by Jayne Castel
Ten years later …
1
The Horn
Veldoras
The Kingdom of Thûn
THE CITY WAS weeping. Rain swept over Veldoras in great grey sheets, channels of it rushing down the cobbled streets and into the Brinewater Canal. It sluiced across tiled slate roofs and poured off gutters in thundering cascades.
Great.
Mira of The Swallow Guard pulled up her hood and strode across the gentle arch of the East Bridge. The bulk of The Swallow Keep loomed at her back, and the stone sprawl of the city spread out before her. Rain hammered against Mira, soaking through her cloak into her leathers beneath. Hopefully it hadn’t also seeped into her pack, hidden from view by her voluminous dark cloak.
Just my luck … the perfect day to start a journey.
She’d been waiting for today for weeks—the day of the Merchant Market. Three times a year merchants from all over the kingdom converged on the Great Square just inside the gates of the city. It was early afternoon, and the merchants would soon start packing away their wares and leaving Veldoras. Mira wanted to be there when they did.
She lengthened her stride, reaching the far side of the bridge. Her boots splashed through puddles as she turned right onto the Spiral Way. It was the city’s main thoroughfare that corkscrewed out from the center of Veldoras, crossing a number of bridges along the way.
Mira didn’t look back at the keep as she walked, but even so she could feel its oppressive weight behind her. She’d slipped away, giving no excuses, although she’d planned to say the queen had sent her on an errand if anyone stopped her. No one had.
Mira lifted her chin, blinking water out of her eyes, and peered up at the rainclouds. She wasn’t sure if this foul weather was a blessing or a curse. At least it made it easier to slip away unseen.
Her gaze remained upon the leaden sky for a moment. This was the first day of heavy rain in a while, although it had been weeks since anyone in Veldoras had seen the sun. A smothering mantle of cloud had settled over the land and refused to lift. You would have never known it was mid-summer.
Mira’s brow furrowed. With the strange weather had come tales of shadow creatures attacking villages, stealing livestock, and killing those who dared to venture out after dusk. The servants of the shadows usually stayed away from settlements, but the absence of sunlight had made them bold.
Unease settled over Mira. Maybe this isn’t such a great time to venture abroad. A moment later she tripped on the edge of a cobble and nearly went sprawling. Tearing her gaze from the sky, Mira cursed herself for not paying attention. Now wasn’t the time to lose focus.
She bowed her head against the sharp needles of rain and pressed on. The rain seemed to be pounding down even harder now. She broke into a jog, splashing through puddles and weaving her way through the scattering of figures in oilskins who had also braved the deluge.
Excitement fluttered in the pit of her belly, dissolving her earlier uneasiness. The shadow creatures be damned—even if the stories about them were true—this was her moment and she’d not waste it.
Ten years of servitude, of training, of boredom and isolation had led her to this moment. She’d been just out of girlhood when Queen Rena took her in, put a uniform on her, and threw her in with the other apprentices. For the first day Mira had been grateful to be saved from the streets, to have somewhere warm and dry to sleep and hot food in her belly—yet her gratitude hadn’t lasted long.
The other girls had called her the ‘Mud Sparrow’. She’d been an affront to them, the daughters of highborn folk. It was a privilege to gift a daughter to The Swallow Guard, to serve the royal family. None of the other apprentices had wanted her there, and they’d never softened toward her over the years. Not that Mira helped matters—she made a point of giving them reasons to dislike her.
I won’t miss any of them, she thought bitterly. A tight smile curved her lips as she imagined the princess’s outrage when she discovered her servant missing. She almost wished she could be there to see it. Almost.
Mira was a short distance away from the Great Square when she ducked into an alleyway and squeezed past a cascade of water that overflowed from guttering above. Hidden from view she stripped off her sodden black cloak—forked at the bottom like a swallow’s tail—and removed the silver swallow brooch at her throat.
