28

ERRIS

Prisoners’ Camp

Outside the Great Barrier

Philippe,” she whispered, careful to keep her eyes turned down beneath the hood they had procured for her. “Philippe, I’m back.”

The sleeping figure beside her stirred awake, rolling onto his side and scanning across the camp for any sign of the guards.

“Marie,” he whispered back, then caught himself. “Or, General, sir. We’ve stopped. Today. You told me to tell you, when it looked like, when we heard we’d reached the place.”

Her heart surged. “You’re certain? The Gand army has stopped marching?”

“Yes, ma’am, sir. One of the Cullier boys overheard it from the Gand officers. We’re done moving north, they said.”

“Very good, Philippe. You’re certain the last river you crossed was the Anorelle? And the army has kept the same pace?”

“Yes, ma’am, sir.” He swallowed. “The fourth river since they took us. Six days since we crossed it. At the same pace, or thereabouts, since we first went through the barrier down south.”

“Excellent work, Philippe. Keep up your spirits. You’ll hear from me again soon.”

He nodded once more, and she saw hope mixed with fear in his eyes before she released the Need binding, slipping back into familiar skin, propped astride Jiri’s saddle as the pair of them tracked along the northern road.

At last, the enemy army had stopped moving. Six days north of the Anorelle, and they’d been traveling at a slow pace through the rough terrain of the wildlands. Ten, perhaps twelve leagues a day, no more. That would put them within spitting distance of New Sarresant itself when they breached the barrier. The Nameless take the Gandsmen, and whichever of them had planned this march. A terrible risk, but it was genius, pure and simple. Once she might have believed it the last stroke of Major General Alrich of Haddingston, some contingency plan conceived before she felled him with her saber at the Battle of Villecours. She would have believed it quite impossible for the enemy to produce two brilliant commanders in succession.

Now she knew the truth.

Philippe had revealed it to her, on her second visit to the prisoners’ camp, when he’d told her of the light that shone from behind his wife’s eyes when she tethered Need: golden light, light of the very kind she had seen in the eyes of the peasant boy Alrich of Haddingston. That boy had been no tactical genius, no brilliant commander. He was merely a vessel. Just as Marie d’Oreste lent her senses to Erris through the conduit of her Need, so Alrich had lent his body to the true commander of the Gandsmen. And when she’d slain the peasant boy, the true commander stepped behind the eyes of another and hatched this plan to take their capital unawares. He’d ordered the Gand armies through the barrier to bypass their scouts, all the while leaving the bulk of his own cavalry to keep the Sarresant forces distracted with their atrocities, dancing through the foothills south of their border.

The sheer genius of it staggered her. Every detail, planned to perfection. And she had seen the worst of it with her own eyes: Either there were many Need binders at work in the Gand army or the enemy commander was no longer limited to a single vessel, if indeed he ever had been. No telling when she might run across an officer with the golden eyes when she wore Marie’s skin; thus far she’d managed to avoid notice, but the reality of what she faced struck home like a knife to the gut. All of her ideas on how to use Need to command an army had been put in place here by her enemy. A tall enough order for the Sarresant army to stand against that, and with the march they’d stolen on her through the wildlands, it seemed unlikely there would even be another battle of consequence on this side of the ocean.

Still, she would not give up so easily. Even as hope faded, the spark of a plan kindled in the back of her mind. The priests. Everything depended on the priests. She heeled Jiri to a quickened pace, diverting from the northern trade roads to tack west into the shadow of the barrier.

The abbey at Arentaigne was asleep when she arrived, driving Jiri at a canter in the black of night. No alarm or cry went up as it might have done in a military camp, but Arentaigne was no outpost or hillside fort. Its abbey was one of a dozen such arrayed along the barrier, spread from New Sarresant to Lorrine, and the only one in riding distance between her and the enemy army.

A few scattered lamps were lit by the time she dismounted, casting a soft glow from the second-story rooms as she hitched Jiri to see to her water and feed.

“I need the head abbot at once,” she shouted. Her words echoed across the stone walls of the outer courtyard, greeted with the beginnings of shuffling steps and muted voices in the distance. Not good enough. “Now, priests! Move!”

