The Sentinel Mage (48 page)

She nodded.

“How unusual.” He studied the prince, now halted in the middle of the riverbed. “I’ve only ever heard of it happening between healers who share a strong bond.”

“A strong bond?”

“They’re usually lovers.”

Innis felt herself flush. She remembered the prince’s hands sliding over her skin, remembered the taste of his mouth as he kissed her. “I have no bond with him. He hates us.”

“Hate us, he might. But he’s one of us. He’s a fire mage—and a healer, if he’s sharing dreams with you.” Dareus glanced sideways at her. “Did you dream last night?”

She nodded.

“What did it tell you?”

Innis looked at Prince Harkeld, at his dark close-cropped hair, at his stubbled face, his grim profile. “He’s terrified.”

M
ID-AFTERNOON THE CANYON
swung north. Gerit was waiting for them. Behind him, an outcrop of sandstone sat squarely in the middle of the canyon, broad and squat. Petrus, loping ahead of them in wolf form, reached Gerit first. He sat down on the sand, stretched his jaws wide in a yawn, and began to scratch vigorously beneath his chin. Innis repressed the urge to scratch her own chin. Justen’s whiskers were itchy, uncomfortable.

“It looks like a giant cowpat,” one of the soldiers said, as they reined in.

Gerit ignored the comment. “This is the best defensive position I can find,” he told Dareus.

“It’s too low,” Tomas protested.

“There’s nothing higher until we reach the end of the canyon.”

Petrus stopped scratching. He shifted from wolf to man and studied the outcrop, unselfconscious in his nudity. “If we ring it with fire—”

“We don’t have enough wood,” Tomas said.

“Corpses, then. We pile them up and set them alight. That way, anything that gets past the oliphants burns.”

There was a moment of silence. Tomas looked at Dareus. “Could it work?”

Dareus nodded. “Yes.”

T
HEY TOILED FOR
the better part of an hour, dragging corpses from their tombs, hauling them to the outcrop, stacking them, while Ebril circled overhead, keeping watch. “That should be enough,” Prince Tomas said, panting.

Petrus stood back, wiping sweat from his face. His hands smelled of tombs, of dust and crumbling bones and skin so old it had turned to brittle leather. The scent seemed to waft from his clothes, to trickle down from his hair.

“Let’s rest. We’ve a few hours before nightfall,” Dareus said. “Gerit, Petrus, stay behind. I need to speak with you.” He caught Justen’s eye, and then lifted his arm to beckon Ebril down.

Petrus lowered himself to sit on the sand. He rubbed his face and yawned as the soldiers and the princes and Justen clambered up onto the outcrop. Ebril glided down to land.

Half a minute later, Innis returned. She crouched. “I can’t stay long. He thinks I’m peeing.”

“Change with Petrus,” Dareus said.

She began to strip off Justen’s clothes.

“Tonight we’ll start with three oliphants, thin their numbers, then drop back to two.”

Petrus listened as he undressed. He took the trews Innis tossed him—smelling of sweat and soot and corpses—and pulled them on.

“Innis, you’ll be shifted all night,” Dareus said. “Gerit and Ebril will do as much as they can.”

Petrus paused in the act of buttoning Justen’s shirt. “What about me?”

“You’ll be Justen all night.”

“But—”

“The outcrop will be brightly lit. No cover. You won’t be able to swap with anyone.”

Petrus pulled the shirt off again. “Then let Ebril be Justen. Or Gerit.”

“You’ve been a wolf most of the day,” Dareus said, a note of impatience in his voice. “Running. You need to rest.”

“I want to fight.”

“It’s not a sinecure,” Dareus said sharply. “If the corpses break through, you’ll have to keep the prince alive.”

“You think it could be that bad?” Ebril asked.

“They’ll be coming at us from all sides,” Dareus said. “If we can’t hold them off, then yes, it will be that bad.”

Silence followed these words. Petrus looked down at the shirt in his hand. Slowly, he began to put it on again.

Gerit surveyed the outcrop, the corpses piled high. “Do you have the strength to keep them burning all night?” he asked Dareus.

“We’ll have to.”

“Get the prince to help you. He’s a fire mage. A strong one, by the look of it.”

Innis looked up, a frown furrowing her brow.

“No,” Dareus said.

“But—”

“He hasn’t the faintest idea how to use his magic,” Dareus said.

Gerit scowled, and spat into the sand.

P
ETRUS SLEPT ALONGSIDE
the prince, awakening as the afternoon slid towards evening.

They ate silently, quickly, and readied their weapons.

As the sky began to darken, Cora set the ring of corpses alight. The bodies burned, crackling and hissing, flames leaping high.

Petrus tested the edge of Justen’s Grooten sword with his thumb and watched as Innis unbuttoned her shirt and kicked off her boots. He understood how Prince Harkeld felt.
I want to fight, too.

