edge of Whitewater Province. For most of this time, he and Halcyon had not said much to one another. She'd nodded off and he'd let her. She needed the rest. He did, too, though he didn't want to admit it.

  In any case, there had been quite a few hours where he'd been alone with his thoughts, which wasn't exactly a good thing.

  Thank Tor, the demon-Canderi had not made another appearance, but neither had he seen a fleet rider or another traveler who could pass on a message to the garrison. For that matter, what in the name of all holy things would he report about this ordeal to the Whitewater commander when he reached the city?

  It's very simple, Commander, he imagined saying. The mage just carried us leagues and leagues across the countryside with only a thought. Just another day, right?

  He rolled his eyes beneath the shelter of his helmet.

  Even if he could convince the commander that such a thing was possible, what then? As far as the commander was concerned, the dark-haired mage would likely be considered dangerous, possibly enough to warrant shutting her away in the garrison.

  He shuddered. Yes, magic could be dangerous, but in the name of honor, there had to be a line that could not be crossed. Mages were already kept behind high walls and guarded with hematite. Surely that was enough.

  But what if it wasn't? He glanced at the dozing magic-user; her head lolled to one side, her braid swaying with the motion of the horse. The hematite around her wrists gleamed in the sunlight, but his gaze landed upon her left knee. Kalinda Halcyon was already a captive of her own body as much as the cuffs that bound her hands and her magic. Furthermore, she'd not seemed entirely certain what she could do with that magic, which made him wonder... How much did anyone, mage or otherwise, understand the power these people could wield?

  None of these thoughts sat easily upon his shoulders. Stonewall studied the road without seeing it, searching for his own resolve. There was no alternative to his duty: bring her to Whitewater City, alert the sentinel commander of what she'd done, and leave the matter to his superior officer. Every other path would be an insult to the oath he'd taken.

  But she'd been truthful so far. She'd not proven herself to be malicious, just uninformed. And, like him, she seemed to want to use her abilities to perform good deeds.

  Gods above. They'd hardly known each other a handful of days; it was troubling how often she dwelt in his thoughts.

  He sighed.

  The hilly grassland stretched in all directions, rippling in the daylight. The sight made him oddly homesick for the sea, enough so that he looked forward to the confinement of a forest again, only to banish the feeling. As they approached the wooded border between the provinces, he could see sloping hills in the distance; the lowest foothills of the Argus Mountains.

  “What's that?” The mage's voice made him start. He glanced up to see she was awake, one hand lifted to shade her eyes from the afternoon sun while the other pointed north.

  A hill rose before them and he didn't have her vantage point. He gripped a dagger hilt in his free hand and looked around warily. “What's what?”

  “It looks like some kind of rock pile. But it's very...orderly. I've never seen anything like it.”

  He froze. The sudden stop caused the mare to swing her dappled head around to regard him with what he imagined was annoyance. A moment later, he tightened his grip on the reins and hurried along the road, quick enough for the horse to break into a trot.

  “Stonewall...is it dangerous? Is something wrong? What in the void's gotten into you?” Halcyon's voice jolted slightly with the movement of the horse, but he hardly listened.

  When he reached the place where the road curved up the little hill, he saw what she'd noted: a rock pile that was stacked in the rough shape of an anthill. Its peak tapered to a point and the entire structure was about a man's height. There were no other boulders nearby. The base was made up of larger, sturdier stones, while dozens of smaller ones had been wedged into every nook and cranny, making the pile look quite solid.

  Tor g
uide my steps. The weight lifted from his shoulders, for his patron-god would always help bear a burden if need be.

  “Stonewall?”

  When he turned to her, he had to squint through the sunlight to see her eyes. He did not care that he was smiling. “It's a cairn.” She shook her head, clearly confused, so he extended his hand to help her from the saddle. “Here, I'll show you.”

  When she was earthbound again he led the horse through the grass toward the cairn. Once they reached the site, Stonewall, fastened the chain between her cuffs to his belt, handed her the reins and dropped to one knee beside the rock pile.

  “Some gods have temples dedicated to them alone.” He ran his hands along one of the largest stones at the base, which was covered in lichen. “Some don't. But people still wish to honor them somehow, or at least have a place where they can pray. That's what this is.”

  Kalinda stepped forward so that she was perhaps a hand span behind him. “So, the Circle built this...cairn?”

  “Perhaps.” He began digging through one of the pouches he wore on his belt. “Or it might've been a traveling merchant, or a pig farmer, or...well, anyone. Most cairns are so old that no one knows who built them...”

  He trailed off as he felt for the pebbles he kept on hand, pulling one free after a moment and looking back up at the mage, who watched him with a bemused expression. “Have you ever made an offering to Tor?”

  “I've not had reason to. And I'm afraid I'm not as well-versed in mythology as I should be.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Tor's the protector one, isn't he?”

  Mythology. The word grated, but Stonewall let it go for now. “Aye.”

  Still kneeling, he studied the lapis pebble between his thumb and forefinger. It was the same kind of stone that made up many of the buildings in Pillau; a deep indigo, threaded with veins of crimson and gold that caught the sunlight. Tiny as it was, the pebble sparked a memory of home.

  “Tor asks a great deal of his followers,” Stonewall said. “But he gives as much in return, though everyone experiences his blessings in their own way.”