She withdrew a cloth to wipe Jiri’s sweat. They’d ridden for two days without pause for sleep or rest, and only a thick sheen over the top of Jiri’s coat gave any hint of the fatigue she knew her mount hid beneath the surface. Body could only go so far, but she would see it a few steps farther before they were done. She’d wasted no time, riding straight north from Oreste. There would be no time for the army to make the march. It was down to her. Her and these damned priests, if they could ever be roused from their sleep.

“What is the meaning of this?” a brown-robed figure asked from behind, shambling out into the open air holding an oil lamp. “Who are—?”

“Are you the head abbot?” she demanded, looking up from Jiri’s water bag.

“No, I’m—”

“Get the shit out of your ears, priests!” she shouted again, loud as she could manage. “And get the head abbot here at once.”

The first brown-robed figure stood dumbly, mouth agape as she shouted over the top of him. “Now you wait just one minute—”

“Say another word and I will kill you,” she announced, plain as day. She would do no such thing, but she found a little barbarity went a long way when dealing with civilians. And she was in no mood to explain herself twice.

The priest’s mouth worked soundlessly, eyes wide as his gaze fell to the pistol holstered on one side of her belt, and to the saber dangling from the other. Did the fool not even recognize a cavalry uniform?

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, another brown-robed figure stepped into view, casting a weighing look between the first priest and where she stood tending to Jiri. This one at least had the sense to notice the star insignia on her collar and sleeve.

“I am the head abbess here, General,” the second priest began. “My name is Sister Elise. What is—?”

“Shelter,” she interrupted. “How many do you have here who can bind Shelter?”

The abbess frowned. “Our services are ever at the disposal of the crown, but this is most—”

“Enough, Sister. There is an army of Gandsmen less than a day’s march from New Sarresant and I need as many Shelter binders as you have under this roof to saddle and ride every horse in your stables to death to stop them. Do I make myself clear?”

The woman gave her a stunned look. “Yes, General. Yes.”

“Now, how many Shelter binders do you have?”

“Eight, including myself. But none of us are trained for fighting. The charge of this abbey is to repair and maintain the bindings along the northwest border. We won’t be of any use in a battle.”

“That depends on the nature of the battle, Sister,” she said, withdrawing the water bag from Jiri’s muzzle. “This one is going to be fought in precisely your area of expertise.”

By now a handful of priests had come clamoring into the courtyard. Sister Elise made a gesture for them to stay back and keep quiet.

“I don’t take your meaning, General,” Sister Elise said.

“I’ll explain as we ride. Saddle every horse in your stable and rouse your Shelter binders. We move as soon as your people are ready.”

She nearly had cause to regret her display at Arentaigne as they rode. A more diplomatic leader might have roused them in a more amicable fashion, but the requirements of the service ofttimes dictated speed over etiquette. In any case, being roused by rough words in the early hours of the morning would be the least of their concerns before this was over.

Eight priests and twelve horses. Only Jiri was able to keep pace without signs of flagging, though with two days’ hard ride behind her even Jiri was strained. She’d explained the plan, and the stakes, as they rode. To her credit Sister Elise handled it well, and relayed the necessary information to her priests without troubling Erris to repeat any details. It left her to focus on keeping up the pace, ensuring none of them fell behind. Before long she took up the spare horses’ lead lines to guide them, as it became clear none of the others were well suited to hard travel.

The first rays of morning sunlight saw them thirty leagues past the abbey, a day’s march for a well-trained infantry brigade. Half what they needed to cover, if luck was on their side. She called the first halt to rest and change mounts as the sun cleared the eastern horizon. This near the coastline it made for a rich display of orange, purple, and gold, a fitting moment to break for some of the hard bread and cheese they’d packed from the abbey stores. She paced through the line, checking the horses for signs they might falter, selecting the weakest of the four to swap for their more rested counterparts. The least she could do short of diverting into a roadside village to procure fresh animals, little as she was like to find any decent horseflesh pulling a farm cart or tending to the harvest. Say what she would about Arentaigne, at least Sister Elise kept a good stable.

“Up,” she called when she’d finished her inspection. “Time to move.”

The priest who had woken first at the abbey gave her a sour face. “How much longer? Even by daylight our mounts aren’t good for more than another hour or two at this pace.”

