Shadowcaster Read online

  Strangward had told the truth.

  What to do?

  She had to find a way to help—to warn them about the oncoming army. But she couldn’t very well land a dragon in the middle of town. By the time it all got sorted out, somebody would be dead. If Cas landed somewhere and Jenna tried to enter the city on foot, she might be too late, or, worse, get caught up in the fighting.

  But how could they send a clear message to the town without putting themselves at risk?

  42

  DREAMS TO NIGHTMARES

  Hadley and the others left for Fellsmarch the next morning. Lyss stayed behind, nursing an awful hangover. This is why I don’t drink, she thought. Not much, anyway. From now on, I’m sticking to cider. And maybe ale. Except for special occasions, like when we win the war.

  She resisted the temptation to send Matelon to Fellsmarch with the travelers. She couldn’t remember much about what happened in his quarters. The bits she did remember were a mixture of mortifying and inexplicably tender.

  The way he talked to her, his voice a low rumble of calm. The kisses he planted along her hairline, each perfect in its own right. The thud of his heart against her back. His eyes, the color of lichen after a rain, fringed with lashes that matched his raven-wing hair.

  For the first time in a long time, she’d felt safe, nestled in Matelon’s arms. It wasn’t that she was looking for protection. It was more that she could trust that she could close her eyes knowing he would watch her back. And if they swapped places, she would watch his.

  But every time she tried to savor the compassionate, tender moments, she’d stumble into something mortifying.

  And how did she end up in the arms of a southerner, when she’d gone there to—what was it he’d said? Pick a fight? That was the thing about Matelon—he seemed steady, and easy, almost boring . . . and then he’d make her do something she never intended to do.

  He made you do it? Who attacked who? the voice in her head said. I’ll bet none of his frail southern flowers has challenged him to a drinking game.

  Yet, on any given night, all over the realm, people were drinking a little too much and saying and doing things they would regret the next day. She wished she could afford to do that, and laugh it off.

  Lyss didn’t even remember deciding to go to Matelon’s room. Hadley and Sasha had sat with her for most of the day in sort of a three-person wake. The last her friends knew, she’d gone to bed. She knew they blamed themselves now for her excursion the night before.

  Lyss had little to no appetite, and no desire for anything more challenging than a piece of toast and a bowl of porridge—foods she ordinarily refused to eat.

  Toward the end of the day, she finally fell asleep, fully clothed, lying on top of her bed, but awoke to a persistent pounding at her door.

  “Go away!” she said groggily.

  “Lyss! Open up! We’re under attack!”

  Then tell them to go away, Lyss thought, before she came fully awake. She rolled out of bed, crossed to the door, and wrenched it open.

  It was Sasha, her hair disheveled, her shirttail hanging out from under her uniform tunic, looking like she’d just rolled out of bed, too.

  “Who’s attacking us?” Lyss said, leaning on the doorframe.

  “We don’t know for sure. There’re three ships, out beyond the harbor mouth, firing at the gun emplacements.”

  “Have they hit anything?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Unless their guns are a lot better than ours, it won’t be easy, shooting up at them like that.” Lyss sat down on her bed and pulled on her boots. A good fight could be the cure for embarrassment and heartbreak.

  As they hurried down the hallway, Lyss could hear the boom of cannon fire. “Who’s the duty officer?”

  “Graves. He’s up on the batteries, directing fire.”

  With Sasha at her heels, Lyss climbed the steep staircase to the batteries overlooking the straits. As she neared the top, she breathed in the acrid scent of gunpowder and felt the shudder of percussion under her feet.

  The wind off the Indio lashed Lyss’s face as soon as she emerged from the staircase. Gouts of flame illuminated the faces of the gunnery crew as they fired the matches. There were two fully crewed twenty-four-pounders on this side of the straits, and two on the other, which should be plenty, Lyss thought, to hold off three ships. She peered out to sea, but the weather made it difficult to see anything until the flare of the shipboard guns pinpointed them. Their shots arced harmlessly into the sea, or smashed into the cliffs far below the batteries.

  Munroe Graves was already hoarse from shouting orders to the gunnery crew across the straits.

  “What’s the news?” Lyss asked, struggling to make herself heard over the thunder of the cannon and the howling of the wind.

  “It didn’t take long for them to figure out our range, and they’ve stayed just outside of it,” Graves said. “Which means they can’t hit us, we can’t hit them. So what’s the point? We all should of stayed in bed.”

  “Who’s across the way?” Lyss nodded at the south-side batteries.

  “Bosley.”

  “Have they shown their colors?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. There’s not much point, with them out so far.”

  “But why would they do this? They might as well dump their ordnance into the sea.”

  “Target practice?” Graves suggested.

  “Hmm. Well, tell your gunners that we don’t have to answer every barrage. Maybe they’ve got shot to waste, but we never do.”

  “We’ll just keep ’em honest, that’s all.”

  A thought struck Lyss. “Do you have sentries deployed to make sure small craft aren’t landing down below, while we’re distracted?”

  “Already handled, Captain,” Graves said.

