She’d heard the empire—so omnipresent almost no one bothered with the full name—had begun accepting women in the ranks because of its need for a constant supply of soldiers. Caught between expulsion from the university and her mother’s social expectations, she’d somewhat wistfully thought that joining the army would solve all her problems. But women of Aydori didn’t go to war. The female half of both Pack and Mage-pack were the last line of defense. In a worst case scenario, she’d been taught that the function of the Aydori military was to delay the Imperial army long enough for the women to get to Trouge. Carved out of the mountain by ancient Earth-mages, history said the walls of the capital couldn’t be breached. Not only would the unpredictable mountain weather keep sieges short, but there were rumored to be secret ways out of the capital and a besieging army would be whittled away, night by night.
For all the years Mirian had been in school, that worst case scenario had involved the Kresentian Empire and the Imperial army.
If a dozen or so members of the Imperial army captured the women of the Mage-pack before they got to Trouge—and killed as many Pack as possible, she admitted even as memory skittered past the bodies lying on the road—then the defense of Trouge would be weakened should Lord Hagen have died at the border.
Emperor Leopald wanted it all, Mirian reflected, holding her wet jacket open and away from her shirtwaist in the hope that one or both might begin to dry. Everyone knew the emperor wouldn’t stop until he had nothing left to conquer.
If Lord Hagen survived the battle at the border, then Lady Hagen in the hands of the emperor was a way to control him.
Unless it had nothing to do with Lord Hagen at all—regardless of her mother’s belief that the world revolved around the Pack Leader—and the emperor had a use for high-level mages. Who he couldn’t allow to use their abilities.
Maybe his scientists had built a machine that could suck the mage-craft out and then feed it into creatures belonging to the emperor, creating super-mages he controlled completely and could use as weapons.
Mirian swallowed another mouthful of bloody saliva and sighed. Maybe her mother was right about novels rotting her brain.
“Tell her to stop.”
“To stop?” Danika asked. She hadn’t overheard the lieutenant’s name; he hadn’t asked theirs. People had names. Those who intersected with prophecy apparently did not.
The lieutenant gestured at Annalyse. With her hands tied behind her, she leaned on a sapling, trying to stay upright as she retched. All three of the soldiers assigned to her looked disgusted, but the one charged with keeping her moving maintained his hold on her arm. “She has nothing left in her stomach,” the lieutenant sneered. “This is a delaying tactic that will not be tolerated.”
Given the prophecy he followed, he had to know Annalyse was pregnant, had to assume the rest of them were as well. Danika found it hard to believe that five of them traveling together were in a similar condition, but that was exactly the sort of cascading coincidence that Soothsayers relied on. Or caused, according to some philosophies. Given the conversation she’d overheard between the lieutenant and the captain, the men had not been informed about the prophecy they followed. She wondered if they’d be more sympathetic or less if they knew. They could be kinder to their captives or use the information against them. Could she risk the latter for the chance of the former?
Hare, the man who never missed his shot, frowned thoughtfully as Annalyse straightened, breathing heavily. Old enough to have a wife and children, it looked as though he suspected the reason behind her illness.
Fingers digging into her arm, the lieutenant dragged Danika around to face him. “Stop pretending you don’t understand me…”
Because, of course, it was all about him.
“…and tell her that if it happens again, we won’t be stopping. I’ll have her dragged all the way to the border if I have to.”
He’d moved close enough that Danika could smell his breath and the stale sweat of a man who’d been in the same clothing for days. Over that, the bitter scent of the bile Annalyse had managed to spew, and, under it all, something pungent in the underbrush that had nothing to do with any of them. The mix of smells combined with the throbbing pain wrapped around her head by the Imperial artifact, caused her stomach to roil in spite of nearly two weeks free of sickness in the morning.
And it was a good delaying tactic, she acknowledged as she threw up on the lieutenant’s boots.
Tomas remembered the gunner’s wrist in his mouth, tasting salt and blood and gunpowder. Remembered seeing the lit taper fly out of his hand, hearing screams, smelling sulfur…
He could still smell sulfur and gunpowder and charred wood and flesh and blood and horse and shit and urine and ash. But mostly blood. And meat.
He blinked. It was darker than he’d expected.
Although he couldn’t remember what he’d been expecting.
He blinked again, and stared into the face of the Imperial gunner. The man’s blue eyes were open, he had freckles on both cheeks, and he looked surprised. Dead, but surprised.
Lips pulled back off his teeth, Tomas tried to move away. His front feet were trapped under the gunner, but his back feet were free. He drew them up tight against his body and pushed, nails scrabbling against wood. They caught the edge of a board. He pushed harder. Felt something give. Jerked his shoulders far enough into the space he’d made to free his front legs.
The gunner rolled, upper body slamming into Tomas’ shoulder with a squelch of trailing intestines.
The next thing he knew he stood panting in the sunshine, squinting at the pile of lumber and bodies that had once been a wagon and a gun crew. He scrubbed at his nose with both front paws then, low to the ground, tail close to his body, he circled the pile. Stopped and stared again. The blast radius was…
Large.
Beyond the crater, the land bore the marks of the shells that hadn’t merely exploded but had taken off and cut a swath through the lines of infantry, leaving bodies and smoking holes scattered about where the Imperial army had been.
A voice called out over the moans of the wounded and the buzz of flies. Tomas ignored it.
Where the Imperial army had been.
He spun around toward the river. The fighting had moved up into the trees. He could hear the distant sound of weapons.
A glance at the sky told him it was midmorning, maybe later. How long since he’d left Ryder to take out the weapon and…
Ryder!
A wound high on his shoulder sent waves of pain through his body every time his right front foot hit the ground. Didn’t matter. He ran for where he’d seen his brother last.
He scrambled up the rocky slope that was to have given the combined Aydori, Traitonian, Pyrahnian armies the advantage. Scrambled over bodies in Imperial and Aydori uniforms. Found the place he’d last seen Ryder.
Found Ryder…
Part of Ryder.
Parts of the Pack. Cousins.
Whining deep in his throat, he dug at a half-buried leg, the silver fur matted with blood.
He needed hands.
With hands he could…
The flash of pain in his shoulder as he tried to change slammed him to the dirt.
The Imperial army had been using silver. The explosion he’d survived must have driven the silver deep. Twisting around, he licked at his shoulder but couldn’t get to the wound.
He could hear fighting in the distance. He could smell the bits of meat that used to be his brother all around him. He could hear a constant high-pitched litany of loss and despair. Wondered who’d bring a cub to a battle. Realized…Forced himself to be quiet.