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  “King Gerard doesn’t want you marching around at the head of an army if he makes a move against me,” his father said, with a sour smile.

  “Do you think that’s a possibility?” Hal said, lowering his voice anyway.

  “It’s what the king thinks that’s important,” Lord Matelon said. “King Gerard is always short of money, especially now that the council has tightened the purse strings. One way to resolve that—temporarily, at least—is to name one of us a traitor to the crown and seize his holdings. Right now I’m likely at the top of his list.”

  Hal glared out over the green hills and forests of the estate he called home. Just below, he could see his mother and sister—moving spots of color—gathering winter blooms in the garden. He needed to protect them, this place, this sanctuary. “If he comes after you, I’ll give him reason to regret it,” he said grimly.

  “I dearly hope so,” Lord Matelon said, with a hoarse laugh, “but that’s precisely what King Gerard’s afraid of.” He paused, leaned in. “We also have to consider the possibility that he means to make sure that you never get out of Delphi alive.”

  Hal slammed his hands down on the table. “And you still think I should go?” To Hal, politics was that thing you did when you were too old to be of any use on the battlefield. Though he had to admit, his father had always been good at both.

  “You must go,” Lord Matelon said. “You cannot give King Gerard an excuse to take you into custody and hold you hostage against my good behavior. Delphi is a nasty place, but the king’s gaol is nastier. So, yes, I think you should go, with your eyes open to the danger you’re walking into. This is not the battlefield you’re used to fighting on. Don’t trust the King’s Guard—they serve the king. Take a half dozen of your best soldiers with you, and trust no one else. People die in Delphi every day, and you don’t want to be among them.”

  Hal rose and began pacing back and forth, seething. “Do you think there’s a chance the king will realize that posting me to Delphi was a mistake?”

  “Aye, there’s a chance,” Lord Matelon said. “There’s a chance that an earthshake might swallow him up. Just don’t try to hurry it along by failing on purpose. Even if the job you’re assigned is not to your liking, a Matelon will see it done.”

  Of course. Hal had been hearing that all of his life. By now it was engraved on his bones.

  “Other than watching my back, do you have any other advice about how to succeed in Delphi?”

  “As military commander over a district, you need to make yourself visible and accessible. Listen to what people have to say. Let them know what the rules are, and then enforce those rules consistently. Be ruthless when you need to, but be fair about it. They still won’t like you, but they’ll respect you, and that’s the best way to stop trouble before it starts.”

  Now, nine months into his posting, Hal was finding that following his father’s advice was easier said than done. It seemed that whenever he made a little headway toward a working relationship with the Delphians, the King’s Guard undid it through cruel, vindictive, and arbitrary tactics. As the police force in the city, they were the face of Arden to most citizens, and it was an ugly one.

  During his first four months in the city, Hal had also survived three assassination attempts. Once, it was poison; once, an ambush in the streets; and once, someone had carefully frayed the cinch strap on his saddle. He didn’t know whether the perpetrators were Delphian Patriots or agents of the king, since the blackbirds never caught them.

  After that, Hal moved his headquarters into a compound north of the city. His excuse was that he wanted to keep a closer eye on the mines and the northern border. That was true enough, but that was only part of it. This way, he could keep his soldiers away from the city and avoid being pulled into criminal and civil disputes. Some would say it was a coward’s way out, but he had no stomach for beating people into the ground. What’s more, he had no plans to die in Delphi, and he was more likely to survive when he didn’t have to walk through the city’s crowded streets.

  Why is it that when a man is successful on the battlefield, they ruin his life by making him an administrator?

  But now, in a twist of luck, the war had come to him. General Karn had landed an entire brigade at Spiritgate in an attempt to wring a small victory from a bitter stalemate of a summer. Karn was desperate to win a little territory in order to placate the Thane Council. Hal’s father wasn’t the only one losing interest in funding King Gerard’s grudge match against the witch queen of the Fells.

