5

ERRIS

Approaching a Picket Line

Northwest of Duringston, Gand Territory

They’d ridden hard for three days.

Even Jiri was coated with sweat. Maintaining leyline connections so close to the enemy columns was an unnecessary risk, and so both rider and mount made do with their natural stamina. Only at the end of a day’s ride would she use a binding to refresh her and her five companions. Short bursts were more difficult to detect, and even a temporary surge of Life or Body energy was a welcome respite from the rigors of hard travel.

They’d learned what they could, trailing behind the enemy’s march. All three Gand armies had come together, a combined force upward of seventy thousand men under a single command. She wanted another count from the east to be sure of exact numbers and unit positioning, but she had enough to understand the layout of their forces. The Gandsmen drove north like a spear pointed straight at the heart of the Sarresant colonies. Their intent was clear. Only one piece of the puzzle continued to elude her.

Who was in command?

Something had changed during the winter months, when both sides had hunkered down to endure the harsh cold and biting storms of the season of the Veil. She’d seen enough action to know a change of command when she saw one. This was a different army than the one she’d danced circles around last autumn, in the deep woods of the Gand colonies. She needed to know. She needed the name of the commander who dared such a bold move, when every other Gand officer seemed mired in caution and reserve. But first, she needed some uniforms.

Her company rode two abreast on a winding hunters’ track through the forest outside Duringston. It was twilight now, a wet breeze on the air promising storms coming in from the north. Soon night would settle on the small Gand town. Generals and high commanders could never resist a warm, dry bed when they called a halt with civilization nearby; she knew she’d find her answers there. In more peaceful times, Duringston oversaw a healthy clip of trade between New Sarresant and the Gand colonies farther south. Now its forges and foundries sang into the late hours, churning out arms to equip her enemies.

She rode at the head of the pack alongside Aide-Lieutenant Sadrelle, with Horsemen d’Fer and Irond behind a horse length, and Horseman l’Orai and Sergeant Fessac bringing up the rear. Apart from their sabers, pistols, and carbines they might have been common riders—the civilian clothes they’d procured gave service to the lie that they were Gand scouts come home from a sortie behind enemy lines. They rode at an easy pace, relaxed with no outward sign of caution or concern. This was what a squad of scouts looked like returning to camp; the six of them had done it enough to pull off the act convincingly.

An infantryman stepped out from behind a tree fifty paces ahead, raising his musket to block the way. He had the look of a raw recruit for all his gray beard bespoke advanced age, a nervous twang in his voice as he called out to the approaching patrol. He was right to be unsettled. Picket duty was a dreaded assignment. The picketmen were the feelers of the army, first to know when enemies approached, first to die when enemy scouts came too close.

“Ho there,” the soldier called in the Gand tongue. “Who approaches?”

“Westerly patrol returning,” Sadrelle called back. Gods bless him and his perfectly accented Gand. “Twenty-Second Scouting Company, Fourth Brigade under Colonel Devon.”

Doing her best to look unconcerned, Erris held aloft a rolled parchment she’d sealed with red wax that morning for precisely this purpose. The paper was blank. A stage prop to string along the hope that this was all legitimate, that her group posed no danger.

She dismounted, blinking to shift her vision to the leylines. She saw none of the telltale white tethers that would suggest the presence of enemy binders, though it was no guarantee. It was common practice to post Life binders as scouts, for the same reason she watched the leylines now. Enemy soldiers would feed green pods of Life into the leystream with their presence—difficult to get an exact count, but better than nothing. She turned back to her men and spoke softly.

“Two on the left flank, four maybe more on the right.”

She left Jiri behind, walking forward alone, holding the parchment in front of her like a gift. At the corner of her eye she saw one of the old man’s fellows, pressed up against an oak tree to the left of the path, trying to stay out of sight. She ignored him, holding the paper out for the first soldier as she calculated her angle of attack. The old man planted the butt of his musket in the dirt and furrowed his brow, reaching out to grab the paper from her, thumbing the edge of the wax.

Her eyes snapped shut, and she found a small mote of red Body energy. She bound a tether into herself, and her muscles surged with speed and power. Lightning-quick, she drew her saber, sweeping it up from the scabbard in an arcing cut that took the picketman across the face. Blood gushed from the wound as he fell, but she was already moving. She let the saber’s momentum carry her, spinning into the air and kicking off from the corpse, sending her soaring toward the second picketman behind the tree. The blade continued its arc as she delivered a cut to the side of the second picketman’s head, his eyes barely given time to widen before his head slammed into the tree like a jar of fresh-packed jelly. A spray of thick, dark blood splattered across her as she landed.

Startled cries went up around her, and shots rang out as her men opened fire. She whirled in time for a strand of inky Death to blur into her vision, sliding toward her, threatening to snap her Body tether. Gods damn it; the bloody picketmen had a binder after all, and a Death binder to boot. She cursed as the Death binding touched her, draining her speed as if she hadn’t made the Body tether at all.

