by Sally Green
“That’s pretty much it.”
“So they’ve sent no men?”
“Two graybeards who have done nothing but eat and sleep since they arrived. Mostly sleep. However, it’s not men we need from Calidor at the moment but some of their ships. The ground war is currently static, but we need to regain control of two locations: the Pitorian Sea—hence the need for ships—and the demon world—hence the need for you.”
“Ah, I get the easy option!”
“Yes, the mission is going to be challenging, even for you.”
Challenging or impossible?
“What’s the objective?” Ambrose asked.
“To stop, or at least disrupt, the supply of smoke.”
Ambrose frowned. “But don’t the Brigantines already have all they need? When Geratan told us they were farming the smoke, he said they were getting two bottles a day. They’ve occupied the Northern Plateau for more than a month now. That’s plenty of smoke to keep their boy army going.”
“Actually, we don’t think it is. There are a thousand boys in their army. They need smoke to train with and to use for the real battles to come. We don’t believe they’ve got enough yet.”
Ambrose nodded. “So, what’s your plan?”
“You and a team go up to the plateau and into the demon world through a demon hollow. Geratan’s group have found one they think you can use. Once inside, you find a way to disrupt the production of smoke.”
“That’s a little thin on detail, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“None of us knows exactly what’s happening in there. You’ll have to react to the situation you find. You’ll have the best men and equipment—whatever you need. And Geratan, of course. You’ve both been in that world. You know what it’s like. Get back in there and do whatever you have to do stop the Brigantines from getting the smoke out—destroy any stockpiles, kill the soldiers, take control of access to the demon world if possible.”
“Oh, is that all?” Ambrose muttered.
The plan was stupidly dangerous and almost certain to fail, and yet Ambrose was already calculating how many men would be needed. A small force might be better in the demon world, where communication was so difficult. But how many Brigantines would they be facing? And, just as importantly, how many demons . . . ?
“How soon do you want us to go?”
“Yesterday.”
CATHERINE
NORTHERN PITORIA
Love, passion, desire—they’d all be terribly straightforward if people weren’t so terribly complex.
Queen Valeria of Illast
“OF COURSE we wish to cooperate with you, Your Majesty.” Lord Darby nodded and smiled. Albert, his assistant, nodded and smiled as well. “And now that I have a thorough understanding of the various strengths and weaknesses of the forces, I feel I can give you my advice.”
Catherine had to bite her lip. “I’m most grateful for your advice, of course, Lord Darby, but what I need most is ships.”
“Ah, the ships.”
“Indeed. The ships. To protect our coastline.”
“Yes, indeed. And the very same ships that Calidor needs to protect her own coastline.”
“If you help us now, we could help you in future.”
“But we may not have a future if we make ourselves vul-nerable by moving our ships from their defensive positions.”
“So not even one can be spared?”
“Each ship is doing a vital job for Calidor.”
“Really? So how many ships do you have? Where ex-actly are they all along your coast? What, precisely, are they all needed for?”
Darby looked to Albert, who replied, “We’ll have to look into it.”
“How?” Catherine exclaimed, her patience finally ex-hausted. “How exactly will you look into it?”
Albert paled. “I’ll . . . I’ll send a request for information to Calia, Your Majesty.”
“Well, let’s hope it gets across the sea safely—if only we had the ships to protect the message!”
Catherine swept out of the tent, muttering to Tanya as she went: “Another delay, another evasion. What we need are the ships.”
“I spoke to Albert earlier.”
Catherine turned to her. “You did?”
“He’s as frustrated as we are. He says that Thelonius wants to help, Lord Darby too, but many Calidorian lords fear us as much as Aloysius.”
“Fear us?”
“Well, fear that an alliance will mean a loss of indepen-dence. Pitoria is so much larger than Calidor—they think we’ll take them over.”
Back in Catherine’s tent, Tanya plopped into her chair and almost instantly fell asleep—Catherine wasn’t the only one working long hours. But Catherine couldn’t afford to rest. There were more papers to go through, more money to be found, and surely there was an answer somewhere to the ship problem . . .
