The Silvered

Chapter Three

“BEWARE THE NET FROM ABOVE.”

The underbrush grabbed at Mirian’s skirt. She caught her foot in a tangle of fallen branches and stumbled through a spiderweb. Resolutely not thinking of spiders in her hair or down her collar or climbing into her ears, she flailed at the strands hanging off her face as she ran.

Did Lady Hagen’s warning of a net refer to the gold glitter Mirian had seen hanging off the officer’s fingertips? It was hard to think of what else that glitter could be. Her father had spoken approvingly of the empire’s advances in technology—was this one of them? Had someone created a technology to neutralize mage-craft?

One foot dropped into a hole masked by ground cover and she fell, biting back a startled cry. The impact drove her hands wrist-deep into the leaf litter. As she pushed up, something cracked then compacted under her right palm. Soft and moist and horribly warm, it left a dark smear on her skin. Back up on her feet, she swiped her hand against her skirt and kept running.

The Mage-pack had been holding their heads in pain, unable to fight back.

The net from above, probably the gold glitter, neutralized mage-craft by wrapping around the head. Logically, the net had to do something more than merely wrap, but how it did what it did wasn’t as important right now as what it did.

Mirian ducked under a branch and wondered if the net would’ve worked on the Mage-pack had they been wearing hats. Last season, the style in Aydori had been for little knots of flowers and lace perched precariously on shell combs that dropped off during the change to fur. Would the Imperial army have taken fashion into account?

She jerked to one side as the pocket on her skirt caught then tore, bounced off a tree trunk, and through another web.

“Beware the net from above.”

The soldiers wouldn’t want her regardless of what the net was or where it came from. She wasn’t Mage-pack. Her professors had made it clear they considered her barely a mage. Still, Jaspyr Hagen had said she smelled amazing and Lady Hagen had sent a warning….

An evergreen branch slapped her cheek. She gasped, inhaled a bug, and had to stop to cough. As soon as she could breathe, she ripped tender new tips off the branch and tangled them in her hair until she wore a sticky green circlet. She’d probably have to shave her head to get it free. In Aydori, only the women of the Mage-pack cut their hair short to match the Pack who didn’t have hair but caps of fur.

Her mother would have fits.

Her mother might be the only person in Aydori currently worrying about hairstyles.

It seemed brighter off to her right, so Mirian clambered over a fallen trunk and headed toward the light, hoping it meant the underbrush had thinned and she could move faster. She had to get to Lord Hagen. She had to let him know.

Pushing through a thicket of shoulder-high, red stems, the sharp ends of oval leaves scored the bare skin above her collar and clusters of buds smeared sticky fluid on her clothes. Suddenly stepping out over nothing, she clutched at branches, but they bent with her, folding down into the ditch and springing back into place when impact opened her fingers and she released them. Scrambling up the opposite slope on her hands and knees, Mirian stared at the hard-packed clay of the road. Had she gotten turned around? Had she been running in circles?

Lifting her head, she saw the road to the left curved around a stand of silver birch and disappeared, cutting off the sight of carriages and the captured Mage-pack. Cutting her off from the sight of the Imperial soldiers.

To the right, a family—a group of people anyway—plodded toward Trouge. Two women older than her but younger than her mother pulled a low cart piled high with goods and topped with three small children. An elderly woman plucked the limp body of a chicken as she walked.

Mirian stared at the old woman and wondered if the children perched so precariously on the cart were her grandchildren. Lady Berin had no grandchildren, although her son’s winter marriage no doubt meant there’d be some soon. Except her son was in the Hunt Pack and the younger Lord Hagen, Tomas, said the Hunt Pack had been killed. And her daughter-in-law was in the Mage-pack and they’d been taken by Imperial soldiers. And Lady Berin…

Lady Berin…

Mirian remembered a gray-furred body lying limp on the road, a shadow spreading beneath her.

Lady Berin was dead.

Dead. Killed.

And one other of the Pack. And at least one of the coachmen.

But Lady Berin…Mirian had just seen her at the opera. Had just seen her laughing and talking and alive. And now she was dead.

Shoving her fist into her mouth, Mirian muffled a noise she couldn’t stop herself from making. Scream, sob, pain, protest—she didn’t know what it was, but she couldn’t breathe around it and it hurt! After what seemed like hours, but was more likely moments given how much farther the family had progressed up the road toward her, she wiped her hands off on her skirt, took a deep breath, and stood.

Her legs felt shaky, disconnected from her body. Stepping forward, she wobbled. Took another step and had to spread her arms for balance.

She didn’t have time for this.

Lady Berin was dead. The Mage-pack had been taken. And Lord Hagen needed to know. Lord Hagen would fix this. She swallowed a giggle before it could emerge and turn to hysteria. Her mother would be so pleased. It was the first time they’d agreed in months.

A deep breath. Another. She started to run.

As Mirian passed the family, someone yelled, “You forget your dancing shoes, lady?” and all of them laughed. The children laughed because the adults did, the adults laughed because the Imperial army was marching on Bercarit.

They didn’t try to stop her.

She brushed a chicken feather off her sleeve and ran faster.

At least the road ran downhill to the city.

Around another curve, she staggered to a stop beside an abandoned trunk, hand pressed hard against the pain under her ribs, and realized walks along the promenade and weekly dances at the Assembly Hall were not enough to prepare for this kind of a run. It occurred to her as she tried to work up spit enough to swallow, that she should have warned the family what they were walking into. Warned them about the soldiers. About the bodies.

“Too late…”

A raven investigating a pile of cloth on the other side of the road looked up as if to ensure she wasn’t speaking to him. There was a raven on the Imperial flag. A raven in flight over a shield, a spear, and a sword, each representing a division of the Imperial army. Each division an army on its own as smaller countries understood the definition of army. They studied the Kresentian Empire in Aydori schools; it was too powerful to ignore and forewarned was supposed to be forearmed. Except it didn’t seem to be.

A line of sweat ran down her side and she unbuttoned her jacket. The jacket, a military-styled gray wool with black braid and the new tucked sleeves hadn’t been too hot for a spring dawn, but she was starting to understand those evacuees who’d abandoned bundles of clothes.