Reaching into her pack she withdrew a grey woolen cloak and put it on. The pack also contained some supplies: dry biscuits, hard cheese, apples, and two skins of water. Mira hesitated, debating whether or not to leave her Swallow cloak and brooch here in the alleyway. After a moment she stuffed the items into her pack and shouldered it.
Best not to leave any trace behind me.
Mira left the alleyway and jogged the last distance to the Great Square. She hadn’t gone three yards before her new cloak was completely soaked. Next to her the Brinewater Canal was a swirling brown torrent; a high tide had converged with the torrential rains. There won’t be any mudlarks out there today.
Mira reached the market to find a much smaller crowd than she’d expected. It appeared the rain had kept all but the keenest merchants and shoppers away. Rivers of water streamed across the cobbled expanse, and the bedraggled vendors huddled under sagging awnings, their faces miserable. Some of them had already started packing up their goods. A man selling bolts of cloth worked feverishly to get his precious wares back under an oiled tarpaulin before the rain made the dye run. A few yards away from him a husband and wife argued as they packed away the pottery they’d brought to market.
Wandering amongst the stalls, Mira pretended to browse. It was hard to be nonchalant though while impatience surged through her. Not long now and this crowd of at least fifty merchants would finish packing up. Then they would trickle toward the gates and exit the city.
Mira planned to leave with them.
She circuited the market once more, deliberately slowing her pace. Her boots splashed through puddles. Regret filtered in through her impatience. I shouldn’t have left this so long, she thought, glancing south at where the huge iron gates gleamed wet in the rain. Why didn’t I go earlier?
She wasn’t really sure. She’d never fitted in among The Swallow Guard, but there had been part of her that had enjoyed the relative privilege of her life here. She’d never forgotten the fear, hunger, and cold of living rough. Mira had also enjoyed the training—learning how to fight and handle weapons.
Her sword, Foebane, hung at her side now. She should have really left it behind—for it was a distinctively made weapon with a swallow engraved on the hilt—yet she’d been unable to.
It’s my leaving gift. They owe it to me.
Still, she knew she’d delayed too long before making her decision to leave. The last year had made her bitter and angry; she should have left before the queen assigned her to the princess, before the other Swallows truly turned against her. They now thought of her as the favored one amongst them, the queen’s pet. Mira’s lip curled. It wasn’t true.
She circuited the large square once again, passing a man in the stocks. Splattered with dung and rotten food, the prisoner looked sorry for himself as he hung there, his dark eyes surveying Mira as she walked by. He wore smoke-grey robes belted at the waist, a high necked dark tunic, and long boots; yet those fine clothes were soiled and ripped now.
Mira gave him a dismissive look. An enchanter. Whatever his reason for being locked up in those stocks, he probably deserved it. She’d heard that enchanters were respected in the other kingdoms, but not so in Thûn. The king disliked these people—as did many folk here—but despite that The City of Tides didn’t welcome them, the enchanters of The Order of Light and Darkness refused to leave.
Recalling her own encounters with enchanters when she’d lived on the streets, Mira wished Aron would cast the lot of them out of Veldoras. The ones who wore grey robes like this man were supposed to be healers—yet many used their gifts to their own ends. An enchanter had once tried to bribe her with gold to g
o into a dark alley with him. She’d been barely thirteen at the time, her budding breasts drawing unwelcome attention. When she’d refused, he’d tried to drag her into the alleyway, earning a kick in the cods for his trouble.
Mira continued walking. Predators, the lot of them.
The first of the merchants began to move toward the gates then, and Mira followed. She’d planned to slip away with the bulk of them, but her impatience had put her on edge. She merely wished to be out of here.
Pushing herself in amongst the crowd of sodden figures and wagons drawn by grumpy horses, oxen, and donkeys, Mira waited for the gates to open. The donkey to her right—pulling a cart filled with bolts of fabric—gave a loud bray.