Catherine paced around her tent, passing the chest that contained her bottle of purple demon smoke. A small breath of smoke would do her a world of good—relax her and give her energy for the afternoon. Looking across at Tanya, who was snoring lightly, Catherine carefully lifted the lid of the chest and took out the bottle, warm and heavy in her hand. She let a wisp of purple smoke slide up and out of the bottle, and inhaled it deeply, waiting for a hit of energy.
Nothing happened.
Catherine blinked. She felt a little lightheaded but noth-ing more.
She mustn’t have taken enough. She took another, larger breath. Now she felt the warmth of the smoke fill her nostrils, her throat, and her lungs. Her head swam and she felt slightly dizzy, but she had no spike of energy, no feeling of strength or power.
She sat on the bed. She could weep. Even the smoke wasn’t working now.
But why? Only a few weeks ago it had given her strength enough to fight a man twice her size. She knew that the smoke didn’t work on adults, but she was still seventeen. A girl in many ways, though with the responsibilities of a woman—of a queen. Catherine lay back and stared up at the canopy above her. She couldn’t be too old for the smoke. She needed it. It was her protection. It had saved her life, more than once. Without it, what was she?
She felt heavy sleep crowding in on her.
Catherine dreamed she was in a small boat on a flooded river, bailing out water while everyone else in the boat slept on. A man with bright green hair told her it would cost a thousand kroner to fix the boat, and she bent down and tried to fill the cracks in the boards with paper bills, but it was all too much and she was sinking, sinking . . .
Catherine jerked awake. She was unsure if she’d slept a few moments or the whole afternoon. Her mouth was dry and she was desperately hungry. Tanya was no longer in her chair and Catherine got up to look for her. As she left the royal tent, a familiar figure caught her eye and stopped her in her tracks.
Standing in the flap of the marquee where the war meet-ings were held was Ambrose. Catherine was not supposed to meet him, except on official business—she’d agreed to this with Tzsayn.
He’s commanding a mission to the demon world. Which is quite official.
And she wanted to see him.
I’m queen. I should be able to do some things that I like.
Ambrose withdrew into the marquee.
He’s expecting me to follow. How long has he waited there?
She remembered the excitement, the yearning she used to have to glimpse his hair in the distance; the beauty of his hands as he held them out to lift her on to her saddle; riding along the beach at Brigane, the sun on her back, leaping into the water and swimming in the cool sea, the water pressing at her body, pulling at her clothes.
She felt none of that excitement now, and none of the intense passion they’d had in Donnafon. Instead she felt nervous. That fearful nervousness she used to have in Brig-ant. The fear of being found o
ut.
Well, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just going to talk to him.
She entered the tent. Ambrose stood by the maps, as if looking at them.
He’s still so handsome.
And now he came toward her. He had a slight limp.
He even makes a limp look good!
Ambrose bowed and kept a short distance between them. “Your Majesty. I was just reminding myself of some of the plans.”
But he’s a terrible liar.
“How long have you been reminding yourself of them?”
“Most of the afternoon. And I’ve been keeping watch for you, hoping to see you. In fact, I’ve been hoping to see you for weeks. Since the battle of Hawks Field.”
Catherine nodded. “I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you when you were injured. I agreed with Tzsayn that I’d only see you in formal situations. My reputation . . .” Catherine blushed, unsure what else to say, and glanced to the tent entrance.
“This is more formal than when we were in Donnafon.”
“Most things are more formal than when we were in Donnafon.” Catherine’s mind flew back to her rooms there, all the times they had contrived to be alone together, the kisses they’d exchanged and the embraces that she couldn’t get enough of. “But things have changed since then, Ambrose,” she said firmly, though she was still drawn to Ambrose—there was something about his physical presence that pulled her to him. And she stepped closer to him now.
“What’s changed? How so?”