Jacket open, she began to run again, fists tucked up under her breasts to keep them from bouncing painfully.

Her heel came down on a rock, her foot rolled, but she caught herself before she fell and ran on in spite of the throb in her ankle.

Ran until she had to walk to catch her breath.

Ran again.

Eyes on the road, concentrating on breathing, on moving her legs, she was at the outskirts of Bercarit before she realized.

It was quiet. The sky was clear, no smudge of smoke from cooking fires hung over the city. If there were people still around, and there had to be, then they were lying low.

She could see a smudge of smoke over the border. Except that the border was seventeen miles away and she only had first level Air so whatever it was she saw, it couldn’t be smoke from the battle.

Could it?

Did it matter?

She couldn’t run another seventeen miles. Every breath tasted like copper and it felt like steel spikes had been driven in under her ribs. Her feet hurt all the way up to her knees and she was drenched in sweat.

But Lord Hagen still had to know.

If she could find a pony…

Stupid. No one would have left a pony, and anyone who’d stayed wouldn’t have a pony.

They said that in the old days the strongest Air-mages could ride the wind. Lady Hagen was the strongest Air-mage in Aydori and, as far as Mirian knew, her ladyship had never gone flying. Not that it mattered what they said.

Limping, she started down the wide avenue the Trouge Road became when it entered the city. Bercarit, unlike Trouge, was built for commerce. It had no city wall; trees and shrubs gave way to the homes of the very wealthy, each individually walled. Private gardens in front of large sprawling houses on property that ran down to the bank of the Navine. This was where the Pack lived. Where Lady Berin…

Scrubbing at her cheeks with her palm, Mirian caught a glint of silver. She turned toward it, and realized she’d glimpsed the river between two of the houses.

The Navine looped around east of Bercarit, slowing as it deepened. This early in the season it would still be running fast, fed by the snowmelt and by runoff from a hundred mountain streams. Okay, maybe not a hundred. Mirian had no idea how many mountain streams fed the Navine and didn’t care. The river not only ran to the border, it curved to become the border for a part of its length. Somewhere there had to be a boat small enough for her to use.

She knew where the docks were. They topped her mother’s list of where good girls didn’t go. Good girls didn’t cross Beech Street.

Beech Street was nearly all the way across town.

Mirian weighed distance against the garden wall rising up beside her and turned to the wall, hurrying back to the last set of iron gates. Too large to squeeze through the vertical bars, she put her right foot on the lower crosspiece and jammed the toe of her left boot between the gate and the stone post, just above the hinge. Metal digging into her palms, she dragged herself up until her weight was on the hinge, braced her right foot on a bit of scrollwork, and pushed. Releasing the gate, she threw her upper body at the top of the post, moving her right foot to brace against a higher bit of ironwork, digging for imperfections in the mortar with the toe of her left boot.

Then her right foot slipped.

She lurched forward, trying to hook her fingers under the capstone. Began to slide back.

A delicate touch against the back of her hand.

Just a leaf…

The shriek didn’t count if no one heard it.

Where there was a leaf…Her fingers touched wood. Shoulder screaming, Mirian stretched an impossible amount farther and curled her hand around a thick piece of vine. With no choice, she trusted it with her weight. Squirming and kicking against the side bars of the gate, she managed to get up onto the top of the wall.

The vine made getting down a lot easier.

Boots sinking into the soft earth between clumps of daffodils, she sagged against the vine for a moment, and watched the bud closest to her hand swell and unfurl into a pale pink blossom. A few more, then a few more, until a spray of blossom bobbed up over the wall scenting the air with the promise of summer. First level Earth. Pretty, but useless and worse than that, unintentional. Given the way exhaustion ate away at her control, it was a good thing she hadn’t managed to learn anything more dangerous. As it was, it was still too cold at night for so delicate a flower, so all she’d done was expose the vine to an early death.

More death.

Eyes locked on the ribbon of silver, Mirian staggered toward the water. Just a little farther and she could sit down. Just a little farther and there’d be a boat and it would take her to the border and she could find Lord Hagen. Jaspyr, too, if the Lord and Lady felt she was due some personal return for a horrible day.

Just a little farther.

The dock at the bottom of the garden was empty.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! SHIT!” Mirian had learned to swear at university from a woodcutter’s daughter who’d tested absurdly high for her station—although no one had pointed that out more than once. Only Mirian had tested higher and that had thrown them together for a few months until Adine had progressed as expected and Mirian hadn’t.

Uncertain of what she should do now, or rather how she should do what she needed to do, Mirian turned in place, the dock creaking ominously beneath her.

There was a dinghy tied at the dock at the bottom of the garden next door and the wall between the two properties only came down as far as the shore.

The water was ridiculously cold. The shock almost made her swear again.

Her waterlogged skirts were heavy, and the dinghy tilted dangerously when she stepped in. It nearly threw her out when she tried to cast off, but she managed to push away from the dock with one of the oars and force the boat out into the current.

It was faster even than she’d expected. The water dragged the oar from her hand and she almost went overboard reaching for it.

“A single oar can be used as a rudder,” she told herself, watching the second oar move farther away, her knuckles white around the edge of the seat. At least theoretically. All Mirian knew about boating she’d learned on the still pond at her brother-in-law’s farm and that had mostly consisted of not allowing her older nephew to fall in.

As the small boat sped past increasingly less affluent properties at a dizzying speed, not falling in seemed like an excellent idea.

If the Soothsayers were right, the carriages they’d stopped had been the last out of the city. If the Soothsayers were right, the only people they’d meet on the road back toward Bercarit would be tired and not likely to challenge four Imperial soldiers even if they were armed. But not likely was not a sure thing, particularly not when Soothsayers were involved, and Reiter wasn’t going to lose a man by assuming the citizens of Aydori wouldn’t fight back. They needed to move fast in order to catch the sixth mage so they’d stay on the road, but they’d keep their weapons ready.

“Shoot if they look at us wrong, Cap?”