Innis shifted into an owl, settled her feathers with a brisk shake of her wings, and swept up into the air, leaving her clothes puddled on the ground. He followed her with his eyes: gliding over the soldiers’ heads, over the ring of leaping flames.

“Justen.”

He turned his head.

Dareus beckoned.

Petrus slid the sword back into its scabbard and walked across to him.

“Stay with Prince Harkeld,” Dareus said loudly. “Remember: your role is to protect him, not join in the battle.” He lowered his voice. “If the worst happens, shift into an oliphant and take him on your back. Get out of here.”

Petrus nodded.

Beyond the burning pyres, oliphants paced the sand. His eyes followed them.

“If you have to deal with the assassins on your own—”

“It won’t come to that, sir.”

An oliphant bellowed. The sound echoed, reverberating off the cliffs.

Dareus drew in a deep breath. “Here come the corpses.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

T
WO DAYS AFTER
the border closed, another squadron was expelled from Lundegaard. The officer commanding the squadron arrived at the palace late in the evening, bearing a message from King Magnas of Lundegaard: any further Osgaardan soldiers found within Lundegaard’s borders would be sentenced to death.

“Screamed with rage when he heard it,” one of the king’s armsmen said, in the mess hall that night.

“Sounded like a stuck pig,” another armsman said, through a mouthful of food. “I just about wet myself.”

Karel listened to the laughter, chewing slowly.

“Then what?” someone asked.

“He threw a vase at the officer. Smashed into a thousand pieces. And then he sent for Duke Rikard.”

“What happened then?”

Karel looked up to hear the answer.

The man shrugged. “Bell tolled midnight. We’ll find out tomorrow.”

The armsman alongside him grunted and speared a piece of mutton on his fork. “I wouldn’t want to be Duke Rikard, right now.”

“Me neither.”

Karel’s hands clenched around his knife and fork. He wanted to push to his feet, to belt on his sword again and hurry to the princess’s side. He couldn’t. It was past midnight; one of the duke’s armsmen had the duty of guarding her now.

He looked down at his plate. There was nothing he could do but wait.

CHAPTER SIXTY

T
HE BATTLE BEGAN
well. The oliphants crushed most of the corpses before they reached the flaming pyres. Those that reached the fires burned, their hair and skin shriveling alight, their bones snapping and cracking.

As the hours passed, Gerit and Ebril took turns resting, and more corpses reached the blazing fires. The soldiers stood facing outwards, their swords drawn, the firelight playing across their faces, but no corpses came within reach of their blades; Cora and Dareus kept the flames roaring high.

Things began to change as night dragged towards dawn. At first it was nothing to worry about: a corpse broke through where the fire had momentarily dropped to a low smolder, but soldiers hacked with their swords, cutting off its arms, its head, and the body fell backwards and Cora was suddenly there, coaxing the flames up again.

Half an hour later it happened a second time. Then a third time. And each time it seemed to take more effort for the fire mages to raise the flames again. Cora and Dareus were pale, sweating. Each burst of fire took visible effort.

Petrus looked up at the sky. It was still pitch black, but dawn couldn’t be far off.
All-Mother, send us the sun, please.

The press of corpses beyond the flames grew greater. There were hundreds of them, pushing forward, smothering the fires with the weight of their bodies.

Petrus turned to where Gerit rested on his knees. The mage was half-clothed, a sword gripped in his hand. “They need another oliphant!”

“I can’t,” Gerit said, panting. “I can’t shift again.” He lurched to his feet, using his sword for balance, and grabbed Prince Harkeld’s arm. “You have fire magic. Use it!”

The prince wrenched free, shoving Gerit away.

Behind them, someone shouted in a voice high with fear. Petrus spun around.

A section of the fire was dead. Corpses surged across it.

Soldiers converged on the spot, slashing with their swords, hacking. One man stumbled as a desiccated hand gripped his ankle. More of the creatures reached for him, groping blindly. The soldier disappeared into the crowd of corpses. His scream ended abruptly.

Prince Harkeld pushed past Petrus, his sword drawn.

“No!” Petrus grabbed his arm and hauled him back.

The prince rounded on him, his teeth showing in a snarl. “Release me, armsman!”

“No.” Petrus tightened his grip. “I have my orders, sire.”

Behind the prince, more corpses surged across the extinguished section of the fire. Dareus stood with the soldiers, a grimace on his face, small flames sputtering at the ends of his fingers.

Prince Harkeld cuffed Petrus across the face. “Armsman! Release me!”

Dareus swayed and fell to his knees. Gnarled hands reached for him. A blink of an eye, and he was gone, hauled into the seething mass of corpses.

Petrus released the prince, shoving him back. He drew his sword, running. “Dareus!”

He launched himself at the corpses, chopping with his sword. Arms as brittle as dry sticks wrapped around him. His sword was wrenched from his grasp. Petrus fought desperately, kicking, punching, biting. His hair was being ripped from his scalp, his throat crushed, the breath squeezed from his body.
Shift!
a voice screamed in his mind. He grabbed his magic—