“No,” she replied. “No, I expect they’re not.”

The rest of them exchanged a look.

“You mean to have us walking?” The priest challenged her with a defiant glare.

“Brother Antonin—” Sister Elise said.

“I’d have you crawling through a pool of your own entrails if it meant a chance to save the city, you blind fool,” she snapped back. “But no. No. If it comes to that, if your horses falter, then it means you run.”

The priests said nothing more after she swung herself into Jiri’s saddle and heeled her forward, though the exchange had soured whatever relief they’d had from food as they pressed on.

The first horse broke before they’d gone another five leagues, stuttering to a halt and refusing to budge no matter how the mare was coaxed. No amount of cursing proved effective, and so they left her behind, her rider transferred to one of the reserves. Sister Elise made as if to protest for a moment, cut off by a withering look before she could voice the complaint.

Two more horses went down before they left the road. One stuttered to a halt as the first had done, but the second went down in a heap, slowing enough not to injure its rider before it pitched itself into the dust. An effort Erris judged worthy of a quick end no matter the possibility of a battle to come. She’d drawn her pistol and fired before the priests could register her intent, a miniature thunderclap echoing across the sparse woodland. Sullen eyes regarded her after that, blessedly silent as they turned northwest, leaving the road behind as they fanned out toward the Great Barrier.

Whatever hope they’d harbored that she might reduce the pace was snuffed out as she nudged Jiri to a canter, weaving through the trees in the direction of the barrier. The last of the reserve mounts was used within the hour, a broken leg that earned another pistol shot to silence its shrill screams.

When the fifth horse went down she called another halt. They were close, so close. By her reckoning they should be within a handful of leagues from where the Gand army had stopped its march. Yet if they pressed on with riders doubling up, the rest would collapse before they made it another hour. She did another review of the horses, and split them without protest from the priests. The freshest, strongest mounts and riders would press on while those who needed a rest took it. Only Jiri had the strength to maintain her pace at the head of the column, and so it fell to her to ride with her vision shifted to the leylines, watching for connections. The rest would follow, keeping the towering blue haze of the barrier to their left until they came upon the place. Gods grant them the strength to catch up before it was too late.

Another hour passed, and exhaustion settled around her like a warm cloak in a winter storm. Shifting her vision to the leylines gave no sign of anything more than the erratic patches of Life and Body common in wild places, and of course the deep pool of gray haze she knew the priests would see as the white pearls of Shelter, the reserve that powered the Great Barrier itself.

Then finally, Death.

Her heart sank even as blood rushed through her veins. She’d found it, and she was not too late. A quarter league in the distance, but unmistakable: inky blackness pooling on the far side of the barrier. It was there, and it was growing. Her thoughts turned to Marie and Philippe, to the rest of the villagers of Oreste, and she offered a prayer to the Exarch on their behalf.

Sister Elise was the first to arrive.

“Is this it?” the sister asked, looking as bone-weary as her mount beneath her. “Is this the place?”

“This is it,” she replied. “They are pooling Death now. The rest will begin soon.”

Sister Elise nodded, allowing her mount to stutter to a halt as she lowered herself from its back.

“The rest of your priests,” Erris said. “They’re close?”

Again Sister Elise nodded. “We may not be soldiers, General, but we are far from weak.”

She offered no reply to that, shifting her sight to find Body, tethering it through the sister.

The woman’s eyes widened, then she bowed her head in thanks. “Thank you, General.”

“The least I can do, Sister.”

The most she could do in fact. Without being able to see or use Shelter she was as useless as a noble-born officer for this fight. She could ease the fatigue of the ride with Body, but not the deep exhaustion of working with the leylines themselves.

Three more priests arrived within a few minutes, paying truth to Sister Elise’s claim. None looked less bone-weary than their abbess, and all were grateful for the Body Erris offered. Death continued to swell beneath the barrier, and in the few moments of respite she allowed herself to look for the golden shimmer that indicated her link to Marie d’Oreste. The connection was effortless to find after the initial bond was made; it had never taken more than a moment to find Marie, no matter the distance between them. Of course this time she expected to find nothing. She knew full well what the inky pool betokened for the Gandsmen’s prisoners.

Yet there it was. Against all odds, she saw it there: Need. Marie was alive.