Mira huffed. She couldn’t agree more. This was taking an age. She peered through the murk at the iron gates. “Come on,” she muttered. The wait made her nervous. She wanted to be well away from Veldoras before nightfall.
“What’s the hold up?” The cloth merchant perched on the wagon behind the donkey called out. “Open the gates!”
A chorus of agreement went up around him. Soaked and taking away most of the wares they had brought to market with them, the merchants were ill-tempered.
The guards before the gate, their faces hidden under iron helms, didn’t respond.
Mira clenched her jaw, waiting for someone else to call out to them. Open the gates.
The lonely wail of a horn echoed across the city.
The impatient crowd stilled, while Mira tensed, confused.
The horn blew once more, the noise reverberating off the surrounding walls.
People shifted, necks swiveling as they met each other’s gazes. Mira held her breath.
And then the horn sounded a third time.
Mira’s indrawn breath rushed out of her.
“Three blows of the horn,” the cloth merchant beside her growled. “What in the name of the shadows does that mean?”
“One means the king is leaving the city,” a woman replied from a few feet away.
“Aye—and two means he’s returning,” the cloth merchant snapped back, “but that’s not what I asked.”
Muttering went up around them, replacing the silence that had followed the last blast of the horn.
Mira inhaled deeply. Shit.
None of the merchants were from Veldoras—but she knew what three blows of the horn meant, even if she’d never heard it before. No one in living memory had.
Veldoras was under attack.
2
Return to the Cage
MIRA CLIMBED THE slick stone steps to the top of the city wall. Beneath her the panicked cries of folk rose up from the Great Square; they would have just learned what three blasts of the horn meant. The merchants were all trapped inside Veldoras. The wails of a frightened woman cut through the pattering of the rain.
Atop the wall, spear-wielding city guards jostled for position, water dripping off their helms and oilskin capes. One of them stepped forward to block Mira’s way as she crested the steps and walked out onto the wall.
“Halt. No one’s …” The man’s voice trailed off when he spotted the distinctive black cloak and the glitter of silver at Mira’s throat. “Apologies, Sera.” He dipped his head respectfully, using the title bestowed upon members of The Swallow Guard.
Mira gave the man a dismissive look and moved around him. After leaving the chaos below, she’d ducked into a side-street and changed back into her uniform. It had choked her to do so, fury making her movements jerky and savage. She’d been so close to freedom, only to have it ripped from her grasp.
Rage still seethed within her as she stepped up to the ramparts and looked south. Her gaze swept over the grey, rain-swept marshes.
Three blasts of the horn means we’re under siege … but where are our attackers?
Mira turned to the sentry who had resumed his post near the top of the steps. “What’s happening?”
“The Anthor army approaches from the south, Sera,” he replied, his voice flat. It was impossible to discern his expression, for an iron helm covered most of his face.
Mira frowned. “I see no army.”
“Remain here and you will.”
Mira swiveled back to watch the view to the south. A wide causeway had been built long ago, five feet above the surrounding marshland, cutting a wide, straight path through the beds of reeds, mud, and stagnant pools.
Inhaling deeply, Mira glanced left and right, to where iron-clad figures now lined the battlements. The city guard had taken their place upon the wall. They were silent shadows, the rain pattering on their helms and breast and shoulder plates. Their gazes were fixed south.
A stillness descended upon the wall, eerie after the commotion of just a few moments earlier. Even the clamor of voices in the square below quietened.
The silence unnerved Mira. The Anthor army … how’s that even possible?
She knew there had been trouble on the southern border, between this kingdom and Anthor. That had been months earlier, but the Royal Council had assured them that Reoul of Anthor and his troublemaking had been dealt with.
Unease stole over Mira. She wished she’d paid more attention to the gossip that circulated the keep. Of late, her thoughts had turned inward while she planned her escape. She’d not bothered to eavesdrop during mealtimes as the other guards talked amongst themselves. Still, she’d have caught the scent of panic in the air if an invasion was imminent.