“Shoot if they aim a weapon at us,” he snapped. “Musket, pistol, cannon if it comes to it. Otherwise, leave them alone.”

“Crossbow?”

He turned to frown at Armin, who shrugged without breaking stride.

“Da’s got a crossbow in the shop, from his days in the army. He’d take it if he had to haul ass out of town.”

Reiter had once seen an old-timer put a crossbow quarrel through a plank. It might take forever to cock it, but a loaded crossbow was as deadly a weapon as a loaded musket. “Fine. If they’re pointing a crossbow, shoot.”

“What about a rock, Cap? You could get killed with a rock,” Chard protested over Armin’s laughter.

“Not if it hit your head,” Best jeered.

“More running, less talking,” Reiter growled.

“But, Cap…”

“A lot less talking from you, Chard.”

None of them seemed to have any trouble with the idea of hunting down another young woman and dragging her back to the empire. She was a mage, she was an enemy, and they were at war. The mages of Aydori lay with beasts and that made them…less. His men had their orders; their only concern was following them.

He gave the orders.

The beast had gold hoops in its ears. Her ears.

You have your orders, too, he reminded himself. And they were at war.

They heard a child complaining, high-pitched and peevish, as they rounded a corner and that was the only warning they got before coming face-to-face with a small family trudging up the road toward Trouge. Trudging up the road away from the inevitable advance of the Imperial army.

As the closer of the two younger women ran for the cart and the children, Reiter wished he was still a part of that faceless mass. Killing soldiers was one thing, they knew why they were there, but he had no stomach for killing civilians.

Suddenly in the sights of four muskets, she froze, both hands in the air. Her eyes were brown. No mage marks.

“I can ask her if she saw the mage, Cap,” Chard murmured.

“You speak Aydori?”

“I can say girl and how much.”

Of course he could. Probably in the same sentence. “Stick with girl.”

The old woman snarled and spat at Chard’s single word. The woman with her hands in the air lowered them, wrapped them around her body, and shook her head. The other one stumbled back, stopped by the crosspiece of the cart.

“They think,” Armin began, but Chard cut him off.

“I know.” He shook his head in turn, and ran in place.

The youngest of the children shrieked with laughter. The two elder all but sat on him to shut him up.

The old woman spat again, but the one by the crosspiece glanced up at the children and pointed down the road.

“Captain, if they have a weapon…”

“You run slow enough you’re still in range by the time they find it and load it, I’ll shoot you myself.” Reiter lowered his musket. Aydori eyes tracked the movement. “Let’s go.”

“I’d do the one on the left,” Chard observed, falling in behind Reiter.

“You’d do a diseased Pyrahnian whore,” Best grunted.

“If the price was right,” Chard admitted cheerfully.

Imperial infantry didn’t run into battle; the empire expanded and war waited for them. Oh, they’d all done some running—toward the front, away from the front, for their lives as one of Colonel Korshan’s rockets went off in a random direction—but Reiter couldn’t remember the last time he’d pounded down a road like a child escaping chores. Breathe in for two strides, out for two. Under his pack, his uniform stuck to his skin.

“We running all the way to Bercarit, Cap?”

“If we have to.”

They had to.

They took a breather on the last rise overlooking the city. It seemed calm, peaceful even. It reminded Reiter of Karis, the empire’s capital, in miniature. Gridded streets with frequent squares of green surrounding the city core—modern, built to design.

Armin snorted and said what they were all thinking. “Not burning yet.”

“Swords must be taking their own sweet fucking time at the bor…Cap!”

A flick of gray skirts against paler gray stone.

“I see her.” Reiter pulled the tangle from his pocket, thought he felt it tug against the end of his finger before it fell to hang and sway. They were still too far from the mage for it to take her. “Come on.”

By the time they reached level ground where the road to Trouge turned into a wide avenue that split the city in half, she was gone.

If she was heading to warn her beast, she was heading toward the fighting. That meant they’d have to cross the city after her.

“Stay close to the walls. Someone heads toward us, you shoot.” The people who remained were likely thieves, taking advantage of the evacuation to fill their pockets and more than willing to take on four Imperial soldiers far from the might of the army.

“What about children, Cap?”

“No one’s left their children behind.”

“But what about puppies? What if they left the little beasts behind to guard…”

“We don’t shoot children!”

Gold earrings…

“Just as glad to hear that, actually. I like puppies. You know, the kind that aren’t likely to turn into a…”

Reiter stopped so suddenly, he felt Best’s musket hit his back before he could stop. When he turned, Best took a step back, Armin took a step away from Chard, and Chard looked confused. “Private Chard.” His voice was a threat he didn’t bother to find words for.

“Captain?”

“Shut up.”

Chard’s default squint widened, and he swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

A quick glance at Best and Armin showed the other two soldiers staring into the city like there was actually something to see.

Drawing in a deep breath, Reiter let it out slowly and…

Honeysuckle.

It was barely spring at this altitude. The honeysuckle on his mother’s cottage bloomed in high summer.

Mage-craft.

It didn’t take long to find the spray of flowers dipping over the wall and less time for the four of them to climb it and drop down the other side. Last time Reiter had gone over a wall, enemy soldiers had been shooting at him. This time, they found a woman’s bootprint heading toward the water. It could have belonged to anyone—there’d probably been women in the house that morning—but the honeysuckle suggested otherwise.

They reached the dock in time to see a small boat bob out of sight around one of the larger river wharfs. The person in it appeared to be attempting to steer with a single oar.

“Why’s she not using mage-craft, then?” Armin wondered.

Best snorted. “She’s Earth-mage, idiot. Made the vine blossom, didn’t she? Nothing she can do about water. A boat that small in water running that fast, that’s like a leaf in a fucking gale.”

“What do we do, Cap?”

Reiter touched the tangle, shoved back into his jacket pocket. “We follow the river.”

The oar twisted and bucked in her hands, dragged left then right by the river. Mirian fought to keep the tiny boat from running into the end of wharfs, from being smashed to pieces by a log nearly as big around as the boat—escaped from the lumberyards above the town, the deeper part of her mind observed while the surface bits jumped frantically from dealing with one near disaster to the next.