The world had changed, but seeing him here, Catherine still felt a connection to Ambrose. He was her guard and her love. He had risked his life for her many times and would be risking it again. But she couldn’t put that into words, and in-stead she found herself saying, “Thank you for agreeing to lead the mission into the demon world.”
“It’s an honor.” He stepped closer to her. “But I asked how things have changed. Have you changed?”
Yes. No. Catherine was suddenly not so certain. “I’m older.”
“And wiser? Is that what you mean?”
“No. I’m . . . I’m not sure what I mean. I didn’t expect to see you today. I’m not sure what to say.”
“Do you have to rehearse everything? Can’t you just speak from your heart? Tell me something of what’s going on in it? I’ve been thinking of you every day but I’ve not spoken with you since before the battle.”
“That seems a long, long time ago.”
“It was a long time ago, but I always thought of you.”
“You’ve gained a limp.”
“Yes.”
“Had a haircut.”
“Everyone comments on the hair.”
“That’s Pitoria for you.”
“But I’ve not changed inside . . . have you?”
“I . . .” Catherine knew she had changed and her circum-stances had definitely changed, but what about her feelings toward Ambrose?
He took another step closer. “My feelings are the same, Catherine. I love you still. May I?”
And he bent and kissed her hand. His lips were soft and gentle on her skin, his breath warm, and the physical pull to him was wonderful . . .
Catherine leaned toward him and murmured, “Sir Ambrose . . .”
“Sir Ambrose!” Tanya hissed.
Catherine jumped back, pulling her hand free as if burned.
“Tanya,” said Ambrose, standing upright. “Good after-noon.”
Tanya put her hands on her hips and looked from Am-brose to Catherine. “Discussing the mission, were you?”
“Actually, yes,” Ambrose replied. “Communication without words is something we need in the demon world.”
And he came to Catherine and lifted her hand again, pressing his lips hard against her skin, letting her feel his breath. Then he raised his head, slid his hand from hers, and walked out of the tent.
Catherine watched him leave.
What would they be doing now if Tanya hadn’t appeared? How could something be wrong when it felt so wonderful?
TASH
DEMON TUNNELS
YOU’RE ALIVE—POSSIBLY. Maybe you’re dead, though. All you know is that it’s black, silent, and stone-cold.
The black is the darkest black. There’s stone all around, except you can’t see it. It’s the same whether your eyes are open or shut—black.
The silence is total.
Shut-in-a-box-and-left-alone silence.
But inside . . .
It’s shitting noisy in my head. Shitting, shitting, scary noisy. And I can hear my own breathing, which has to mean I’m still alive, doesn’t it, but this is no way to be living and the voice in my head is so loud at times—LIKE NOW—that I think I’m going MAD, MAD, MAD, or dreaming it all and I’ll wake up, but I don’t ever wake up, and maybe this is just the start of madness and maybe madness is better than death. And that’s when I know for sure that I’m not mad or dead, I’m shitting trapped in stone and really, really, really shitting cold. No one should be this cold. Cold to the bone.
Though I’ve been colder.
There was that storm when me and Gravell were stuck for three days in a snow hole with just Gravell’s farts to keep us warm. It certainly wasn’t silent then, with him letting off.
Tash tried to laugh, but tears ran down her face and she sobbed.
Black, silent, cold, AND alone.
I’m not afraid of dying or even going mad, but I don’t want it to hurt and I want someone with me to hold my hand and I hate this. I want Gravell and his stinking farts so, so badly.
The demons had left her here and let the stone walls creep in on her, trapping her in this tiny space about the size of a coffin.
Why did they do this to me?
The walls had crept toward her but they’d long since stopped moving in. Tash had no idea why. She wasn’t sure if the demons wanted her to die or just to imprison her. She clung to a hope that they hadn’t allowed her to die—so perhaps this was a punishment.
And maybe they know I’m really, really sorry and I really, really don’t ever want to hurt a demon ever again. And if they know that, then maybe they’ll let me out.
They’ve got to let me out soon.