The Death tether vanished abruptly before she could trace the connection. It took a heartbeat of confusion before she understood. The shooting had stopped. The fight was done.

Sadrelle dismounted, cracking his pistol open to reload while d’Fer and Irond shouldered their carbines. L’Orai and Fessac were on foot already, approaching her as the smoke from the exchange trailed up through the trees.

“Fine blade-work, sir,” Sadrelle said.

“They had a Gods-damned Death binder,” she said, pausing to wipe the edge of her saber with a rag. “No one wounded?”

“No, sir,” came the reply from her men.

She sheathed her saber and they set to work. Another round of bangs and smoke filled the clearing as she and Fessac delivered coups de grâce to the wounded while l’Orai and Sadrelle worked to strip their uniforms, piling the bodies a short distance away from the path. They’d be discovered in due time. But by then she and her squad would be riding north, Gods willing.

“Nothing in your size, sir,” Irond said as he pulled the last of the red coats from the dead soldiers.

“They trained you in sewing at the convent, didn’t they?” she barked back. “Let’s have some alterations, on the double now.”

The rest of the men laughed as Irond waved her away, still grinning.

Piling the usable tunics, breeches, and coats revealed a stroke of luck: They had enough to make do without ambushing any more picketmen. Their civilian clothes they piled with the bodies, all save her doeskin leather gloves. No suitable replacement for those among the dead, and the scars of the binder’s marks perforated into the backs of her hands would call the worst sorts of attention if she went without. Better to chance a pair of non-standard-issue gloves she might have won at dice or cards than go about displaying that sort of sign.

“Well,” d’Fer said as he finished putting on a dead soldier’s red tunic. “I suppose I look like a Gandsman now.” He gestured to the holes in the fabric of his tunic, caked with fresh blood where their shots had struck home. She bit back a laugh. Blood on a uniform was common enough, and with luck they wouldn’t need to get close enough to other soldiers to trigger suspicions. Well, five of them wouldn’t. They’d saved the most pristine of the uniforms for Sadrelle.

“Aide-Lieutenant,” she called to him. “Don’t spend more time than you have to, and don’t get any ideas about assassinating generals while you’re in there.”

He feigned a look of devastation, then smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. Intelligence gathering, no more.”

She gave him a long look for emphasis as she climbed back into Jiri’s saddle, then nudged her mount forward. With luck, these uniforms would let them pass through the enemy’s lines, saving half a day that otherwise would have been spent riding around to the east. Sadrelle should be able to get the name of their new commander and some fresh details on the rest of their command structure to boot. Not the most elegant mission she’d ever led, but the 14th had its reputation for a reason.

The six riders split as they descended into the outskirts of the town. She’d drawn a rough map, dividing the camp into sections. Sadrelle had Duringston itself, the most dangerous assignment by far. To herself she assigned the second-most dangerous area: the highlands overlooking the roads to the east. The hills were steep and rocky, but they commanded the town. Hold those and you could harry an enemy whether they chose to retreat or engage. It was likely to be fortified, but she would deal with that when the time came; it was worth the risk to gain a vantage above the rest of the encampments. Even if, Oracle forbid, one of her men failed to return, her report would have the necessary basics. They were to regroup in the woods to the northeast after the next day’s march began, using the cover of the morning’s scout patrols to slip away from the main body of the enemy army.

Not for the first time, she questioned whether it wouldn’t have been wiser to ride a less distinctive mount on these missions. Jiri snorted, and Erris leaned into her, stroking her neck. Never. She couldn’t imagine trusting another horse. There were plenty of oddities in an army encampment. So long as she rode with purpose, exuding the confidence of belonging and the mild irritation of being on important business, she could bypass all but the most alert of their sentries. She rode past one now, muttering in the Gand tongue under her breath, a jumble of words meant to sound like cursing her superior officer. The sentry’s cloak stirred as if he made to rise from his seat by the coals of the brazier, but instead he nodded to her as she passed, earning a nod from her in return. She would have liked to think it would not be so easy to navigate a Sarresant army camp like this, but she knew better. Even the best soldiers could be lulled into complacency by the illusion of the familiar.

Within the hour she’d made it past a half-dozen such sentries, slipping through the city’s outskirts into the fields beneath the highlands. Here her tactics changed. Cutting across the grass by herself under a cloak of nightfall would be construed as skulking—the very thing to set sentries abuzz with a need to investigate. Instead she took on the slumped, plodding gait of an exhausted soldier delivering a message far away from the watchful eye of anyone important. Tired grunts sufficed for greeting when she passed the occasional soldier or wagoneer on the dirt roads winding through the fields, other men and women at the exact business to which she pretended. Slow going, but in time she found herself trekking up the steep inclines of the large hill overlooking the town.