Finally, curving past the center of Bercarit, the river slowed and the oar stilled. Arms and shoulders aching, Mirian relaxed her grip enough to get blood flow back to her fingertips. On the shore to the left, the Lady’s Park slipped past and she realized, given the distance she’d covered, she couldn’t have been traveling as insanely fast as it had felt. As she watched, the rough land beside the park that gave the Lord his due became warehouses, each with their own pier and some with broad double doors that came all the way down to the water and likely hid interior lagoons…ponds…catchment basins? She had no idea what such a thing would be called and, right at the moment, didn’t care.

She jerked as a voice yelled out from the shore, and flattened against the seat as far as her grip on the oar allowed, then straightened, calling herself an idiot. An Imperial soldier wouldn’t call out to her, he’d shoot. Stupid of her to think the city had completely emptied, that all the thousands of people had left. Scanning the line of buildings, she couldn’t see anyone and, whoever it was, they didn’t yell again. If she could have spotted the warehouse worker or even an owner foolishly staying to try and protect his property against Imperial might, she would have landed and told them what she’d seen, and she wouldn’t have been alone any longer with the knowledge that the Mage-pack had been taken.

Except she had no idea how to get the boat to shore.

Tightening her grip on the oar, she swept it back and forth as hard as she could and managed to turn the bow slightly. Relieved by this small indication of control, Mirian sagged on the seat, breathing heavily. It would take some work, but she could…

Three huge, wooden squares rose out of the river in front of her.

The forms for the new bridge.

The newspaper she’d read—had it only been yesterday morning?—said that, with the rough work finished on the piers, the stonemasons would begin laying the dressed stone as soon as the spring runoff ended.

Her boat was at the forms between one breath and the next. Mirian pushed the oar hard to the right. The boat twisted, kept twisting, and slammed into one enormous upright, the impact knocking her from the seat. Struggling against already wet skirts made even heavier by the water sloshing around the bottom of the boat, Mirian heaved herself up onto her knees, grabbing for the wildly swinging oar.

It clipped her on the bottom of the chin. Her teeth slammed together, and she dropped back to the bottom of the boat.

The boat spun again, wood scraping against wood, then bobbed free.

The oar swung past Mirian’s vision one last time.

She thought she heard the splash as it hit the water. Might have been the sound of the water rushing past the cradles.

It seemed hard to care.

Mirian made a face as she swallowed a mouthful of blood, then blinked up at the sky, knowing she needed to sit up but not entirely certain why.

The thing she was lying on dipped suddenly sideways and she got an unexpected face full of icy water.

Boat!

She was in a boat, on the river, on her way to the border and the battle to tell Lord Hagen about the Mage-pack. And she’d lost the only way she had of controlling the boat’s progress. And her head hurt. Gingerly moving her jaw, she swallowed another mouthful of blood, unable to overcome society’s stricture against women spitting regardless of how unobserved she might currently be. The wave that had brought her back to herself had soaked the last dry bits of her clothes. Scrambling back up onto the low seat, Mirian noted how heavy even the finest wool got when wet and how unpleasant it felt against the skin.

With nothing to do but hope, she stayed afloat as the eastern half of Bercarit slid past and tried to make sense of what she’d seen that morning.

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.

He didn’t know what to do.

It wasn’t thunder in the distance. It so obviously wasn’t thunder, Mirian wondered how they could have ever convinced themselves it was. Each distant boom she could hear in the east shouted out death.

Clutching the left side of the boat, she stared at the shore and wondered if the reinforcements had been in time. Wondered if the Imperial army had been pushed back across the border or if they were even now pressing into Aydori. Wondered if fighting uphill in the woods put an army that marched in straight lines at enough of a disadvantage. Wondered if Imperial numbers would tell as they always had. Wondered if the fighting would come down to the river. Wondered what she’d do if it did.

Wondered how she’d find Lord Hagen in a battle.

In an extended lull in the shooting, she relaxed into the quiet and realized, after a moment, that it wasn’t as quiet as it had been. This new sound reminded her of a winter wind roaring through the trees in the park. But it wasn’t winter and the new leaves on the poplars along the shore were nearly still.

Shifting on the seat, Mirian stared past the front of the boat at the river. The banks rose, narrowed, and the river itself…She squinted, trying to force the distance closer.

The river itself disappeared.

The roaring grew louder, like a storm through the chimney pots.

Rivers didn’t just disappear. That was impossible. Therefore, there had to be a logical explanation. Lower lip caught between her teeth, Mirian glanced over at the shore, back at the river…

If the Imperial army had to fight its way uphill into Aydori, then in order to get to the border the river would have to flow downhill. And water didn’t so much flow downhill as fall.

She had a vague memory of her mother mentioning a recent social column and a report of Lord and Lady Berin picnicking at Border Falls with their household. The writer had gone on at length about how fast and dangerous the falls were in the spring.

The paper hadn’t mentioned exactly where Border Falls was.

Geography suggested Mirian had found it.

Without the oars, she had no way to steer the boat. The only thing she had any command over was herself. Moving quickly, before she could change her mind, Mirian stood, stepped up onto the seat, and launched herself into the river.

She surfaced closer to the shore than the boat, although that could have been because the boat was moving faster now without her in it. Wet wool wrapped around her legs as her skirt soaked up water. Stupid! You should have taken it off before you jumped! The water was so cold it drove the air from her lungs, and she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering. Her hands felt as though they were covered in a thin layer of grease. Not swimming as much as steering diagonally through the current, she kept her eyes locked on a muddy bit of riverbank and struggled to keep her head above water.

Just don’t panic and you’ll be fine.

She didn’t realize there were rocks close to the surface until her legs slammed into one. The impact spun her around, coughing and choking. A wave closed over her head. If not for her skirts, the water would have tumbled her end over end, but the weight kept her upright enough that when her legs hit another rock, she managed to push off and surface. A glimpse of quiet water between her and the shore, then she was under again.

The next rock she hit, she hit with the entire right side of her body. Before the river swept her away, she managed to get her arm around it, leg bent high, foot jammed into a crack. Pushing off with everything she had left, she rose up out of the water far enough to twist down over the rock into the quiet pool.

