Cold Steel

Drake had his own spyglass, which he turned toward the estate.

A second fire seared across the treetops. With a shout of triumph the Iberians swarmed forward. Yet once again the fire was sucked clean out of existence as quickly as if a god had inhaled it into immortal lungs. Bolts and arrows from within the estate’s inner wall poured down on the attackers, driving them back.

“There is your answer,” said Drake. “There must be several powerful cold mages inside the walls of the estate. Some are absorbing the backlash while others are killing the fire.”

“Then take care of this problem personally, James! Else I shall have cause to wonder if all your talk is nothing more than idle boasting. Probably it is the Diarisso cold mage, the one who is evidently stronger than you.”

Drake threw the spyglass angrily to the ground and his blue eyes actually sparked, but then he controlled himself and, without another word, stalked off.

Camjiata watched him reach the horses before turning to his staff. “Captain Tira! Let the Amazons take the estate and hold it against all counterattacks until the Coalition army breaks or you are dead.”

She nodded, as calm as if he had asked for tea. “It will be as you command, General.”

I ran over to the fallen pine. Rory had passed out, dead drunk, his head pillowed on the satchel. I unslung the basket from my back and tucked it into Rory’s embrace. The thought that Vai might be caught helpless within the compound as Drake poured fire through him while the general’s forces advanced filled me with a frantic desperation. Luce was fighting, too! But Luce had made her choice, and I had to respect her decision.

I raced back to the general. “Let me go with the Amazons.”

He stared as if I had sprouted snakes for hair and turned him to stone. “You truly fear your husband is the cold mage who defends the estate. You fear Drake can kill him.”

“Drake said it himself. When they are being used as catch-fires, cold mages are helpless and vulnerable. I can help you. I can creep in unseen.”

Anger did not knit his brow, but suspicion grew like a brewing storm. “Creep in and warn them? Is that your plan? If we do not take Red Mount, we will lose the battle. If we lose the battle, we lose the war. Do you understand me, Cat?”

For the radicals of this generation not to be stamped out and imprisoned and executed, Camjiata had to win. For Vai’s village to be released from clientage now instead of decades from now, if ever, Camjiata had to win. For Bee to have a hope of living in peace, Camjiata had to win.

And if Camjiata lost, and the mage Houses and princes won, I would probably lose Vai to the mansa in the end.

“I understand what is at stake.”

The ringing thunder of the artillery boomed around us, thrumming down into the belly of the world. Smoke gusted out of the wounded earth in murky clouds.

He studied me, and what he read in my expression I did not know. But he nodded. “Very well. Let the Coalition break, and the Roman army fall, and then you can have Drake and save your cold mage likewise. But not a moment before victory is mine.” He glanced over to where Rory was huddled in the shadow of the tree. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Strange. Why does he hate battle so? He did not strike me as a coward.”

“He’s no coward,” I snapped. “He just has a heart, unlike you and me, General.”

42

We marched to Red Mount. Luce was not in the company I was assigned to. The Iberian riflemen had hunkered down along the estate’s outer wall. With caps set on the wall to draw enemy fire, they shot over it into the orchard. Drifting smoke spun into coils, concealing half the world. Soon I was sucking in lungsful of heat, chaff, and powder. I kept my gaze fixed on the feather in Captain Tira’s shako, like a bird’s wing in fog. A hand touched my back as for balance and a shoulder brushed mine as I waited, crushed within the close-packed ranks of my sisters.

We made our way in a crouch to the smashed gate. The constant hammer of noise pounded through my body. The Iberians were using planks and doors as shields behind which they pushed forward into the orchard. Scorched leaves crumbled underfoot. Spent bullets, musket balls, arrows, and crossbow bolts crunched under my boots. The peppering fire of rifles melded with the rhythm of drums.

I wrapped myself in shadow and smoke. Using a tree trunk as shelter I peered into the smoky fog of the orchard. Bodies littered the ground. The bloody and battered Iberians had stalled as a rain of arrows and the pop of musket fire trapped them in the ashy trees. One man cowered, huddled up like a broken child, sobbing.

Yet not five paces from him, a different man called laughingly to the Amazons, “These Tarrant bastards are saying no man can dislodge them. Let’s see what you women can do!”