Shield of Winter Read online

  At the thought of the young princess, Quinn’s heart beat quicker, and he headed down the nearest stairway from the ramparts. It was still early, and they had been up late into the night. Perhaps she was still asleep, her naked body draped in the silken sheets…

  “Quinn!”

  Quinn started as a voice shouted out from the ramparts above him. He was surprised to find Krista there, her eyes aflame with anger as she started down towards him. He watched her come, his arms folded and face expressionless.

  “What is it, Krista?” he asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. He did not appreciate the delay.

  “I hear Alana has…returned,” she replied, stopping on the step above him. “Is it true?”

  Unable to keep the smile from his face, Quinn nodded. “The Tsar helped restore her memories. The true Alana is back with us.”

  “How very exciting for you,” Krista said, her voice like acid. “but where does that leave me?”

  Quinn raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “The young Magickers. What is the Tsar’s plan for them?” Krista asked, then continued before Quinn had a chance to respond. “Because I won’t stand by and let her take them from me!”

  Despite her best efforts, fear lurked behind Krista’s eyes. He could well understand it. Alana’s return put her position at risk. As the Tsar’s daughter, Alana was used to getting what she wanted—or taking it by force, if necessary.

  But Alana had made no mention of the young Magickers or Krista the night before. He doubted she would be interested in such trivial matters while her brother was still missing.

  “Alana has other things to occupy her right now,” he replied gently. Then his face hardened, and stepping up beside her, he gripped her hard by the wrists. “But you should not be concerning yourself with the mind of the Tsar’s daughter, Krista. You should be with your charges.”

  To his surprise, Krista sneered. “From what I hear, you should take your own advice, Quinn.”

  Anger flared in Quinn’s chest at her words, and tightening his grip on her wrist, he pushed her backwards. They were still halfway up the steps to the ramparts, some twenty feet above the ground. The colour drained from Krista’s face as she stumbled, her feet slipping on the edge of the stone stairs. Quinn felt a warm sense of satisfaction as he held her there, suspended over the edge. With a sharp tug, he pulled her back and sent her sprawling against the wall.

  “I suggest you return to your charges, Krista,” he growled. “Before I am forced to report your negligence to the Tsar.”

  Krista climbed slowly to her feet, her eyes glittering with rage. The soft crackle of lightning came from her fingers, but he only grinned, and after a long moment the energies died away.

  “I won’t let her take them from me,” she said, her voice hoarse. “The Tsar praises strength. If she tries to interfere, I’ll show her just how strong I am.”

  Quinn smirked. “Do as you will, teacher,” he replied. “The Tsar will judge you in the end.”

  With that he turned and continued his way down the stairwell, leaving Krista to her impotent anger.

  Chapter 16

  Devon woke to the rhythmic thump of horse hooves beneath him. His head throbbed with every step, and his mouth tasted of dust and vomit. Groaning, he tried to sit up, and found his hands had been tied to the saddle horn. Cracking open his eyes, he stifled a scream as light sliced through his skull.

  “Ah, the cowardly hero awakes at last!”

  Devon swayed in the saddle as he looked around for the speaker. A woman rode alongside him, her black cloak and pants marking her as a Stalker. The gold diamond-shaped brooch of a captain shone from her breast as she smiled sweetly at him. She patted the haft of his hammer, which she had lying across her lap.

  “Thanks for the trophy. I’ll be the envy of every regiment with this hanging from my mantle!” She threw back her head and laughed. “Hell, I can’t wait to see the look on Quinn’s face when I ride through the gates of Ardath with you in tow.”

  The stars dancing across Devon’s eyes were fading now, and staring at the woman, he struggled to place her. She was young, probably no older than twenty-three years, but she carried about herself an arrogance he’d come to expect from the Tsar’s Stalkers. Her auburn hair was tied back in a long ponytail, and her copper eyes watched him like a hawk, as though she still expected him to resist. Prominent cheekbones and a tanned complexion suggested she came from southern Plorsea, though she spoke with the sharp accent of someone raised in Ardath.

