Nila’s breath was dashed from her as she was suddenly flung to the ground. She hit hard, rolling to absorb the impact but feeling her arm twist unnaturally beneath her. The magebreaker charged past her, sweeping toward Bo. Bo raised his hands, face twisted in anger, but his sorcery sputtered and failed and only his sudden jerk at the reins carried him out of the way of the magebreaker’s heavy scimitar. The Gurlish rider disappeared into the fog.
Nila struggled to her feet, checking her arm, thankful that it was not broken, and ran toward Bo. “Quick,” she said. “We have to go. We can’t fight him.”
Bo seemed to agree. He urged his horse toward her, reaching out one hand.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nila saw the magebreaker’s charge. The Gurlish Wolf was pounding straight for her on his charger, his scimitar swinging, and she could do nothing about it. She opened her mouth to scream.
Bo’s horse hit the bigger Gurlish stallion on the shoulder. Both horses bucked and reared, throwing their riders and flailing and neighing in panic.
Nila ran toward Bo as he struggled to sit up. She could see his prosthetic still in the stirrup, and as he tried to roll onto his front, the magebreaker had already regained his footing and was sprinting toward Bo, sword at the ready.
Nila felt the tears in the corners of her eyes. She strained at the blackness that cut her off from her sorcery, reaching through the inky depths for the Else. She had pushed through it once and she had to do it again.
It was there. She could feel it, seemingly just beyond her reach. She clawed for the Else and it felt as if it were there at her fingertips.
The magebreaker’s shirt burst into flames. He threw himself to the ground, rolling to put them out, his face a mixture of confusion and rage. Nila strode forward. The Else slipped from her fingers and she drew up, trying desperately to reach it. The magebreaker whirled on her now, sword held in both hands, and she scrambled to recover the Else.
She threw herself out of the way of the first swipe. Flames sputtered in front of her hands, singeing the magebreaker’s arms. It put him off long enough for her to scramble away, but in only a moment he was after her again.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see Bo crawling toward her, helpless to stand without his leg, and his prosthetic still stuck in the stirrup.
The magebreaker swung, missing Nila’s face by inches. In her haste to get away she fell to the ground, trying to grab once more at the Else. It would not come to her. The sudden blast of a pistol from just a dozen feet away made her jump.
The magebreaker tripped and slumped to the ground. He writhed for a few moments, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, and then did not stir.
Bo sat on the ground, good leg tangled in his empty pant leg, suit dirty and hair disheveled. “Pit, I hate gunpowder,” he said, tossing the smoking pistol off to one side with a grunt. “Did you happen to see if that Warden was missing a ring finger?”
Chapter 42
“This is suicide, you know.”
Tamas gave his brother-in-law a sidelong glance. Gavril had cleaned up quickly, and now wore a cuirassier’s coat with the stars of a lieutenant colonel at his lapels. He’d taken the promotion without so much as a “thank you,” and Tamas suspected that as soon as this was all over, Gavril would disappear back to the Mountainwatch. “Your confidence is a little underwhelming.”
“It’s not that,” Gavril said, fixing a heavy saber to his belt. “I just think you should have someone else lead the attack.”
Adran mortars rained down on the city, and cannons hammered at the main gate. It seemed that for every member of Ipille’s bodyguard that the mortars swept from the gate, two would cram themselves at the top, and Tamas wondered if Ipille had an infinite number of them.
“Are you worried about me?” Tamas said.
“More worried about me. I’m not as lithe as I once was.”
“You don’t have to come,” Tamas said.
“If I let you die, Erika will come back and haunt me for the rest of my days. I’m convinced of it.”
“I didn’t know you were afraid of ghosts.”
Gavril shrugged. “Looks like the gate is not an original,” he said, gesturing toward the city.
The mighty blackwood doors that sealed the main gate of the city had splintered under the withering cannon fire, and Tamas could see through the wreckage that the portcullis had fared little better. The ancient sorcery that protected the wall had not, it seemed, been replaced when the doors had. He could hear the artillery commander calling for heavier, slower shot to finish the job. “As soon as that door is clear, we go,” Tamas said.
All around him his men were coming to the line, grouping by company, spurred on by the snares of their drummer boys. Officers on horseback rode up and down those lines, yelling to their men, sabers waving above them.
“Breastplate!” Tamas said. A pair of boys ran to Tamas and fitted him with a cuirassier breastplate. Another brought his horse, and then his helmet, which Tamas took in place of his bicorne. “It’s been a long time since I’ve stormed a city.”
Gavril nodded, looking on sourly. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you wearing armor. Mine doesn’t fit anymore.”
Tamas jabbed a finger into Gavril’s stomach. “Lose some weight before the next campaign.” Truth be told, Tamas’s barely fit him. He wasn’t about to let Gavril know.
“I’m not coming to the next campaign.”
Pray to Adom that I’m not either, Tamas thought.
The boys finished their job and Tamas climbed onto his horse, then reached down for his ivory-handled pistols, which he thrust in his belt with a thought for Taniel. The boys handed him his sword and carbine. “General Arbor!”
General Arbor reined in beside Tamas, popping out his false teeth and stowing them in a saddlebag before snapping a salute. Arbor had ten years on Tamas and was no powder mage, yet seemed twice as sprightly. Tamas wondered how he did it. “Yes sir! The boys are ready, sir,” he shouted above the cannon fire.
“Good.” He glanced toward Budwiel’s main gate. The door had been smashed nearly to pieces after the latest attack, and the portcullis was a mangled jumble of metal. Ipille’s soldiers weren’t even trying to mend the gate. “Two minutes!”
Gavril climbed into his saddle and glanced down at Andriya. The powder mage held his bayoneted rifle in one hand, the other hand grasping his belt casually. “Is he not riding?”
“Horses don’t like me, and I don’t like them.” Andriya took a pinch of powder from his breast pocket and snorted it.
“You could bathe,” Gavril suggested.
Andriya touched his blood-crusted uniform and laughed.
“He’ll keep up,” Tamas said.
“If you say so. You, boy, give me the flag!”
One of the groomsmen ran forward with the Adran flag, a crimson background with the teardrop of the Adsea sitting before the mountains. He handed it to Gavril.
“Where’s Beon?” Tamas asked. “Andriya, do you know where Beon is?”
Andriya gestured vaguely to the space behind Tamas’s command tent. Standing with a view of the battle, Ipille’s favorite son stood between two guards, his hat shading his eyes, jaw tight as he gazed at Budwiel. Tamas rode over to him.
“Why am I here, Field Marshal?” Beon demanded. “What damned deed do you have planned?”
“What, you think I’m going to threaten you?”
Beon did not respond.
“Tell me truly,” Tamas said, “if I put you in a noose and told your father to throw down his sword or I’d hang you, would he do it?”
“No.”
“I thought not. You’re here because your father’s royal guard will not surrender unless ordered to by a member of the royal family.”
“You think they would listen to me? You think I’d tell them to in the first place?” Beon demanded, chin raised.