  Lyss leaned her arms on the parapet, watching the bombardment and their halfhearted response. Worry nagged at her. What were they overlooking? It would help if they knew for sure who was out there.

  “Do you have anything that might give us a little light out there so we could get a better look at those ships?”

  “We have some incendiaries,” Graves said. “Even if the ships are out of range, we can shoot ’em high and they might go off close enough to light them up.”

  “Let’s do that. But wait for my go-ahead.”

  Lyss found Sasha among the soldiers at the cliffside. “Sasha—where’s Matelon? Is he in his quarters?”

  “As far as I know,” Sasha said, giving her a narrow-eyed look. “Do you want me to check?”

  “Take a triple to his quarters and escort him up here. I want him to take a look at those ships.”

  “Right away,” Sasha said, bringing her fist to her chest.

  Hal dreamed that he’d somehow returned home to White Oaks—the White Oaks of his boyhood, when it was more of a manor and less of a fortress. He was walking through the gardens with his little sister Harper, telling her about his adventures in the north.

  “Is it true that the witches in the north ride demons through the skies, looking for wayward children?”

  “If they do, I never saw it,” Hal said. “They mainly look for wayward grown-ups.”

  “No they don’t,” Harper said, lifting her chin. “Grownups never get in trouble for anything.”

  “Sometimes they do,” Hal said.

  “So is that just a story parents tell to make their children behave?” Harper persisted, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Lady Matelon was nowhere near.

  “Maybe some do, but I think others truly believe it,” Hal said. “It’s a lot easier to fight monsters than flesh-and-blood people.”

  “No, it’s not,” Harper said. “Everybody knows that monsters are bigger and fiercer than people.”

  Hal laughed. “Did you know that there are people in the north that say we are monsters?”

  “Really?” Harper looked up at him, wide-eyed. “Well, they’re wrong!”

  “Maybe,” Ha
l said.

  Harper grabbed his sleeve. “Do you think it’s possible that we are wrong about the northerners, too?”

  “Maybe,” Hal said.

  A clamor of metal on metal yanked him out of his well of dreams.

  “Flatlander!” Somebody shook him roughly. “Wake up!”

  Hal opened his eyes, squinting against the lantern thrust into his face. He couldn’t see who stood behind the lantern. “What?”

  “Captain Gray wants to see you, on the double.”

  Now he recognized the voice. It was Corporal Talbot, Gray’s bluejacket shadow.

  Hal sat up. “What time is it?”

  Talbot thrust his sheepskin coat toward him. “Put this on, or go half-naked, I don’t care. I said on the double.”

  Hal slid into his shirt, and the heavy jacket she gave him, and the hat and gloves. She was dressed for the weather, too.

  “I take it we’re going outside,” he said.

  Talbot grunted in reply.

  Hal followed Talbot down out of the tower and crossed the drawbridge to the fortifications along the cliffs that gave the port its name.

  “How is she?” Hal asked.

  “Who?”

  “Captain Gray.”

  Talbot looked him up and down, then shook her head. “You’ll see.”

  “Did something happen to her brother?” he asked, as they climbed the treacherous staircase.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Talbot said, then gave him a look that said she did know, but she wasn’t going to answer him.

  Finally, they emerged onto the clifftop just in time to meet the roar of a twenty-four-pounder.

  “Who are you shooting at?” he asked, ears still ringing.

  Talbot pointed. “Ask the captain.”

  “Matelon,” Captain Gray said, motioning him to join her at the wall, her manner brisk and businesslike, her eyes fixed out to sea.

  When he came up beside her, he saw the lines of weariness in her face, the purple shadows under her eyes. She looked like someone grieving and hungover and still doing her job.

  She looked like a hero to him.

  “I’m going to give you some light, and I want you to take a look at some ships out here and tell me if you can identify them.” She signaled the crew on the nearest cannon and they lit the match on it.

  Boom! The shell arced high, high, higher, then exploded far offshore, flooding the ocean with brilliant light.

  Squinting against the wind, Hal studied the three ships silhouetted against the horizon.

  “Well?” Gray said, gracious as always. “Are those yours?”

  Hal watched until the brilliance died and the ships were lost in darkness again. “They’re too far away to be certain,” he said, “but I would say they are not empire ships. At least not ships in the regular navy.” Something else caught his eye as he peered into the darkness, something bright streaking across the sky. Another shell? A shooting star?

  “What’s that?” He pointed.

  “Blood of the martyrs,” Gray muttered, suddenly beside him at the wall. “I have no idea.”

  It swooped down like a flaming arrow until it appeared to pass among the masts of the mysterious ships. A faint cracking sound carried across the water, as if it had run into one of the masts. The object turned, growing larger and larger until Hal realized it was flying directly toward them.

  “Take cover!” he shouted, pulling Gray down, next to the wall, covering her with his body. He was aware of a searing heat and the scent of burning wood as something huge passed close overhead, and then a dull thunk as something dropped onto the pavers.

  Demons, he thought, sweat trickling down his back despite the cold. Flying demons. I knew it. Hal didn’t really believe that, but was having trouble coming up with another explanation.