  It took a long time for Devon’s sluggish mind to realise he didn’t recognise her. That was not surprising—while most of the Stalkers had been promoted up from those who’d campaigned in Trola, the army had numbered in the thousands—there was no way Devon could have known them all. Transferring his gaze to the rest of their company, he found Kellian on the horse behind him, still slumped unconscious in his saddle. There was no sign of Betran, but further back Godrin and his men were riding at the rear of the column.

  Anger clenched around his stomach as he stared at the crime lord. He scowled at the woman riding beside him. “And to whom do I have the pleasure?”

  “Captain Darnell, at your service,” the woman replied.

  His head still pounding, Devon forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, missy,” he murmured, “but I doubt you’ll earn much respect for arresting an unconscious man. Why don’t you hand me back my hammer, and we’ll see how well you really fight?”

  Darnell grinned. “And I suppose you expect to be set free should you triumph?”

  “Only seems fair,” Devon grunted.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” She pointed a finger at Devon’s chest. Around him the temperature plummeted as though a bucket of ice water had been thrown over him. His teeth began to chatter as she went on. “And if you try anything, I’ll turn you into an icicle.”

  His hands tied to the saddle horn, all Devon could do was grit his teeth and nod. After a long moment, the woman clicked her fingers, and the cold vanished, the warmth of the morning sun returning. Chuckling to herself, Darnell heeled her horse forward. As she moved away, the thump of hooves came from behind Devon. He narrowed his eyes as Godrin rode up beside him.

  “So much for bringing war to the Plorseans,” he growled.

  “It’s a complex business, politics,” Godrin replied genially. “I considered your plan, Devon, truly I did. But this is the only way Trola survives—by proving our loyalty to the Tsar, and living to fight another day.”

  Devon studied the man, searching for some hint of remorse, but there was no telling what lay behind his hard eyes. “What drivel,” he said at last. “I know your kind. Always looking out for yourself, willing to sink to any level, so long as you get to live. I should have known better that to trust a general who would abandon his people in their time of need.”

  Godrin’s face darkened. “I saw a chance to save my people.”

  “You saw a chance to save your own skin,” Devon spat.

  “And what of you, Devon?” Godrin growled. “You sit there talking of honour, but you never had any intention of liberating my people. You only wanted to rescue your precious friend. For that you expected me to set aside my enmity, to ignore the crimes you committed against Trola? Make no mistake, friend, you are the enemy. When I return to Trola, my people will celebrate your death.”

  “If that were true, why did you not kill us back in Kalgan? You could have made a display of it, followed in the Tsar’s footsteps, and staged a public execution.”

  “Ay, but then word would have gotten back to Enala and the Queen.” He shrugged. “As I said, politics are complicated. Northland and its agents are a growing power. I could not afford to alienate them. And besides, death is too good for you, Devon. I want to see you humbled, for you to watch as everything you’ve ever loved is destroyed.”

  Tasting blood in his mouth, Devon spat on the roadside. “You are a little man,” he said. “With such little
ambitions.”

  Godrin’s eyes flashed. “I hope the Tsar brings out this girl of yours and kills her in front of you.”

  Devon shook his head. “And what has this revenge cost you? What happened to Betran? Did your betrayal require his death, too?”

  “Fool though he is, I have no grudge against him,” Godrin replied, suddenly unable to meet Devon’s eyes. “We left him unconscious by the fire. It was all I could do for him. No doubt he’ll find his way home, and be the safer for it.”

  “Glad to see hatred hasn’t entirely blinded you to reason.” Kellian’s voice came from behind them. Devon’s friend was sitting up now, a purple lump the size of an egg swelling on his forehead. Swaying in his saddle, he frowned at Devon, his eyes still slightly unfocused. “You know, I hate to say it…” he began.

  “Then don’t,” Devon growled, his head still pounding.