She expelled a sharp breath, turning the heads of the priests, more than one of them starting as if she had crept up on them from the shadows.

“What is it, General?” Sister Elise asked. “Have they started?”

“You’ll know before I do, Sister. Watch the barrier. I have no gift for Shelter.”

The sister gave a grim nod. Erris could see the responsibility settle over the other woman. To her credit the abbess did not flinch.

Sister Elise took charge, speaking with the others and welcoming the fifth and sixth of their number when they arrived a few minutes later. Erris took the moment to rest, leaning against Jiri as her mount lay in the grass beside her. Fatigue washed over her. She had pushed herself and ridden these priests just as hard. Yet in their element she could almost dare to believe they were measured to the task. Sister Elise had a sharp way with command, a practiced sense of what her people could do. Just as well none of her binders could sense Death, though, or the enormity of their task might become a hurdle unto itself. Never mind that the strongest Shelter binders would have been forced into the army rather than the priesthood. Never mind that the enemy had almost certainly brought twice their number or more.

She grit her teeth, forcing those thoughts to die. No point in harboring doubts now. Everything hinged on the next few hours. Shelter crews like the priests of Arentaigne were used to repair the barrier when it weakened, drawing on the leylines to reinforce its towering wall. Using Death to disrupt the barrier, to create a breach willfully, was an abominable tactic, and all the more so for their using prisoners to do it rather than livestock. Men and women left greater pockets of inky Death when they were slain, but it was no less sickening to contemplate using it in battle.

She closed her eyes to ward away the thoughts, and once more found Marie. Need called to her, a shimmering light in the distance.

A risk to embrace it now, but the prisoners were marked for death regardless. If by chance there was some last information, some last words that could pass between them …

A glance at Sister Elise revealed the priests in good order. She could spare a few moments.

She reached out to Need, to Marie, and tethered herself to the golden light.

Her vision shifted.

Even before her eyes focused, she knew something was wrong. Where she’d expected the familiar rope tethers and ragged faces of the prisoners’ camp, she was surrounded by luxury. Elaborately woven carpets strewn across the floors of a broad canvas tent, filled with actual furniture—a desk, tables, chairs, and a bed. Looking down, she saw Marie’s familiar travel-worn dress. No mistake there. What was Marie doing in a tent like this?

“Ah, at last,” came a voice from behind her. “I was hoping you’d make another appearance.”

She spun, and found herself facing a tall man standing upright, wearing the red uniform of Gand. Dirt-colored hair specked with gray, a clean-shaven face just starting to show the lines of age, four stars on his collar. And a pulsing, golden light shining from behind his eyes.

He walked around the desk, towering over Marie.

“So pleasant to meet my enemies before I crush them,” he said, his words touched with a foreign accent she couldn’t place, stilted and severe. “An opportunity rarely afforded commanders who do not share our gifts, though I expect a fledgling like yourself does not truly understand.”

“This is your doing,” she said in a cold voice, not meaning it to be a question.

He laughed. “Yes. I’ve beaten you, with my little maneuver. The rest of this”—he made a dismissive gesture—“is a formality. We both know your city will fall.”

She said nothing, fixing a look of hatred on her face. This man, or rather whoever was seeing from behind those golden eyes, was responsible for unconscionable brutality, murders, and worse. Fantain’s Cross, Oreste, and how many others could be laid at his feet. Before he had taken control the Gandsmen had fought according to the precepts of war. Now they were monsters made flesh.

“Come now,” he said, affecting a light tone as he sat in one of the cushioned chairs, motioning for her to do the same. “Don’t sulk. I began the campaign with more matériel and a superior tactical position. It was only natural I should find victory here. Your city is situated foolishly close to the Aegis barrier; surely you must have expected a flanking maneuver backed with disruption bindings?”

She remained standing, eyes narrowing as she maintained her glare. “If you intend to kill Marie, do it and be done with it.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Kill Marie? Your vessel, you mean? That is not the way these things are done. Your vessel will remain here, should the need arise to discuss terms. The right of the victor, as it were.”

“You’re no Gandsman.” She knew it for a certainty. The accent was wrong, but intuition led the rest of the way. This man—this creature, in light of the horrors he’d commanded done—carried himself with a menace she’d never seen among the generals of any army.