Cold and hurting, she thrashed her way to the shore and flopped out onto the mud.

Every movement disturbed the flies that covered the dead. Clouds of them rose from where they were feasting and laying eggs to swarm around his muzzle, trying to land in his mouth and on his eyes. Tomas shook his head to dislodge them and wished he could shake a thought back into it. Should he join the battle still going on, deep in the Aydori woods? Or should he join what was left of the Pack in Trouge and bring them—bring Danika—the news that Ryder was dead. She’d need to know. They’d all need to know. The Pack was leaderless now.

Tail clamped tight, he limped back and forth across the scar in the earth that still smelled of his brother, wishing someone would just appear and tell him what to do.

Because Ryder was dead and…

Ears up, he turned toward the river. He could hear voices; two men speaking Pyrahn. Pyrahn soldiers, having run from the duchy with the Imperials on their heels, had fought and died beside the Pack and the Aydori 1st. Maybe these men were wounded. Maybe he could help them. Maybe they’d know what he should do.

It wasn’t easy covering uneven terrain with one front leg unable to bear his full weight, but for the sake of doing something, of doing anything, he managed it. Moving toward the voices, he picked his way diagonally down the slope toward the river, going around obstacles he’d have jumped without thinking another time. At the water’s edge, he turned upstream. The men were no longer talking, but he thought he knew where they were. Or had been. He moved a little faster.

Rounding one of the many stumps created by artillery fire, he saw a pair of old men bent over a body, stripping it of its uniform. An Aydori uniform. The same green and brown Harry’d worn yesterday morning when he’d died standing between Pyrahn refugees and the Imperial army.

Not soldiers. Scavengers.

Tomas launched himself forward, forgetting the pain. He couldn’t stop the howl from ripping free. He was close enough the warning didn’t matter. The scavengers jerked away from the half-naked body, but before they could run, he crushed the scream in the throat of the man nearest the water, taking him down, tearing out mouthfuls of flesh. When he turned, blood dripping from his muzzle, the other man was running up toward the larger trees.

Stupid man. He had hands. He could climb after him.

No. The silver in the wound kept him from changing. He had to end the chase before his quarry reached a tree large enough to climb.

Leaping the body, Tomas stumbled and nearly fell as the impact of his paw with the ground shot lines of pain out from the impacted piece of silver. He switched back to three legs and kept going. Uphill was easier than down and rage lent him strength.

They reached the ridge together. Tomas lunged forward and closed his teeth on a mouthful of filthy fabric. This close, even over the blood still coating his muzzle, he could smell young man, not old and under that, something sharp, bitter…if hunger had scent…

A bare heel slammed into his bad shoulder.

Tumbling back down the slope, Tomas landed on his left side, pawed the cloth from his teeth, and, snarling, fought his way back onto his feet in time to see the surviving scavenger dive through a break in the trees and run deeper into Aydori. He had to be trying to get to the river above the rapids. It was the only way back to Pyrahn that didn’t go past Tomas.

Pushing himself past the pain, Tomas followed, holding tightly to a single coherent thought: Stop him.

A scrap of fabric caught on a branch.

Fresh blood in a footprint.

The only living scent in the woods, impossible to lose.

Snapping and growling as he shoved through the underbrush, Tomas emerged onto bare ground, looking down over the river. He could hear the roar/hiss of water dropping over a jumble of rock. Saw the scavenger fling himself from ledge to ledge then suddenly end his wild descent, realizing there was no safety here. If he tried to cross, the river would take him. White showed all around his eyes as he twisted and looked up.

Tomas had no intention of allowing the river to take his prey.

He could smell the fear.

Growling low in his throat, he gathered himself to…

Froze.

Another scent.

An almost familiar scent.

He straightened, lifting his head into the breeze.

Almost Pack.

Alive.

The scavenger no longer of any importance, Tomas turned and ran upstream. The scent came from above the rapids. He plunged back into the trees, the river on his left, following the slope of the ground as it dropped back toward the river. He staggered, bounced off a tree, kept going.

Up ahead, the underbrush grew thick again, marking the edge of another clearing. He slowed and dropped to his belly to crawl past the older wood, below the long thorns. The silver flashes of water he could glimpse to the left moved around until he could see them out in front as well. A creek? Spring runoff?

Gray where it shouldn’t be caught his attention and he crawled toward it.

She wasn’t dead. She didn’t smell dead. As he watched, she tried to move a little farther out of the water without much success.

About to rise and risk the thorns, a new scent froze him in place. Men. He lifted his head as high as he dared, nostrils flaring, forcing himself to smell something other than the warm, amazing scent of her. Three…no, four men, Imperial soldiers, moving fast.

Gold glittered in the air between the soldiers and the woman, too small and moving too fast for Tomas to identify it, but it smelled bitter and cold like old mage-craft. She flinched as it touched her and disappeared into the wet, tangled mess of her hair.

Three pairs of boots stopped just at the edge of his vision, bodies masked by half grown leaves. The fourth pair moved close enough he could see they belonged to an officer, a captain. From what Tomas could see of his face, he looked like a professional soldier. A man who’d do what he was ordered to do whether he liked it or not. As Tomas watched, he reached down, grabbed the woman’s arm, and hauled her up onto her feet.

Instinct fought with reason and reason won although, deep down, Tomas knew that had he not been wounded and exhausted, reason wouldn’t have stood a chance. He’d have charged out and gotten himself shot by the three men who, given their position, had to be holding muskets on their captive.

Whoever she was, they thought she was dangerous.

Well, they weren’t stupid because given the way she smelled, she was a high-level mage of some kind. He recognized the almost Pack scent now—Mage-pack. Potential Mage-pack anyway. She didn’t smell mated.

He watched as the captain efficiently bound her arms behind her. Watched as he half carried her over to where his men waited.

Whoever she was, she was the only thing that had smelled like Pack since Tomas had come back to consciousness facing the dead Imperial gunner.

At least he knew what he had to do now.

“So what now, Cap?”