  Kellian scratched his chin, turning to Godrin. “So what’s the plan now, Trolan? Hand us over to the Tsar and claim the reward—then what? You think your little deception will keep Enala from learning of this?”

  “The woman isn’t all-knowing,” Godrin shot back.

  “Might be she’s not.” Kellian nodded, then gestured at the men riding around them. There were almost twenty black-cloaked Stalkers, plus Godrin’s men. “But with all these eyes, she’ll hardly have to be all-knowing to find out your role in this.”

  Around them several of the Stalkers chuckled. Godrin narrowed his eyes. “You talk too much, little man.”

  Before Kellian could react, the Trolan’s fist swept up and struck him hard in the face. With his hands bound, Kellian had no way to defend himself, and he reeled back. Only his bindings kept him from falling to the rocky ground.

  Godrin raised his hand to strike Kellian again, but Devon dug his heels into the side of his mount. The horse was well-trained, and it surged forward, bringing him alongside Godrin. As the two horses came together, Godrin’s mount flinched away, jostling Godrin. As the man wavered, Devon drove his shoulder forward, catching the Trolan in the small of his back and flinging him from the saddle.

  The sharp thud of metal and flesh striking the ground echoed through the pass. Around them the Stalkers drew rein, bringing the party to a stop, as on the ground Godrin coughed and groaned, struggling to his feet. He looked up and caught Devon’s eye. Snarling, he reached for his sword.

  Devon laughed down at him. “Come on then, sonny! Come cut me down, show me how much of a man you are!”

  For a moment he thought the Trolan would do it. Godrin stood trembling on the trail, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his blade’s hilt. Then a Stalker pushed his horse between them. “Something the matter, Trolan?” he asked gruffly.

  A strained silence followed as Godrin turned his hate-filled eyes on the Stalker, before he finally shook his head. “No problem, sir,” he said, spitting the last word. He climbed back into his saddle and kicked the horse hard, sending it cantering to the head of the party.

  “You know, I’m liking your plan less and less,” Kellian commented.

  Devon glanced at his friend. His cheek was already beginning to turn purple. Devon’s heart sank, his mind turning over as he sought a way out. With a feeling of dread, he realised they had already reached the top of the pass and were descending into Plorsea. Time was running out. Around them the mountains were quickly giving way, the cliffs widening out into the plateaus of western Plorsea. The river still flowed away to their right, but its waters had now split into several channels separated by gravel banks. Ahead, the land still sloped upwards, but the incline was gentle, barren rock turning to open grassland.

  “Least we’re still heading in the right direction,” Devon grunted.

  Kellian chuckled dryly. “Ay. Our enemies are no doubt quaking in their boots.” He paused, his eyes flicking back the way from which they’d come. “Do you think they really left Betran alive?”

  “I can’t see why not,” Devon replied noncommittedly.

  “Good…I liked the man,” Kellian said. “Would have been a shame if our folly had left his son an orphan.”

  Devon nodded. “Ay, I have enough Trolan lives on my conscience.”

  “How about you stop worrying about the past, and start thinking of a plan that’ll get us out of this, old boy?”

  “I thought you didn’t like my plans.”

  “True,” Kellian mused. “Well, I suggest we wait to make our move until the citadel. Since, well, for now we’re going in the right direction.” He nodded to the way ahead.

  Devon groaned as he saw they’d topped a rise, revealing the land for miles around. The river wound away from them, its channels merging and deepening until a single waterway threaded its way past the buildings of a settlement. The plain grey walls and slate roofs gave it an ugly look, of a place that did not quite belong; but then, Onslow was not known for its beauty. The town sat on the trade route between Trola and Plorsea, at the furthest navigable point of the Brunei river before it entered the mountains.

  The docks were almost as large as the settlement itself, though there were only a few ships at berth. Times had been hard for the little town since the fall of Trola, and few traders would bother to risk a shipment to the impoverished nation in the middle of winter. At the end of the docks, a ship sat at anchor sporting the jet-black sails of war.

  “At least they were kind enough to send us a welcome party,” Kellian said.

