Dawn of Mist
Page 3
‘Gods, we’re actually going ahead with this madness?’
‘Unless you have a better idea, Commander?’
Swinton swore at Fi and wrenched open the door.
A deep pit greeted them. What slithered within was the stuff of nightmares. Over a hundred black vipers glided across one another, their hissing near deafening.
The men surveyed the equipment that lined the wall: pairs of long iron tongs, hooks and leather gloves.
‘We don’t have all night,’ Fi said, reaching across and taking a giant hook from the wall.
Cursing, Swinton did the same and peered into the pit. Shiny black bodies writhed around, the larger ones striking viciously at their smaller counterparts.
‘You’ve done this before?’
Fi raised a brow. ‘Sure.’
‘Liar.’
They fixed a hessian sack to one of the hooks and levered it into the pit.
‘This better bloody work,’ Swinton said through clenched teeth. He held the pole with the sack over the bed of vipers, while Fi used a giant pair of tongs to heave squirming snakes into it. The bag wriggled over the pit, but Swinton held it firm with the hook.
‘Bring it in,’ Fi said.
Cringing, Swinton did as his friend bid.
‘Use the loop of the hook to seal the bag.’ Fi stepped towards him. ‘Here.’
He let Fi take the hook, and had to stop himself leaping back. Gods, he hated Battalon.
‘They can’t get out?’
‘No. Not unless we let them out.’
‘Good.’
‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’
They worked quickly, aware that the guards outside wouldn’t remain unconscious forever. When they had filled two dozen hessian sacks, they loaded them onto a cart.
‘Horses aren’t going to like this much,’ Fi muttered, frowning at the moving bags.
‘Can’t say I like it much either.’
Fi laughed. ‘Come on.’
It was nearing dawn when they returned to the barracks, cart in tow. The camp was quiet, with many of the men cradling their wounds and their pride in the privacy of their own tents. But they were out of time. Swinton summoned the leaders of each unit to his quarters and laid out their strategy.
‘This must be his plan,’ Lennox said from one end of the table, narrowing his eyes at Fi. ‘It reeks of Battalonian deception.’
Fi crossed his muscled arms over his chest, a silent challenge.
But Swinton had had it with Lennox’s horseshit attitude towards Fi.
‘You’ll show your captain the respect his rank demands,’ he snapped at the soldier. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed, our plan needs to adapt. Or we’ll end up like the previous three units. We’re lucky to have Captain Murphadias’ insights.’
Lennox opened his mouth to protest.
Swinton shook his head. ‘Another word and I’ll have you on watch duty for a month.’ He turned to the rest of his men. ‘We surround the entire perimeter. I want the catapults at the ready. We take advantage of the rising sun. Got it?’
‘Yes, Commander,’ the men mumbled.
‘Anyone so much as scratched by an arrow is to retreat to the nearest medic. I won’t lose any men today. Understood?’
Murmurs of agreement sounded around the tent.
‘Good. On my command, then.’
The sun crept over the horizon as Swinton’s men surrounded the village stronghold. Swinton himself stood by one of the catapults; a sack of hissing vipers lay wriggling in the bucket. His hand twitched at his side. This had to work.
His men were restless, eyeing the hessian bags nervously. Swinton had to stop himself from doing the same.
Three short whistles sounded. Fi’s signal.
Swinton whistled back.
The men hastily unsealed the bags, while Swinton took a lit torch from Stefan and waved it in each direction.
The catapults released with a groan. The hessian bags went flying across the pink sky, straight into the heart of the enemy’s stronghold.
Silence.
Swinton waved his torch again and the men muttered curses as they placed more viper missiles into the catapult buckets.
They waited. Swinton glanced back at the horizon, where the sun stained the clouds with fiery red and burnt orange. He waved his torch once more.
The packages flung from the catapults, long black bodies flying towards their target. Swinton’s men reloaded and fired again. And again. They heard the soft thuds on the other side.