Reiter stared down at the girl—woman, very young woman—and frowned. He could see the tangle glinting in the wet mess of her hair, more obvious than it had been on the others for all she had a lot more hair, but she hadn’t tried to escape with mage-craft, so he had to assume it was working. She looked annoyed, exhausted, and frightened in that order. He appreciated the lack of weeping and wailing. Actually, there’d been a distinct lack of weeping and wailing from all six women the Soothsayers had sent them after. Was it bravery or did they not understand what was happening to them?

“Cap?”

“We take her to Karis, as ordered.”

“Do we go back and join up with the lieutenant?” Armin wondered, and all three of them turned to look back, as though they could see the distance they’d covered.

Best snorted, bicorn in his hand, fingers scratching through damp hair. “He won’t be there, you dumb shit. We’re coming on late afternoon and he started moving when we left.”

“No one told you to lower your guard,” Reiter growled, pulling out his map.

“But, Cap, the tangle…”

“You want to bet your life on an artifact that’s been gathering dust in the treasury for a couple hundred years? Or on the Tower .625 caliber musket you’re holding?”

Chard swung his weapon back around to point at their captive. “Well, if you put it that way…”

“Armin. Best.”

“Yes, sir!” They snapped it out together, although Best’s musket rose noticeably faster. Seemed Armin didn’t much like holding a weapon on a helpless woman. Well, neither did Reiter, but what he did or didn’t like had no bearing on what he would or wouldn’t do. He had his orders. They all did.

“We’ll follow the river around to the ford, and cross into the Duchy of Pyrahn…” What had been the Duchy of Pyrahn and was now a part of the empire; or would be as soon as politics caught up to war. “…then we follow the border until we meet up with Lieutenant Geurin and the wagons.”

“Begging your pardon, Captain, but there’s no ford marked on that map and even if they didn’t blow the bridge, it’s still a good five miles out of our way.”

Reiter turned just far enough to meet Armin’s eyes. The soldier tried not to look like he’d been reading the map over his captain’s shoulder, gaze sliding sideways to lock attentively on their captive. “If the army’s crossed into Aydori…” Reiter paused so they could all hear the sound of distant gunfire. “…then there’s a ford.”

“Probably more than one,” Chard snorted. “Trust me, I’ve spent a stupid amount of time on dig the crap back out of the river duty ’cause that’s way too much actual work for engineers.” When Reiter turned to glare at him, he grinned. “And no one cares. Right. Shutting up now, sir.”

Not for the first time, Reiter wondered how Chard had managed to survive his few years in the army without losing the skin off his back. Insubordination was still a six-stroke offense, but even Geurin, the very definition of an officious prick, had put up with Chard’s mouth. Still, sometimes, his mouth was useful.

Their captive had been watching Chard through her lashes as he spoke; listening, not merely hearing.

“Everyone speaks a little Imperial, Captain. The language, like the empire, is…pervasive.”

Something to remember, although, here and now, he had nothing to say to the mage nor did he need to hear anything she had to say to him.

“Armin, you and Chard keep her on her feet and moving. Best, you’re on our six.” Of the three, Best had the most traditional view of the beastmen of Aydori and Best’s beliefs wouldn’t let him get complacent. The job wasn’t done until their captive was in Karis.

“You think if the lieutenant gets there first, he’ll leave us a wagon, Cap?” Before Reiter could speak, Chard sighed and answered his own question. “Yeah. Me, either.”

If her hands hadn’t been tied, Danika would have struggled until the two soldiers keeping her upright in the current lost their footing on the slick rock, sending the three of them into the river. She was a strong swimmer and her clothes were designed to be easily removed. The soldiers, on the other hand, weighted down by boots and weapons and packs would be at the mercy of the icy water, swept away, and drowned. Two less enemies of Aydori.

Were it not for the golden net suppressing her abilities, it wouldn’t matter that her hands were tied. She could take air into the water with her. Of course, if it were not for the golden net, they’d still be on the road to Trouge arguing that they should have kept one of the enemy alive to question. Jesine was a strong Healer, but not quite strong enough to question the dead.

But her hands were tied and she had access to only the most basic mage-craft, so to drown the enemy, she’d also drown herself and her unborn child. While that would still result in two less enemies of Aydori, she was a long way from the point where death seemed the only escape. Where there was life, there was hope. Where there was life, Ryder would find her.

From what she’d overheard, the artifacts restraining them were ancient and everyone knew time weakened even the strongest mage-craft. Danika tested the net’s control constantly, barely allowing the pain to fade before she tried again. From what she’d seen of their expressions, Stina and Jesine were doing the same. Annalyse looked so miserable her expression could have been hiding anything, and Kirstin had remained strangely quiet. But then, Kirstin hadn’t been herself for some days, although preparations for the war had kept Danika from inquiring. She’d thought to have plenty of time to speak to her on the road to Trouge.

In her defense, this was not something she could have anticipated. Soothsayers had a way of complicating the most basic of expectations.

Her own face as expressionless as she could make it, Danika remained passive in the grip of the enemy, walking between them because being dragged would accomplish nothing but leave her less able to fight when the time came.

“Sarge! These wet skirts weigh a fucking ton! Can we strip them down?” The shout came from behind, from one of the soldiers charged with keeping Jesine on her feet.

“You can stop bellyaching and put some effort in!” Sergeant Black called from the shore.

“Effort, he says,” muttered the soldier on her right as he half guided, half dragged Danika forward another step. “Didn’t see him crossing at the same pace as the prisoners. My balls have climbed so far up into my body they’re sitting on my shoulder.”

“Shut up, Murphy, you fool!” snapped the soldier on her left. “She can understand you.”

“What’s she going to do, Tagget? Tell the sergeant on me?” Murphy’s grip tightened and he shoved her down until the water that had been up to her chest slapped against her face. “You’re not going to say anything, are you, sweetheart?” he murmured as he pulled her upright again.

Coughing, Danika fought to get her feet back under her, helped by Tagget’s arm around her waist. When she could speak again, she turned her head to the left and nodded as graciously as her position allowed. “Thank you.” Murphy, she ignored.