He smiled. “No, I am not. But desperate men hungering for power will embrace whatever talent promises to get them there. The Gandsmen were halfway to empire when your king ordered his invasion, and it frightened my would-be puppeteers enough to hand the strings to me. It is enough, for now. I suppose you fight for Sarresant here in your colonies. One of their generals, perhaps?”

She knew better than to confirm it, and said nothing.

“No matter,” he said. “It’s obvious. You’ve little stake in the conflict across the sea, judging by the ineptitude of your forces there.”

She’d heard enough. Turning away, she prepared to release the Need binding, feeling a pang of sorrow leaving Marie in the company of this creature.

The man leaned forward in his chair before she could release the binding, his tone growing cold. “I will find you, wherever you think to hide. I know you are here in the colonies. You will not ascend. I’ve beaten you today, and I will beat you again. Your city will burn, and your people be put to the sword until I find you.”

She turned back to him slowly. He had reclined once more, wearing a smug look.

She struck him in the face, as hard as Marie could muster. Bless the woman for a life of hard work in the fields of Oreste, and a frame well built enough to deliver a solid blow. She knew from the way his head snapped back, eyes rolling up into his skull, that she’d produced the desired effect. Without waiting for further confirmation, she gathered her skirts and fled the tent.

The sounds of an army camp on the cusp of a march came to life around her when she emerged through the flaps. Couriers made their way between the tent lines even while the tents themselves were being struck by soldiers and camp followers alike. Thank the Gods for the chaos of it; on an ordinary day she’d never have escaped a general’s tent unnoticed. As it was she fell into the familiar stance of urgent, deliberate movement, the old scout’s trick of moving among enemies by hiding in plain sight. For Marie’s sake, she would try to find someplace in the camp, somewhere she could hide and perhaps make an escape in the rush of what would come. There. A wagon ahead, at the edge of the camp, near the tree line, already loaded with tents and provisions, only awaiting a team to arrive to be hitched to drive it. She’d make for the wagon and slip among the cargo. If the Gandsmen succeeded in breaching the barrier, Marie could stow away and escape once they crossed into Sarresant territory. And if not, the wagon was near enough to the edge of the camp that she could make for the wilds. It was unlikely the enemy had sentries posted here—little need for that, considering.

A slim chance in either case, but preferable by far to another minute in the company of the monster in command of the Gand army. Ignoring the soldiers who moved through the camp paths around her, she affected not to notice the few stray curious looks she drew as she moved toward it. Gods be praised, none of the soldiers did more than look. She’d be at the wagon momentarily …

The Need binding withdrew, and her vision snapped back into her own skin.

“Chevalier-General!” one of the priests cried, shaking her arm.

“What is it?” she demanded, voice flush with anger as she shook loose the brown-robed man’s grasp.

“Chevalier-General, it’s begun.”

Even without seeing the Shelter bindings, it was clear the priests had not been able to blunt the onslaught of Death from the Gand binders. That had been her plan: to rebuild the barrier as the Gandsmen tore it down, to trap the enemy army in the savage wildlands after they exhausted their reserve of Death. Yet now the swirling haze of the Great Barrier had paled to a thin white, almost pink hue. Where the color normally rushed with patterns like inks dripped down a page, it had slowed to a crawl, hardly moving. The priests focused as they stared up at the barrier, but the sweat dripping from their brows, the pained lines on each of their faces made clear the toll it had taken.

“Brother Antonin, Sister Jolene, the top-left quadrant,” Sister Elise called. “Now!”

A ripping sound filled the air from high above as trails of blue haze vented out over their heads.

One of the priestesses shrieked, sinking to her knees before she slumped over onto the ground.

“No!” Sister Elise shouted. “Brother Marc, cover for her!”

Erris wasted no time, rushing to the side of the fallen priestess. She tethered thick strands of Body, purging the woman of every lingering bit of fatigue in her system, all save the exhaustion of working with the leylines, the deep exhaustion beyond her ability to heal.

Erris shook her head. “This one is out, Sister.”

Sister Elise managed a few curses, the sort of which only a priest could know.