  He covered his head with his arms, waiting for an explosion, wondering if he’d end his life here at Chalk Cliffs as bits of shark bait in the sea. But nothing happened, and after a moment he cautiously propped up and looked at what had fallen onto the clifftop.

  It appeared to be the mast from a ship, ripped loose and trailing broken rigging.

  Hal scrambled to his feet and lunged toward the mast, but Captain Gray beat him to it, pawing through the debris and coming up with a banner bearing a death’s-head on it.

  “Pirates?” Talbot said, running her finger over the emblem Gray displayed.

  “It’s coming back!” somebody shouted. Hal spun around to see the flying creature bearing down on them from landward this time, clutching something in its claws. As it flew over the batteries, it let go, and again something hit the ground with a sickening thud.

  This time, it was a man. Hal could tell from the way the body was splayed on the pavement that he wasn’t going to get back up.

  They gathered close around the body. It looked to be that of a soldier, bristling with weapons, dressed for the cold. As Hal watched, Talbot pulled a curved blade from a scabbard at the man’s belt and held it up for them to see.

  “Pirate?” Talbot said again, but Hal knelt beside the broken body and saw that the man wore boots that had spurs attached and he smelled strongly of horse and dried sweat.

  “Whoever he is, he came by horse,” Hal said. “But where would he have come from? And is the flying beast on their side or ours?”

  “Look!” Gray pointed skyward. The winged creature was flying in a tight maneuver, spitting flame and smoke, leaving a trail in the sky. Some kind of emblem . . .

  “It’s an arrow,” Talbot said.

  “Pointing west,” Gray said, swiveling to look in the direction it pointed. Hal followed her gaze, looking over the town to the western wall. Beyond that, darkness.

  “Graves!” Captain Gray shouted. “Sound the alarms. I want as many soldiers as possible on the city walls to landward. I think this bombardment is a diversion from the real attack.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Graves left at a dead run.

  Somewhere below, alarm bells began to clamor. When Hal scanned the sky, the flaming beast had disappeared.

  Gray turned toward Talbot and Hal. “Talbot, I want you to take Matelon to the cell block in the tower. Post a triple guard on him. If it turns out that our visitors are coming after him, I’m not going to make it easy.”

  “But Captain . . . I could help,” Hal said, frustration boiling up in him. “I told you. Those aren’t empire ships. Give me a weapon and I’ll—”

  “Not this time, Captain,” Gray said, turning away.

  43

  TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE

  It was clear from the beginning that this battle would be different from any Lyss had fought before. She’d always fought in the field, where she used the terrain to her advantage and mobility was a major part of her battle strategy. Advances, retreats, flanking movements, ambushes—they were all tactics she employed. While she was grateful for the protection of the keep, it was also a trap. There were no advances—only retreats.

  This enemy was different, too. Lyss was used to fighting Arden’s mercenaries and unwilling recruits, most of them already in a lather about going up against demons and witches. These were fierce, hardened warriors with curved blades who were all but impossible to kill. When Lyss cut off the head of one of them, he kept coming until she took off his legs as well. It was as if they were possessed—as if they didn’t feel pain and embraced death with a will.

  The soldiers were not Ardenine, though they could be mercenaries hired by Arden. These didn’t fight like mercenaries, though.

  If they were pirates, they were like none Lyss had ever heard of before. She thought of pirates as masters of the hit-and-run, the claiming of soft targets. As Hadley had said, pirates don’t like targets that shoot back.

  Chalk Cliffs was not a soft target, but these pirates kept coming. Whatever drove them, it was scary as hell.

  The warning they’d received gave them time to close and secure the gate before the first wave of enemy horsemen penetrated the town w
all. It soon became clear that some of the enemy were already inside—maybe the strangers the garrison had worried about. They erupted from hiding, often killing dozens before they were put down.

  The town’s strongest fortifications faced the ocean, not the landward side, and the high ground to the west allowed the attackers to rain arrows and incendiaries down on their heads. Lyss put the townspeople to work putting out fires and wetting down the buildings.

  The keep’s big guns were placed to fire down on ships attacking from the sea. But the enemy ships remained far outside the harbor, no doubt waiting for the land attack to soften up the defenses and disable the cannon before they ventured in.

  Eventually, the Highlanders were able to rotate the cannon in their emplacements and fire across the city, and so take out some of the enemy weapons.

  Wizard flame might have been effective against them, but they’d never know, because the gifted were elsewhere, mainly in Delphi, where they’d helped take the city. Lyss dearly wished she could have them back again.

  She ordered birds sent to Fortress Rocks and Fellsmarch, even though she knew that any response would be too late to save the town. Sasha was beside herself, because she couldn’t keep Lyss off the walls and out of the fight, and because she couldn’t come up with a foolproof escape plan, either.

  With pitched battles filling the streets, and fires raging in many of the buildings, Sasha finally managed to force Lyss into the keep.

  “You need to get out, Your Highness,” she said. “You need to leave while you still can.”

  “I don’t think that was ever possible,” Lyss said. “By the time we knew what was happening, we were surrounded.”

  “Why are you working so hard to protect Captain Matelon while you put yourself at risk? Who do you think is more important to the future of the queendom—him or you?”