  The plan was to march across the Alyssa Plateau, around the flank of the Harlot, and straight into Queen Court Vale. Karn was in need of an experienced commander who knew the territory. At least that was the reason given when Hal was detailed to join this late-summer offensive.

  Hal was cautiously optimistic. Maybe it meant that the king had realized that he couldn’t afford to send good soldiers to the backwaters of Delphi to die. He hoped it represented a chance to demonstrate his value to the empire.

  He met up with the army at Spiritgate. Karn put him in charge of an entire battalion—a third of the brigade. Hal had brought his half dozen seasoned men with him, but he soon discovered that the rest of the soldiers in his command were raw recruits from the down realms, men who scarcely knew how to cock a crossbow. They were as green as grass, with less than a week until they marched.

  Hal called his handful of veterans in and said, “Good news. You’re all being promoted to lieutenant.”

  They looked at each other, shuffling their feet, murmuring thank-yous, waiting for the rest of it.

  “I’m going to split this battalion into five columns of twenty-four. Each of you will take charge of a column. You’ll march with them, eat with them, sleep with them, get to know who’s who, and surface any talent you can. Until we engage, I want you to drill them hard. Focus on crossbow drills, the five standard orders, fighting formations, and the care of weapons. Once we engage, I want you to do everything you can to keep all of your scrips alive.”

  “But Captain,” now-Lieutenant Cousineau protested, “what about you? Who’ll watch your back if—?”

  “Do it,” Hal said, and turned away.

  Once Hal’s hurry-up boot camp began, his men were up at dawn, drilling, every single day, while the other battalions slept in.

  Part of the mission was to undo the damage done to the recruits already. The newlings had been stuffed full of stories by the veterans—tales of the sorcerous land up north, of the witch queen and her terrifying twin daughters who drank the blood of the faithful and rode saber-toothed horses naked through the skies. Of the northern warrior they called the Gray Wolf. Impossible to kill, he turned into a huge gray wolf when the battle fever took him, savaging any poor soldier unlucky enough to cross his path.

  Hal wasn’t going to rule anything out, but he’d fought several campaigns in the north and had seen nothing of the sort. There were wolves in the mountains—Hal had seen and heard them. He reasoned that any wolf looks like a giant when he’s bearing down on you, and grows considerably after, in the telling.

  “The northern soldiers are just men,” Hal told the men in his command. “And women,” he amended. “When you cut them, they bleed, just like us.”

  It was true that northern women fought as fiercely as the men—so fiercely that, on the battlefield, it was difficult to tell them apart. Several times in the past, Hal had discovered that the man he’d just killed was actually a woman. He just couldn’t get used to that. Maybe that was the root of the rumors—it was easier to think you’d killed a witch or a ghost warrior than a woman.

  They left Spiritgate a week after Hal’s arrival. The countryside they marched through had been stripped of anything edible or useful. Many of the farms and villages had been destroyed and abandoned over the course of the war. And yet the northerners kept on fighting, year after year. The church said it was because they’d been enslaved by their sorcerous queen, and the true sons of Malthus would be welcomed
as liberators.

  Hal was still waiting for that.

  They met little resistance, save the usual copperhead hit-and-run attacks. Karn made no attempt to pursue, apparently considering the loss of a few soldiers here and there the price of making good time.

  Hal’s battalion was still more likely to kill one of their fellow soldiers than to give the northerners anything to worry about. It gave Hal plenty to worry about, though.

  They were young, too—many had not yet got their growth. Some didn’t even speak Common. Hal set about to try to learn their names. Ty. Bakshi. Raynaud. Skye.

  The only veterans attached to his battalion, aside from the ones he’d brought himself, were four captive mages. One of them was a blade-faced man named Pitts. Every time his droop-lidded gaze brushed over Hal, it gave him the chills. The mages had little to say to Hal, despite his attempts to engage them. That wasn’t unusual. Collared mages were often sullen—resentful of being ganged into the southern army. Hal usually got on well with them once he won them over—but that took time he didn’t have.