“It’s going,” called one of the men. “I can’t—”

Another sound like a sheet torn in half, still far overhead. Nothing close to the ground, nothing low enough for troops to pass through, thank the Gods.

Sister Elise turned to her, a look of panic in her eyes.

“Sister Elise,” Erris said to her, “the lives of every man and woman in New Sarresant depend on you. Is there any more that can be done?”

“I … there are so many. I need more strength. I need …” She trailed off, shame welling up in her eyes.

Erris nodded. She’d been preparing herself for this for the last hour, watching Sister Elise and her priests losing their struggle to repair the barrier. They couldn’t stop the Gandsmen breaking through. No sense in dying here for the sake of pride, not when their horses might be able to speed them away with whatever measure of strength remained to them.

The order to withdraw formed on the tip of her tongue, and just as suddenly turned to ash.

Need.

A glimmer of light sparked and bloomed in Sister Elise, standing across from her. Perhaps if the other woman could not muster the strength required, Erris herself could step in and lead their effort.

She embraced the light, and felt her vision leap into the other woman’s skin. She whirled about, ignoring the disorienting feeling of watching her body through another’s eyes.

“Focus,” she cried in Sister Elise’s voice. “We must stop them!”

The rest of the priests started, but seemed to take heart from her unexpected words, knotting their faces in grim determination. Erris closed her eyes, shifting her vision to the leylines.

It was as if she saw another world.

In place of the familiar greens of Life, the red motes of Body, and the ink-clouds of Death, she saw only one, new pattern: white spheres like links of pearls, wrapping themselves around the leylines emanating from beneath the Great Barrier. Shelter. Breathing deep, she opened herself to the new energy, aiming to tether a full-strength binding, with all the power she could handle.

Nothing.

She tried again.

Nothing.

Her heart sank. Was this it, then? She could see the Shelter bindings through Sister Elise’s eyes, but could no more tether them than if she had tried while wearing her own skin. Perhaps there was some technique, some trick to Shelter that differed from the leyline energies with which she had experience. Perhaps …

No.

If there were such a technique, she didn’t have time to learn it now. She faced the cold reality of it like a blow to the gut. She let the Need binding fade.

“What was—?” Sister Elise sputtered, in control of her own body once more.

“I will explain later, Sister,” she said. “For now, we must ride.”

“It was as if I … such strength …”

“Move!”

The other woman blinked, then nodded. She turned to give instruction to the priests as Erris rushed to their makeshift horse line to retrieve their mounts. Jiri snorted in frustration, sensing her rider’s mood. Erris shifted her vision to bind Body through Jiri to energize her for the ride ahead—and she froze. Body was there in abundance; it was always so in the wild, where beasts hunted beasts, and they were near an army camp besides. But there was more. Strands of pearls, white pearls along the lines where always before she had seen only hazy, formless strands of energy.

Shelter. The same energy she’d seen moments before, behind Sister Elise’s eyes.

She tethered it, feeling it surge through her with all the force she could manage. The Great Barrier now rose before her in an entirely new light: Instead of formless energy coursing over swirls of ever-paler color, she could see the strands themselves, being ripped apart by the Death bindings of the Gandsmen. In anger, she tried desperately to rebuild the patterns as she saw them torn down. She could see similar efforts now, where the priests continued their struggle to maintain the barrier’s strength.

“Sister Elise!” she called, even amid the distraction as she worked. “Do not stand down. I’ve found a means to aid you. We can stop them!”

If the priestess made any protest, she didn’t hear. It was enough that the rest of the priests maintained their efforts. Erris lost herself in the struggle, pouring all her energy into rebuilding wherever the enemy tried to destroy. Where before the barrier had paled, its color seemed to stabilize. If they could hold on like this …

One of the priests cried out, drawing her attention back to the clearing in which they stood. A sickening feeling gripped her as she realized the cause: Another of their number had collapsed under the strain, the exhaustion taking a toll beyond his ability to maintain.

“No,” she cried. “Hold on!”

They tried.

Another priest crumpled to the ground, and the white strands of Shelter began to slip once more.

Moving as fast as her senses allowed, she focused all of her will on the strands of the barrier. She tethered Body to speed her reflexes, and Life to sharpen her vision. And though she was untrained with Shelter, she was a fullbinder with more raw strength than any four half-trained priests. She sensed a crack forming in the wall and snuffed it out, pouring Shelter into the holes left by the enemy’s use of Death.