Mira glanced around at the surrounding guards. Did any of them know this was coming?
She turned her attention south once more and spied shapes approaching through the mist in the far distance. A few moments later she made out a standard piercing the murk: red and black.
The colors of Anthor.
Figures emerged from the gloom. At first they were nothing more than shadowy outlines in the rain, but with each heartbeat they grew more distinct: men, horses, and a carpet of iron-tipped spears—as if a great bristling beast crawled toward them. The men up front wore dark leather, red cloaks, and gleaming obsidian-like armor.
Mira heard the sentry behind her murmur an oath.
Unable to tear her gaze away from the approaching vanguard, Mira was aware that her breathing had quickened. It felt as if insects marched across her skin. She suppressed a shudder.
Why weren’t we warned?
She’d have left days ago if she’d known. She’d been waiting for the Merchant Market, but she would have attempted to leave even without the vendors for cover.
Anger followed swiftly on the heels of dread. This had to be the fault of their king. Where was Aron now? Would he venture out into the rain to meet his visitors, or would he hide behind his council and let them deal with this?
The first ranks of the approaching army halted around two furlongs back from the gates—a dark column of standards and spears, flecked with crimson, stretching out into the grey horizon. In the distance Mira spied the shadowed bulks of siege towers.
Her belly cramped, and she drew her sodden cloak close.
Freedom had almost been hers, but now she was facing her own end. Most likely impaled upon an Anthor spear.
Mira spat out a curse and turned from the wall. She’d seen enough.
The journey back to The Swallow Keep was the longest walk of Mira’s life. And with every step, her head bowed against the driving rain, her mind whirled.
Was there another way out of this city?
She could have jumped into the canal and tried to swim out—however, the Brinewater was swollen from the rains, and Mira couldn’t swim. The city walls were too high to scale, and there were no tunnels or secret gates that Mira knew of.
Like the merchants, she too was trapped here.
Back at the keep, she found the outer bailey in chaos. Soldiers hurried by, shouting orders. They were all heavily armed with broadswords, fighting knives, spears, and axes. These were the men who would defend the walls with their lives.
The Swallow Keep reared above Mira, a tall, grey stone ca
stle with two turreted towers flanking it. Mira stared up at its solid bulk for a moment. She couldn’t imagine an army breeching this fortress. To her knowledge no army had taken The Swallow Keep, not since the time of the Shadow King, five-hundred years earlier.
Mira crossed the cobbled yard inside the outer bailey, heading toward the East Tower. She had discarded her pack, along with the last shreds of her hope, into the Brinewater Canal. Now that she was back inside the keep, her feet felt leaden and her mood bleak.
Her one chance—lost.
A few feet from the steps leading up to the tower, she encountered Idra. The big raw-boned woman advanced on her, her face set in hard lines. Rain sluiced off Idra, plastering her hair against her scalp. “Where have you been?”
“On an errand.”
Captain Idra’s gaze swept over her. There was no warmth in those heavy-lidded eyes, and Mira stared back at her in an open challenge.
Idra’s mouth thinned. “The Anthor army approaches,” she informed Mira coldly.
“It’s here,” Mira replied. “I climbed the wall and watched it arrive.”
Idra’s expression hardened further still at this news. “How many?”
Mira shrugged, feigning a nonchalance that she didn’t feel. “Hard to tell in the rain. Hundreds, possibly a thousand. They’ve got siege towers with them too.”
A nerve ticked in Idra’s jaw.
“Why didn’t we know about this?” Mira demanded. “You’re on the Royal Council … you must have heard something?”
Idra drew herself up, her nostrils flaring. The Captain of The Swallow Guard didn’t like being questioned—and was fiercely loyal to her king. Mira usually minded her, but bitterness made her reckless now.
“There have been problems in the south,” Idra admitted, “but Aron sent a host of men to deal with it. They’d been providing us with updates via goshawk every few days … and then two weeks ago the messages stopped arriving.”