  Hal couldn’t help wondering why these men had been sent into the fighting so soon after recruitment, why they had been assigned to him, and why he and his were marching ahead of the veterans to the rear.

  He didn’t know for sure, but he had some theories.

  They’d reached the eastern end of the pass before Hal managed to corner General Karn.

  “Sir. I’ve been evaluating the men assigned to my battalion and I’m worried that their inexperience might endanger the brigade and interfere with the mission,” Hal said, the words tumbling out quickly before he could be dismissed.

  “So you’re worried, Captain Matelon,” Karn said, planting his hands on his hips. “I hope it’s not keeping you up nights. As you should know, we’re dredging the bottom of the barrel when it comes to new recruits. You’ll have to work with what you have, just like the rest of us.”

  “Sir,” Hal persisted, “I’m not complaining about the quality of the men under my command. I believe they can become good soldiers with time. I’m concerned about their youth and—”

  “You’re scarcely dry behind the ears yourself, and you’ve done all right,” Karn said.

  “I’ve been fighting for the empire since I was eleven,” Hal said. “What most concerns me is their lack of training and experience, coupled with their concentration in one unit. It seems to me that if they could be mingled with more experienced troops in all three battalions, they could learn from their comrades and the veterans could help them survive until they develop some skills.”

  “Are you questioning my orders, Captain?”

  Yes, Hal thought, I definitely am.

  “No, sir, I’m merely suggesting that—”

  “I need my veterans to fight, Captain, not to babysit new recruits,” Karn said. “I’ve organized my battle plan to make the best use of all my assets. Everyone keeps telling me you’re a brilliant field officer. That’s why I put these scrips with you. You and your battalion will have an important job to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your battalion will take the lead in the invasion of Queen Court Vale,” Karn said.

  If it had been anyone else, Hal would have assumed he’d somehow misunderstood. But when he looked into Karn’s face, when he saw the sneering triumph there, he knew that he’d heard right.

  “Could you . . . elaborate, sir?” Hal said. Somehow, he managed to keep his voice calm, steady, matter-of-fact.

  “You will fight your way through the pass,” Karn said, as if Hal were too stupid to divine his true meaning. “Once through, you will clear the valley of civilians, loot the town of all valuables, and burn everything to the dirt.” Karn paused, as if he expected a hearty thank-you for this suicide assignment.

  Hal straightened, broadened his stance, and looked the general in the eye. “And after that?” he said evenly.

  For a long moment, Karn was at a loss. Hal knew he hadn’t made a plan for after, because Hal and his battalion weren’t supposed to survive.

  “After that, you’ll . . . await further orders,” Karn said.

  “If I may ask, sir, what will the other two battalions be doing in the meantime?”

  “We will be right behind you,” Karn said, with a predator’s smile, “sending replacements up as needed.” The general paused long enough to let that sink in. “Now, Captain, you’d best get some rest.” With that, Karn turned and walked away, not waiting for a salute. Which was good, because Hal was not about to give him one.

  His father’s words came back to him. Right now it doesn’t suit King Gerard for you to be a successful soldier.

  Hal added his own coda to that.

  But it does suit him for you to be a dead one.

  He was boxed in. If he refused Karn’s orders, he’d be court-martialed and executed. If he deserted, he’d be hunted down and executed. He could turn traitor, and throw himself on the dubious mercy of the witch queen. Any of those options would disgrace his father and help build the king’s case against him.

  If Hal walked off a cliff, would that be a virtuous death? What would happen to his battalion? Would Karn fold them into his other forces or would they be sent out to slaughter on their own? Truth be told, Hal wanted to live, and he wanted to save as many in his battalion as he could. He was just beginning to learn their names.

  Even if the job you’re assigned is not to your liking, a Matelon will see it done.