She missed one. A fissure erupted above, a gash like torn cloth ripping in the wind.

She grit her teeth as she worked, pouring herself into each moment. The other priests worked around her, with Sister Elise barking commands in response to Erris’s efforts. A crack welled up near the base of the wall, and she fought it down in a fury. But she missed another seam torn out above, cracking and breaking in a rush of wind. The barrier seemed to groan, as if the entirety of the wall bent in on itself.

And then it stopped.

In a moment, her efforts went to repairing and strengthening the barrier instead of staying one step ahead of the Death trying to rip the wall apart. It was as if the enemy had abruptly ceased his attack, and in mere moments the worst of the ripped seams knotted themselves together as if they had never been breached.

Only then did she realize the ink-clouds of Death were gone. Empty. The enemy had run out of prisoners to kill.

Her mood soured even in the moment of triumph.

“Is that it?” one of the priests asked.

“General?” Sister Elise looked to her.

She met their eyes, seeing a reflection of the exhaustion she felt caked into her bones. She nodded.

A whooping cry went up among the priests still standing.

“Rest now,” she said. “And prepare ourselves for the enemy to try again.”

Whatever celebration had been coming, it died with those words. She saw in their eyes a halfhearted protest, perhaps thinking their part was finished. Still, at that moment an order to rest was not like to be disobeyed. Most of the priests dropped to sit where they had stood, grateful for reprieve, however temporary.

That it would be temporary she had no doubt. Whoever that creature was, the strange, cold man who had spoken to her behind golden eyes in the Gand command tent, he’d ordered hundreds of innocents slain to fuel his plans. He would not balk at ordering his own soldiers slain for Death once his binders were rested enough for another attempt.

She slumped to the ground at Jiri’s side. Her mount had already given in to sleep, too weary to remain standing. She felt the same exhaustion washing over her. She needed a week’s rest, and she might have a few hours, if the Gods were good.

Golden light woke her, and she gasped, bolting upright quick enough to startle Jiri as she rose.

Too long. She’d slept too long. The sun’s light dimmed in the west, above the Great Barrier. Panic flooded her before her vision focused on the barrier’s swirling haze. It stood, thank the Gods. Somehow it stood.

“Up,” she barked, rousing the priests arrayed among the trees. They’d slept as she had, exhausted from the ride to reach the barrier and their struggles to keep it whole. The fog she’d purged from her senses played again among the priests, but she paid it no mind. They’d proved their worth. They would be ready when the enemy tried again.

She shifted her sight to the leylines, and her stomach lurched.

Death.

Inky clouds of Death as wide as she had ever seen. Sour blackness clinging to the leylines, enough to drown a city, pooling on the far side of the barrier.

“It’s coming!” she shouted. “They’re trying again, now!”

Her words dispelled any vestiges of fatigue from the priests, and they locked eyes on the barrier, blinking to signify they’d shifted sight to the leylines, ready for whatever came.

The barrier stood. Unchanging, and undisturbed.

Death remained. Vast pools of blackness, a hundredfold larger than the enemy had used in their earlier assault. And golden light. It pulsed among the ink-clouds, bright enough she’d seen it even without shifting her sight to the leylines. She hadn’t paid it attention, confronted by the shock of the barrier still standing, and of Death, but turned to it now. Marie.

She made the connection, and shifted her senses into a sea of blood.

Marie had tucked herself inside the wagon on the edge of the Gand camp, but the smell cut through the crates and canvas, thick enough for her to retch even through the bond of Need. Somehow the woman had stayed hidden from whatever had transpired outside the wagon. Prudence shouted at her to stay there, to stay cloistered away from whatever had produced the tide of Death. But even had it been her skin she risked, she needed to know. She dislodged herself from Marie’s hiding place, rose from beneath the covered wagon, and stepped down into horror.

Dead soldiers in red coats, torn in pieces and strewn across grasses stained crimson from calf-deep pools of blood.

And dogs. Scores of dogs; hundreds. Corpses of dogs mixed in with the men and women, each one a copy of the others, their fur a twisted shade between red and black.