Swinton held up a fist. Quiet lingered within the walls. Swinton’s breath caught in his lungs. What if it didn’t work? What if they couldn’t —
A shriek pierced the silence. And the screaming began in earnest.
‘Archers, draw!’ Swinton ordered. The sun had risen behind them.
The sound of chaos broke out inside the stronghold. Glass shattered, cries of terror screeched and commands were drowned out. The thick gates groaned open and a wave of rebel fighters poured out in a panic, brandishing their weapons, shielding their eyes against the blinding light of the sun.
‘Loose!’ Swinton bellowed.
Ellestian archers rained arrows on them.
‘Draw!’ he shouted again. ‘Loose!’
Shouts of pain echoed across the gap between the forces, and Swinton drew his battleaxes. The rebels were still pouring from the fortress, but they were panicked, unprepared for close-quarters combat. And the sun … The sun behind the Ellestian army dazed the enemy.
‘Charge!’ Swinton yelled. He launched himself at the nearest rebel, striking him down in a single blow. Swinton’s axes were a mere extension of himself; he wielded them with breathtaking accuracy, sinking them into enemy flesh and bone again and again. He felt the blood spatter across his armour, across his skin.
Around him, his men outmanoeuvred the inexperienced rebels, parrying and feinting, driving their blades into unprotected flesh. Swinton dodged an incoming blow and swung his axe into another man’s neck. He went down like a sack of grain.
Swinton panted as he brushed the sweaty loose hair from his brow and surveyed the battlefield. Where’s Fi? His friend was nowhere in sight. He cut his way through the fighting, scanning the perimeter for the familiar face, suddenly uneasy.
Out of nowhere, a rebel landed a blow across his back, and Swinton staggered forward, his palms stinging across the hot sand. He scrambled to his feet and faced his opponent.
The man was no ordinary rebel. His stance betrayed his previous position – a former Battalonian warrior. He twirled his ornate fighting knives, and Swinton lunged. The clang of steel meeting steel vibrated up Swinton’s arms and through his armour. The Battalonian met Swinton’s attack blow for blow, his strength overshadowing Swinton’s own. He moved with the precision and ease of a trained champion.
Suddenly, Swinton’s feet were knocked out from beneath him. He was on his back, pinned to the ground. A blade came driving towards him – his block was weak, and his axe was sent hurtling across the sand. The Battalonian blade sank into Swinton’s face. The slice opened his flesh from cheek to chin; his blood ran hot down his neck.
There was a cry. The man above him toppled over, the point of a sword protruding from his middle.
A filthy hand grasped Swinton’s and hauled him up.
‘Good thing I disobey orders, Commander,’ Stefan said with a roguish grin.
Swinton grimaced. ‘Remind me to thank you later.’
Then, he spotted Fi, who wasn’t where he should have been.
‘Stefan, go see if Lennox needs assistance,’ he said, pointing the squire in the opposite direction.
‘Right away, Commander.’
Swinton made his way towards his captain, watching as he helped Battalonian rebels onto camels and into carts.
‘What are you doing?’ he hissed when he reached Fi.
Fiore whirled around, startled.
‘Fiore, have you lost your —’
Fiore gr
abbed his arm and pulled him into the shadows of the stronghold wall. ‘Dimi … I have to help them.’
‘Fi, it’s treason —’
‘They are my people.’
‘We are your people —’
‘I’ll never forget where I come from, Dimi. Help me.’
Swinton looked around at the injured Battalonians. Many of them not rebels, but women and children … And then to his friend, his warm, gold eyes desperate.
‘Gods,’ Swinton muttered. He lifted a little boy onto the nearest cart and then turned back to Fi. ‘No one can know,’ he said.
The Ellestian army celebrated their victory deep into the night. The cool evening air was filled with bawdy tunes and the overpowering scent of sweet Battalonian wine.