  Hal considered his options. He had just a handful of mounted soldiers—the vast majority were infantry. But in the narrow pass, the terrain was a double-edged sword. It would protect his flanks, but it would also prevent him from using his numbers, which was the only card he had to play. His best hope was the element of surprise. He needed to get his battalion through the pass and into the open field before the northerners could block their path. Then he could do with numbers what he couldn’t do with talent and skill.

  “Sir!” he called after Karn.

  The general stiffened and turned. “Yes, Captain?”

  “Permission to march now, sir.”

  Karn blinked in surprise. Eyed him suspiciously. Then bared his teeth. “Captain,” he said, “you can march whenever the hell you want.”

  4

  QUEEN COURT VALE

  Lyss’s squadron met the army of Arden midway through the pass, where the steep shoulders of the mountains nearly touched, and the enemy had to file through, two or three abreast. Lyss and her soldiers stood directly in their path, a briar of swords, axes, spears, and magic. She sent her best archers—Shadow among them—scrambling up the hillside so they could shoot down from above.

  It was hard to tell how many of the enemy there were, since they were strung out in a line. It doesn’t matter, Lyss told herself, if we only have to face a few at a time. The mudbacks were known for their precision columns and formations, but this batch seemed just a bit ragged.

  Lyss counted four slave mages to her squadron’s one wizard. She could see them, their collars glittering in the noonday sun, just behind the enemy’s front lines. Finn was kept busy on defense—raising shields against attack magic and pinning down enemy wizards who attempted to improve their firing position by climbing higher. That left him little opportunity to assist the Highlander offense. So it was up to the line soldiers of the salvo to make the southerners pay a dear price for every bit of ground.

  And pay they did. The southerners lost three soldiers for one of theirs, but the mudbacks kept coming, filling in the gaps created when one of them went down, bringing up more weapons, and carrying away bodies. Lyss imagined a long line of mudbacks reaching all the way to the coast. The only constants were the four mages and a young officer with raven hair who seemed to be everywhere, riding his dun-colored horse up and down, correcting their formation, ordering replacements forward, and shouting encouragement. At one point, Lyss saw him lean down from his horse and scoop up a soldier who was staggering around aimlessly, blood pouring from a head
wound. He carried him to the rear, then immediately returned to the front, his tunic now soaked with blood.

  As the afternoon wore on, the cacophony around Lyss seemed to recede to a dull roar, as she focused on the enemy in front of her. Her sword grew heavy in her hands and her shoulders ached. They seemed to be at an impasse as the killing continued, with neither side making forward progress. Healers came and went, carrying the wounded and dead away. Lyss shouted encouragement to her weary soldiers, sending some to the rear and bringing up fresher fighters from the other squadrons. Only Lyss, Finn, Shadow, Sasha, and Cam stayed on the front line.

  She tried to shut down the voice in her head that said that her side would run out of soldiers and weapons eventually, and then they would be overrun.

  “Look out, Lieutenant!” Cam slammed his horse into hers so that she all but lost her seat. The incoming arrow passed harmlessly over her shoulder, but she heard someone scream when it found a mark to the rear.

  “Mander’s down!” Shadow shouted from his vantage point atop the hill. Lyss turned and looked, but couldn’t see Finn.

  If Finn is down, his shields are down, Lyss thought. Once their mages figure that out, we’re all sitting ducks.

  Sasha had reached the same conclusion, because she angled her horse between Lyss and the Ardenine mages, shouting, “Go! Lyss! Get out of here now!”

  Lyss wheeled her horse so she faced the enemy and saw all four of them, right arms extended, left hands on their amulets, preparing to fire. At this distance, there was no way they would miss.

  Lyss wore her father’s clan talisman, which provided protection against a direct hit of attack magic. As far as she knew, she was the only one on the field with one. But Mincemeat was unprotected, and they’d both go down if the mages were smart enough to target him.

  The mages hadn’t seemed to notice her yet. In fact, they seemed distracted, aiming off to one side.