Then there were hands reaching down from the bank, and she was hauled up and left to lie on dry ground while the others were pulled from the water. For the last few weeks, as her body adjusted to pregnancy, she’d been too hot, but now, in cold, wet clothing, her teeth started to chatter. A warm body rolled up against her back, and Jesine whispered, “I can still control my temperature. Maybe it’ll help.”

It didn’t make her less wet or less cold, but it did help.

“If there’s a breeze,” Danika told her, lips barely moving, “it carries sound both to and from, but I have no control.”

“Seems we’re first level again. Stina should force the rockweed into bloom.”

“What…”

“Allergies.” Jesine’s tone made it clear her teeth were showing. “Might as well make them as uncomfortable as possible until the Pack arrives.”

“Shut up!”

The wet wool of her skirts absorbed most of Murphy’s kick and, as it was Tagget who hauled her to her feet, Danika allowed herself to be hauled, teeth gritted against the growing pain in her shoulders.

“Come on, get up, you great bloody cow!”

The soldiers lifting Stina were handling her a lot less neutrally, grunting and cursing at her weight and grabbing both breasts and buttocks as they maneuvered her upright. When she jerked away, calling them names, it was probably just as well for her safety they didn’t understand. One of them reached inside her open jacket to pinch a nipple, visible through wet shirtwaist and chemise.

“You lay with beasts, don’cha? You should be grateful for a bit of human touching.”

“Enough.” The lieutenant sounded bored. “We haven’t time for that nonsense. Get them moving.” He peered westward, eyes slitted against the late afternoon sun. “This is taking too long. We’re following our own tracks out. We know exactly where we’re going. We should have been able to make it over the border and meet up with the wagons before dark.”

“We won’t be able to manage that, sir.”

“I know that, Sergeant! That’s why I said should.” He sighed, as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Fine. Then we need to reach the camp before dark.”

“The camp, sir?”

“The place where we camped on the way in, Sergeant. I want to leave as little indication of our passage as possible.”

“Sir, the beastmen track by scent. It doesn’t matter where we make camp for the night.”

“Then we make it where we…” The lieutenant frowned. “…where we made it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Danika bit her lip at the sergeant’s tone, fighting the rise of hysterical giggles.

Lieutenant Geurin turned his frown on her, as if he sensed her reaction. “The beastmen close enough to track us,” he said, his words meant for the sergeant but spoken to her, “are being dealt with by the Imperial army. If there are others, either beast or mage, they’re both too far away. Get them moving, Sergeant Black.”

“Yes, sir. You heard the lieutenant.” His voice was a nearly familiar growl. Danika bit her lip harder. “Keep them on their feet, keep them moving. And Kyne?”

“Sergeant?” The soldier who’d assaulted Stina now had one hand tucked up into her armpit, waiting for the man on the other side to take his place.

“Keep your hands to yourself.”

“Ah, she doesn’t mind, Sarge. Do you?” As he leaned in, Stina reared back and slammed her forehead down onto his nose.

The next thing Danika knew, Stina was on the ground and Kyne had both hands clamped to his face, blood seeping out past his palms, his profanity varied and extensive. Murphy shoved her toward Tagget and charged forward, raising his musket to strike Stina with the butt. Danika stretched out a foot and tripped him. As he hit the ground, she saw Kyne put his boot to Stina’s hip, saw the marksman Hare prevent him from taking a second kick, saw muskets coming up…

“Enough!” Sergeant Black grabbed Kyne’s arm and threw him away from Hare, now standing over Stina. “You deserved that hit for letting her past your guard.”

“She took me by surprise!”

“And I’m sure that’s an excuse the Record Keeper is tired of hearing from the newly dead. Corporal Carlsan, take Kyne’s place. Kyne, you’re behind the redhead.”

“But…”

Danika couldn’t see the sergeant’s expression, but it shut Kyne up.

“Ma’am…”

The lieutenant’s frown deepened at the honorific, but Danika gave the sergeant the attention an Alpha deserved.

“…tell the women not to try anything like that again. We will knock you out and drag you if it comes to it.”

She met his gaze levelly for a moment, then nodded. “Nicely done, Stina,” she said in Aydori. “But the sergeant says that if anyone tries something similar, they’ll be knocked out and dragged. As I doubt it will slow them any more than if we’re stumbling along conscious, and as we can’t do enough damage to free ourselves, and as I’d rather none of us were irreparably damaged, passive resistance only for now.”

“You’ll tell us when we can be a little more active, Alpha?” Stina showed teeth. The Mage-pack inevitably picked up their spouses’ expressions.

Danika returned her smile. “I will.”

Head pounding, shoulders burning, Mirian collapsed to the ground the moment the two soldiers released her. The one named Chard looked a little surprised and bent to touch her cheek.

“You hurt?”

“Why are you shouting?” the other one, Armin, asked him.

Chard glanced up and shrugged. “She went down like a one-bit whore, I thought she was hurt.”

“But why,” Armin sighed, “were you shouting?”

“In case she doesn’t speak Imperial.”

“She speaks Imperial.”

Chard moved away as the officer, Captain Reiter, came to stand over her. Mirian didn’t look up. She wasn’t entirely certain she could; her head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

“How do you know, Cap? She hasn’t said nothing.”

“She’s been listening too intently for someone who doesn’t understand what’s being said.”

Mirian heard Chard and Armin move away and the captain move closer. She couldn’t stop herself from crying out as he cupped her jaw and lifted her head.

“I’m not hurting you, I…”

Blinking away tears, she gritted her teeth as he tilted her head to better see the bruising under her chin.

“Chard.”

“It wasn’t while we had her, Cap. Must’ve happened in the river.”

“If I find out…”

“It happened in the river.” Chard hadn’t exactly been kind, and he’d had his hand on her bottom as often as the terrain made the excuse plausible, but he hadn’t needed to wait for an excuse and he hadn’t been cruel and he hadn’t looked at her like Best had. Like she was something he’d found on his shoe in the gutter. When the captain frowned, she added, “The current pulled the oar from my hand and it hit me.”

“You speak Imperial very well.”