Swinton left the medic tent with twenty-seven fresh stitches from cheek to chin. He’d been lucky, and no doubt he owed Stefan a promotion. He didn’t join the festivities, though. Instead, he sought the quiet of his own tent, his mind still buzzing with the events of the day.
‘Thought you’d come back here,’ said Fi, lounging in one of the chairs by the table, drink in hand.
Swinton nodded. ‘Wanted to clear my head.’
‘Thought that’d be the case too.’
‘Seems I’ve become predictable.’
Fiore stood and filled another cup, handing it to Swinton. The wine was cool and refreshing.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ Fi said.
Swinton drained his cup. ‘I don’t understand why …’
‘That’s why I want to thank you. You risked everything. Without understanding why, for me, for my people.’
‘Fi, we’re your people now. You can’t —’
Fiore refilled his cup. ‘Dimitri, I am proud to call you brother.’
Swinton studied his friend, wondering if he’d ever know the Battalonian’s full story, wondering if it even mattered. He clinked his drink to Fi’s.
‘To brotherhood, then.’
Fi’s face broke into a wide smile, his gold eyes bright. ‘To brotherhood.’
The Valian Heir
Thirteen-year-old Henrietta loved the utter freedom she felt atop the living bridges of Valia. Up here in the golden light of dusk, the magic of her ancestors whispered against her skin, wrapped around her as though she were exactly where she ought to be. The breathtaking beauty of the twisting branches stretching across the canopy made her proud to be a kindred-in-training, proud to be the sister of the next warrior queen.
‘Sahara,’ she called out, spotting the midnight-black braid among the leaves ahead. ‘Wait for me.’
Her twin paused, leaning against a trunk protruding through the bridge. ‘Didn’t realise how slow you were,’ she teased, her graphite eyes dancing.
‘We’ll see who’s left behind when it’s time for the Crossing,’ Henri retorted, folding her arms across her chest. Sahara’s fear of heights was a weakness they needed to address in her training, but so far she had been incredibly stubborn about working on it with Henri.
Now, Sahara merely clicked her tongue in frustration and started across the next bridge. Henri, as always, followed. She’d follow her sister to the ends of the realm if she had to.
As the twins trekked across the vast canopies, Henri’s mind wandered to the upcoming trials. In addition to their usual daily training and testing, formal trials were held four times a year to weed out the weaker fighters. Those who failed were sent to the outskirts of the forest, known as the Sticks, where they lived a very different life to that of the Valia kindred.
Henri honestly didn’t know how anyone managed to fail. They had been training since they were six years old: swords, spears, hand-to-hand combat and everything in between. To be a Valian was to embody strength and power, to be better than any other warrior in the realm. Henri had always revelled in the challenges. She loved the physicality of preparing to be one of the elite.
The upcoming trials were the most important yet. In their thirteenth year, all trainees were required to complete the Crossing. To swing across a gaping gorge and the formidable falls that barrelled down into the King’s River below. Deadly and beautiful, requiring immense strength and fearlessness to complete, the Crossing was what Valian legends were made of. To complete the Crossing meant handing over one’s black training leathers for the official forest-green leathers of the Valian kindred.
Henri and Sahara had crossed before, but never in front of their mother and queen, Allehra, and her elite kindred. With an audience like that, there was no higher honour at their age, and no greater risk to their reputation. Those who crossed with the most agility and abandon were selected for additional training in Havennesse, and would likely go on to become the heir’s own force of elite kindred. There was no way Henri was going to miss out on that.
Sahara cleared her throat. ‘You’re thinking about the damn trials again.’
Henri gave a sheepish grin. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not in the same way you are.’
Henri frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Sahara paused for a moment before shaking her head. ‘Nothing. Come on. We’re already late.’
Henri pushed aside her urge to press her sister as they arrived at the training circuit.
‘There you are!’ Petra exclaimed as they stepped onto the platform amidst the treetops.
‘Henri’s a little unfit,’ Sahara taunted, waving a hand in her direction.
‘Am not —’
But her sister cut her off. ‘Where are the others?’