Haven’t they?
AMBROSE
ARMY CAMP, NORTHERN PITORIA
IT HAD taken a few days but, with Geratan’s help, Am-brose had chosen fifty men for his mission and they were standing before him now, all fit and healthy, a mix of white-hairs and blue-hairs.
“Congratulations on being selected to join my brigade, men. I’ve seen each of you fight and had the pleasure of fac-ing a few of you on the practice ground.” Ambrose had done this partly to test the men but also to show them his own skills; the men needed to believe in him, and needed to be-lieve their leader could fight despite his limp.
“We have a special mission. The Brigantines are collect-ing purple demon smoke. Our task is to stop them. To do that, we will have to go into the demon world. It’s a strange and dangerous place, but I have been there and come back safely, and I’m going to bring you all back too.”
The faces of the men showed no fear. In fact, most were grinning and one called out, “Let us at ’em!”
“The demon world itself is not to be feared, but it is not a world like this one. There, sounds are different—words are like clanging cymbals, a footstep sounds like a bell. So we must be silent. Our clothes, our boots, our equipment must make no noise.”
“What do farts sound like, sir?” Anlax asked—a typical Anlax question. There was some sniggering and comments about the smell being of more concern than the noise.
“Actually, you’ve raised a good point, Anlax,” Ambrose said. “In the demon world you don’t need to eat. So you won’t be scoffing beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and thus, hopefully, we’ll never discover the answer to y
our question.”
“We really don’t eat anything, sir?” a man named Har-rison asked.
“No. You will get thirsty, though. The demon world is very warm. You’ll need large skins for water, and enough provisions to get on and off the Northern Plateau—that’s four days’ basic rations. We travel fast and light. We take weapons to use in confined spaces: short swords, daggers, and clubs. Finally, and most importantly, and this will be es-pecially hard for some of you”—here Ambrose looked at Anlax—“from the moment we enter the demon world until we come out again, we don’t speak a word.”
There was a bit of laughter and Geratan said, “No laugh-ing either. Sounds will give our presence away. We must all learn to be silent.”
“Though, if we can’t speak,” continued Ambrose, “we must communicate in a different way. In the demon world you can hear someone else’s thoughts if your skin is touching theirs. So I can pass on orders by thinking them while I’m touching Geratan. If he is touching Anlax at the same time, Anlax will hear the order too. That’s useful, but it can also be problematic. We can hear things other than orders. We can hear other people’s thoughts by mistake. I’ve chosen you men for your fighting skills but also for your temperaments. We cannot afford to work as anything less than a perfect team. We must trust and respect each other. You might inadver-tently tell another soldier your deepest secret—or hear another man’s. You must be ready for that, and be able to stay calm. We can’t risk a failure in teamwork or discipline.”
The men looked solemn and a few nodded, but Ambrose was pleased that no one made a joke.
“So we must learn to be honest with each other. And I’ll begin by sharing some truths about me. I was born in Brig-ant, but Pitoria is now my home. I love Pitoria, and I cherish its freedoms and many of the people I’ve met here. But, in truth, I still love Brigant too.
“It is the home of my father and his father; it is the land where I grew up, where I learned to play with my brother and sister. It has beautiful mountains and rugged coasts. But it also has an evil and cruel king. It is a country where many are persecuted. It is a country where my brother was tortured and killed, where my sister was executed because she learned secrets that the king didn’t want anyone to know.” Ambrose had to take a breath; he rarely spoke of this to anyone. A vi-sion of his sister on the scaffold and his brother’s severed head came to him, but he had to focus on the men in front of him—he had to think of them. “And that’s why, even though I still love my home country, I’m jealous of you men. I’m jealous of each of you because you have a good king. You have a ruler who is honest and fair, who does not torture and maim his own people, but who would gladly sacrifice his life for them. I’m jealous of that and hope that one day the same may be said of the ruler of Brigant. Aloysius must be stopped. Together we can achieve that. Together we can end his reign of terror.”