“My father is a banker.” She paused to wet dry lips. “He says money doesn’t stop at borders.”

He was studying her face, so she studied his. Late twenties, maybe early thirties—he had the look of a life lived hard. Pock marks on one cheek and the thin white line of an old scar through an eyebrow and across his temple—old enough he must’ve been a boy when he got it. His eyes were a sort of mix of blue and gray and his hair a sort of mix of blond and brown. Not mixed the way Pack hair was mixed but lighter where it had been longer in the sun. His face was narrow with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, his stubble darker and redder than his hair. There was a newer scar just visible above the collar of his uniform. His eyelashes were absurdly long and thick and his lower lip had a sort of dimple in the middle of it.

Objectively, he wasn’t unattractive.

Except that he was an enemy who’d taken her captive along with five members of the Mage-pack, killed at least one coachman and two Pack, and it was impossible for her to be objective regarding him. Given a chance, she’d push him off a cliff and laugh as he hit the ground. Well, maybe not laugh, but she’d definitely see it as justice served.

“You saw us take the others on the road,” he said at last. “So you know this has nothing to do with you personally.”

A part of her wanted to tell him that he’d made a mistake, that she wasn’t the mage he’d been searching for. A larger part of her realized that he’d have no reason to leave her alive if he knew his mistake. A very small part looked forward to the amount of trouble the captain was going to be in if he showed up with her instead of a sixth member of the Mage-pack. Her lip dragged as she bared her teeth. “And yet, I’m taking it personally. Funny that.”

Chard snickered.

“Chard, get wood for a fire. A small one. We don’t want to attract attention. Are you thirsty?”

It took Mirian a moment to realize the last question had been directed at her. Pride warred with thirst and, finally, she nodded.

“Armin. Tie her hands around this tree and leave her with a canteen. You’ll eat what we eat later,” he added.

She whimpered as Armin pulled her arms out in front of her body, unable to move them herself. When the captain turned away, a muscle jumping in his jaw, she whimpered again. She wouldn’t be her mother’s daughter if she didn’t know how to use guilt as a weapon.

The water was warm and tasted of the inside of the canteen. It was awkward drinking it around the sapling, but it was still the best water she’d ever tasted.

By the time the soldiers had the fire going, it was full dark. Heavy cloud covered the moon, so even had the captain wanted to keep going, they couldn’t. From the way he kept glancing up at the sky, then back the way they’d come, Mirian suspected he wanted to. Smart man. The Pack Leader couldn’t cross the border, but Jaspyr Hagen could, and once he got her scent he’d be able to follow her to the ends of…

“Captain.” Best had his musket in his hand. “There’s something out there.”

All four of them froze and over the crackling of the fire and the beating of her own heart, Mirian could hear a crashing through the underbrush, a yelp of pain, more crashing, and a big black dog limped into the circle of light on three legs, the broken end of a rope trailing from around his neck. When it…no, when he saw the men, he dropped to his belly and crept forward, tail sweeping the ground.

The gunshot nearly stopped her heart, and she shrieked.

Branches broke. The dog yelped and ran.

Over by the fire, Chard held the end of Best’s musket and glared at him. “It’s a dog, you stupid prick! It had a rope around its neck. Probably some farm dog abandoned when the army rolled past. It broke free and it’s frightened and it came to the fire to find people and you tried to shoot it!”

Best yanked his weapon free. “It could’ve been one of the beastmen!”

“We’re in Pyrahn, and it had a rope around its neck!”

“I didn’t see the fucking rope!”

“I did!”

“You wouldn’t know the difference between a beastman and a dog if it licked your ass!”

Breath coming shallow and fast, Mirian fought with the confining weight of her skirts to put the sapling between herself and the soldiers. The captain turned toward her, noted her reaction to the gunshot, nodded, and turned away. He wouldn’t ask, he’d assume she’d lie, but he thought he could read the truth in her reaction.

“Sit down. Both of you.”

“Captain…”

“It had a rope around its neck, Best.”

“Sir, the size…”

“This close to the Aydori border, I expect large dogs are the rule.”

“You think the beastmen bred with…”

The captain raised a hand. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“No, sir. Me, either,” Best agreed, smirking.

Food kept them quiet. Mirian was nodding off, stretched out by the tree, her head against her arm, when she heard Chard murmur, “Who’s a good dog, then? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Come on, I won’t hurt you.”

The dog was a shadow against the ground, creeping forward toward Chard’s outstretched hand. His eyes locked on the Imperial soldier, he stretched out his neck and took the dried meat from Chard’s fingers. The next thing Mirian knew, he was on his back, three feet in the air, dark lines against the firelight, with Chard rubbing his belly.

“Who’s a good boy, eh? Who’s a good…” He paused when the dog yelped, bending forward. “He’s been shot, Cap. Wound’s up high on his shoulder. Feels like there might still be something there.”

“Leave it.”

Chard paused, his knife already in his hand. “But, Cap…”

“It’s a black dog on a dark night; you try to clear the wound by firelight and you’ll end up cutting off his leg. You can do it at dawn before you send him on his way.”

“But, Cap…”

“You’re not keeping him.”

Mirian laid her head back down again and closed her eyes. She’d need her strength later. She was dreaming about the opera, Captain Reiter singing the tenor role, when a cold nose stuffed into her ear woke her. Best snickered as she jerked and squeaked.

The big black dog stared at her from no more than a handspan away. Beyond him, Best kept watch by the fire while the others slept.

“Scram.”

The dog cocked his head. One of the soldiers, probably Chard, had removed the rope.

“Go away!”

Tail wagging, he sniffed her vigorously then stretched out, his back against her stomach, his head curled around on his front paws.

“I don’t want you here, you stupid dog!”

“You sleep with beasts,” Best sneered. “Maybe he thinks he’ll get lucky. If you let him fuck you, keep it down.”

Then he turned his back, as though she wasn’t worth his attention.

With the warmth rising up off the younger Lord Hagen, relaxing muscles pummeled first by the river and then by the forced march into Pyrahn, Mirian wondered if, after the war was over, she might have a career as an actress.