  Chapter 17

  Alana strode across the soft grass, her eyes fixed on the trees ahead. The distant laughter of children called her on, drawing her through the ever-blooming roses, through archways and along mosaic paths. Finally, she glimpsed movement through a low-lying hedge, and angled herself towards it.

  As she walked, her mind drifted back to the night before, and the long hours spent in Quinn’s embrace. His lovemaking had been clumsy and rushed, his hands trembling as he held her. But she had enjoyed his wild, animalistic grunts, the rush of heat through her stomach, his power as she straddled him.

  More than anything, Alana had savoured the screams echoing from deep within her mind, the revulsion rising up from that other part of herself. The crumbling of the girl’s hope had been ecstasy.

  Yet afterwards, there had only been a hollow emptiness in her stomach, a feeling of dissatisfaction she couldn’t quite explain. Even as she lay in Quinn’s embrace, Alana had felt strangely alone. When he’d risen early in the morning, she had pretended she was asleep, and he had left without a word. Only with him gone did the strange emotions dissipate. A short while later she had risen, determined to reclaim her old life, to restore her purpose in the world.

  Now, walking through the gardens, she paused to watch the scene before her. Children were running freely across the lawns, broad smiles on their faces, their voices raised in joy. Only a few were sitting on the nearby benches, their eyes closed in concentration. She could sense the slight flickering of their magic from where she stood, weak and untamed. None were practicing with sword or bow.

  Anger touched her as she watched the woman responsible for the chaos. The teacher Krista sat with two children on the benches, her watchful gaze on the children at play. She wasn’t even attempting to direct those dedicated enough to be practising their magic.

  Alana shook her head, disgust rising like bile in her throat. How would these students ever grow to serve the Tsar, to master their magic, when their teacher did not even care enough to prepare them?

  Clenching her fists, she marched towards them. With her eyes on the children, Krista did not notice her approach until the last second. She was smiling as she turned, but the joy fell from her face as she saw her rival.

  “Alana.” The woman stood, her stance widening as if to brace herself. “I heard you were well.”

  “I am,” Alana replied. She stepped past Krista and looked out at the children. “You may go now.”

  A stunned silence followed. Then a hand gripped Alana’s shoulder and spun her around.

&n
bsp; “What?” Krista snapped.

  “I said you may go,” Alana said, staring at the woman. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

  Krista tensed, her teeth showing as her lips drew back into a snarl. “I’m not going anywhere,” she hissed. “I was given this appointment by the Tsar himself, when you…fled. You can’t just waltz back in here and–”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Alana interrupted. “I’m sure my father thought it was a good idea at the time, appointing you.” Her lips twisted in a cold smile. “But I’m back now. Your services are no longer required. In fact, I’d say they never were, looking at the damage you’ve done here.”

  A soft crackling drew Alana’s gaze to Krista’s hands. Blue lightning flickered between her fingers as the woman clenched her fists. “I said, I’m not going anywhere,” Krista growled through clenched teeth.

  Alana raised an eyebrow. “You would strike down the Tsar’s daughter?”

  “I will do what is necessary,” Krista hissed. “I won’t let you terrorise these children any longer.”

  Throwing back her head, Alana let her laughter roll across the gardens. The children nearby turned to stare, their eyes widening at the sight of the lightning dancing across their teacher’s fingers. Alana allowed the smile to fall from her face.

  “Your kindness will destroy them,” she said. “You have allowed them to become soft. Now where will they be when it comes time for their exams?”

  “I don’t take orders from you, girl,” Krista shot back. She lifted a hand and pointed it at Alana’s chest. Lighting hissed along her skin without leaving so much as a mark. “Now go, before I make you.”

  Alana sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Very well.”

  As she turned away, she glimpsed the surprise in Krista’s face. She paused, watching the tension drain from the woman, the lightning beginning to die. Instantly she spun back, her hand snapping out to catch the woman. Krista’s eyes widened, the colour fleeing her face. She opened her mouth, a single word slipping out.