She found a secluded area and set Jiri to watch for anyone approaching while she worked. The relative emptiness of the highlands confirmed one thing for her: Whoever the new commander was, their genius did not extend far down the chain of command. Any commander worth their rank should have seen the strategic value of this hill and taken the time to station at least a regiment’s strength atop it. Yes, it meant backbreaking work moving the rocks into makeshift fortifications, but a position like that would be worth ten times the number of men on level ground if battle found them while they camped. Of course, the Sarresant army was a week’s march to the north, so why expend the effort? Except that was the point. A good commander knew to be prepared for the impossible.

She got to work, tethering a Life binding to enhance her vision as she counted the tents in the night. Her ability to bind three leyline energies—Life to enhance her senses and heal wounds, Body to enhance her strength and speed, and Death to sever enemy bindings—counted her among the most gifted binders in the army, an asset as valuable as any battery of artillery, any company of horse. According to the ancient histories, fullbinders were said to be able to handle every type of energy, but those were foolish myths taught by priests to cow civilians into obedience. Only in her lifetime had the army had more than a handful of men or women who could handle more than two bindings with any strength. Scholars claimed the talent would grow among their people as they expanded the territory under the crown’s control, whether from conquest or colonies across the seas. As likely a justification for war as any, she supposed, and more than a soldier needed. She did her duty, as a trained weapon of the crown.

She made careful note of the troop composition as she worked, whether infantry, cavalry, sharpshooters, or specialists. The layout of the camps suggested the order in which the columns would march, which in turn suggested which units would deploy first when they took the field. Much could change in the intervening days, but it was vital to report everything she could. The smallest edge could prove decisive in the battles to come.

She worked through the night, until the first rays of sunlight cut through the openings in the cloud cover. The rains would be heavy today, judging from the black thunderheads rolling in on the morning winds from the north. From the look of it the enemy’s march today would be miserable. Already they were striking tents, sounding the reveille, beating to assembly. Past time for her to go. She clicked her tongue to summon Jiri, gathering her papers into one of the saddlebags, then rose to her feet to cast one last look down at the assembled enemy army. Ants, with the anthill kicked. The damage she and her men had done tonight would not be felt for days, but the cut was there, whether they saw it or no.

She reached level ground quickly, traversing in broad swathes, left and right. Once again she encountered soldiers and horsemen on the dirt tracks surrounding the town, but no sentries this time. The vigilance of an army at rest melted away like so many candles in the light of day, every soldier scurrying about with purpose. She adopted the same air and blended in without side looks from her adopted fellows.

She’d almost reached the woods when a commotion from behind drew her attention.

The sight struck her like a punch to the gut. Even at this distance, she recognized Horseman Irond as he drove his stallion in a fury, a squad of mounted Gandsmen in fast pursuit. Irond wheeled to the right through the open field, spurring his mount to leap over a wooden split-rail fence before he pivoted again, this time to the left. The riders at his heels weren’t half so skilled. They didn’t have to be. Irond’s mount was in shock, its mouth frothing and its eyes peeled wide. Streaks of blood ran down the beast’s flank, signs of pistol or musket shot struck home, and it was only a matter of time until the stallion collapsed. Irond gave the animal its head, racing over the open field in the direction of the same thick forest she and Jiri plodded toward along the dirt road.

He’d never make it.

She gritted her teeth, knuckles white on Jiri’s reins as she watched. She’d trained Irond well. He knew what he had to do.

Irond leapt from his saddle as the stallion buckled beneath him, its reserves exhausted. He rolled to his feet, taking up a defensive posture, his saber out, glinting in the sunlight breaching through the gathering clouds. Taking their time now, the Gandsmen slowed their mounts and spread a half circle around him. Hounds with the fox in their sights. The rest of the soldiers traveling on the dirt road had all stopped to watch the action, a bit of unexpected entertainment to liven their morning duty.

Irond backed away as his pursuers approached, their pistols cocked and leveled. Irond’s stallion had collapsed in a heap, its death throes echoing across the grass in stomach-wrenching screeches. The first shots went off and Irond spun, diving behind the dying animal. His pursuers missed the mark, eliciting another wave of shrieks as their pistol shot peppered the stallion’s hide. Frustrated, the enemy cavalrymen holstered their guns, drew sabers, and charged.

This was it. This was what he needed. The thunder of their charge shook the ground, accompanied by the cries of the riders and the onlookers who cheered them on. The enemy raised their blades, and with a single, smooth motion Irond stepped from the cover he had taken behind his dying mount. He stood, feet level, saber in an overhead guard to meet their attack as they closed on him from both sides. In the moment before impact he lowered his blade, stepping into their path. A lethal cut from the first rider opened his chest. The second rider trampled him into the dirt.

Good man. A wise enemy would have wounded him, taken him prisoner, and gotten answers. There, in a heap of broken flesh amid the long grass, Horseman Irond had done his duty.

Fessac and l’Orai had watched the grisly scene from the safety of the woods. D’Fer arrived some time later, and they had to tell him the news. They each shone with pride, recounting their fellow’s last flight, sharing their best and worst memories of him as they passed the time waiting for Sadrelle.

Two hours later, the four of them could wait no longer, and they rode.