Petra gestured vaguely to the forest floor below. ‘Tilly said something about the armoury. Marvel’s still eating.’
‘She’s always eating,’ Sahara laughed.
‘Her ma’s convinced her that the more food, the better when it comes to trials.’
‘What about Athene?’ Henri heard herself ask.
‘On her way.’ Petra repositioned one of the straw dummies.
Relief flooded through Henri. She always trained better when Athene was there.
She set about helping Petra with the dummies. There were a number of new drills she wanted to work through today. Her left side needed strengthening.
Petra nudged Sahara. ‘And how’s our future queen today?’
‘Wish you wouldn’t call me that,’ Sahara muttered.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still worried about your magic not coming through yet?’ said a new voice from one of the ladders. Tilly appeared at the edge of the platform, her braid dishevelled and her face smudged with dirt.
‘Wouldn’t you be, if you were me?’
‘Ashai or no, you’ll be our queen,’ Henri said.
‘Exactly,’ Tilly said, brushing her hands on her leathers.
Sahara sighed and waved a hand in Tilly’s direction. ‘What happened to you, anyway? Look at the state of you.’
Tilly grinned. ‘Had to show some youngsters how to disarm properly.’
A pair of boots landed deftly beside Henri. ‘Looks like they showed you, more like.’ Athene released the vine she’d used and bumped her hip against Henri’s. ‘Don’t you think?’
Henri laughed.
Sahara cleared her throat. ‘Can we get on with this? I’d like to get at least four hours’ sleep before these damn trials.’
‘The trials are important,’ Athene said.
Sahara’s eyes flashed. ‘Obviously. Which is why I want to be well rested. This isn’t even a scheduled training session. So let’s begin.’
Henri was already at the weapons table, selecting her favourite pair of katars. ‘Who’s first?’
Athene stepped forward, unsheathing her sword. ‘Do your worst.’
The kindred-in-training performed drill after drill and round after round of combat, until Henri had to wipe the sweat from her eyes and roll her aching shoulders. She’d bested Athene twice, and Marvel, who’d arrived late, as usual, with gravy still on her face. Night had well and truly settled around them when Sahara announced the end of their session.
‘Do you mind if I stay?’ she asked her sister.
Sahara frowned. ‘Why would I? Do what you want, Henri.’ She sat down on a nearby bench and tipped her face to the stars.
‘Is everything alright?’ Henri said.
Sahara didn’t look away from the sky. ‘Everything is fine.’
‘Are you nervous? About tomorrow?’
Another sigh. ‘I don’t care about tomorrow.’
‘Good. You should be confident. I don’t care about it either.’
Sahara snorted. ‘We both know that’s not true.’
Satisfied her sister was feeling positive about the upcoming trials, Henri flung a hand out. With her magic, she sent a dagger shooting through the air, embedding it straight into a straw dummy’s heart. She felt Sahara’s eyes on her, but she kept her focus on her power, the fluid magic that pulsed within and demanded to breach the surface.
Henri sent weapon after weapon soaring across the platform, guiding her power with simple hand gestures. Allehra had assured her that one day she wouldn’t even need to use her hands – that when she was older, her magic would answer to the command of her mind alone. But Allehra had also said that Sahara’s magic would announce itself soon. She’d been saying it for years, and yet …
Henri glanced at her sister. As though Sahara had read her mind, her hands went to her ankle, where the leg of her leathers had been pushed up to reveal the marking that wrapped around her skin there. An unusual tattoo Allehra had bestowed on her, to encourage her magic to present itself. So far, it had proved unsuccessful.
Catching her eye, Sahara adjusted her leathers and stood. ‘Enough for tonight, Henri. I’m starving.’
The night went slowly for Henri. Waiting for the trials felt much like waiting for the morning of her name day to come when she was a child. She was restless with anticipation, still awake well into the dark, early hours. She could hear Sahara tossing in the bed above. It seemed her twin was just as eager for daybreak.