Queenmaker

by

Christopher G. Nuttall

Book 3 of the Stuck in Magic series

Cover by Lydia Kurnia and Worlds Beyond Art

Edited by Barb Caffrey

Queenmaker copyright 2023 © Christopher G. Nuttall

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Published in Australia by Henchman Press

Prologue

It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.  It was a piece of shameless plagiarism ...

But I like to think Charles Dickens would have approved.

My name is Elliot Richardson, US Army.  I came home from base one night to discover my wife, Cleo, in bed with the neighbour.  The ensuring shouting match ended poorly, with me driving away into the unknown.  I didn’t know where I was going, nor did I really care.  I just wanted to get as far away from her, and the ruins of my former life, as I could.

I got my wish, in the strangest way possible.  The world lit up so brightly I thought the country had been nuked.  Instead, my car crashed through a gap in the fabric of reality and crashed in a ditch in broad daylight.  The interstate was gone.  Instead, I was on a road in the middle of nowhere.  It wasn’t until I encountered the Diddakoi Travellers that I realised I hadn’t fallen through space and time, but right outside existence as I knew it.  You see, they had magic.  You will, perhaps, understand my shock. Magic was real. 

The Diddakoi let me stay with them long enough to get my bearings and, with the aid of magic, start learning the local language.  It was an interesting time, although so different from my past life that I found it hard to adapt.  My new world was very strange.  I wanted to go home, to my kids, but there was no way back.  You see, I was in a world of magic, but I had no magic myself.  What was I going to do?

It got stranger as I started to learn more about the new world.  It was clear that someone, perhaps from Earth - my Earth - had been introducing new concepts and technologies that had seemingly come out of nowhere.  Primitive muskets, steam engines and printing presses co-existed with magic, farmers who worked the fields by hand and an aristocracy so determined to maintain its own position that it was unable to save itself from internal or external threats.  I was frustrating.  I could have introduced those concepts myself, but how?  I was alone.  No money, no status, no nothing.  Why would anyone listen to me long enough to let me prove what I could do?

One thing led to another and, after a wrongheaded attempt to defend the Diddakoi from a warlord’s man, I found myself in Damansara, a city that was - in theory - politically neutral.  In reality, the warlords could tighten the screws any time they chose and the city would have no choice but to bend the knee.  I made a mistake - I tripped a street rat who’d stolen a loaf of bread - and found myself inducted into the City Guard.  It was a good way to learn more about the city, but the guard was a deeply corrupt organisation.  I made a powerful enemy in Harbin Galley, an aristocratic teenage brat, when I stopped him from raping Gayle Drache.  It wasn’t until much later I realised I’d also made a handful of allies.

It didn’t take long for me to run into trouble.  I was American, with a sense of morals to match; I couldn’t tolerate the blatant corruption and unfairness of the city indefinitely.  I nearly got myself sold into slavery after attempting to free captured serfs, only to be intercepted by Rupert Drache, Gayle’s brother.  Rupert had just been appointed Commander of the Garrison, the city’s makeshift defence force, and he needed an advisor.  Or, more accurately, he needed someone to do the job for him.  His political enemies had set him up to fail, to be the scapegoat when the warlords started applying pressure again.  And I saw my opportunity to finally make a mark on this world.

I grasped the chance with both hands and started to build a proper army, complete with the latest - as far as the locals knew - in military technology.  My troops weren’t pretty-boy cavalry or household troops who looked good but ran at the first hint of actual violence.  I taught tactics to the infantry, to fight as an organised force rather than a mob.  It worked.  The warlord tried applying pressure, once again, and we gave him a bloody nose.  Rupert’s enemies were shocked.  The world shifted on its axis.

The warlord didn’t seem inclined to accept his defeat with good grace.  I worked frantically to expand the army, all too aware the warlord was doing the same.  I learned how to use small magics in combat and how to take advantage of magicians with very slight gifts; I worked with refugee serfs to build spy and rebel networks deep within enemy territory.  I started, with Rupert’s help, to build a patronage network of my own.  Our time ran out, however, when the warlord finally started to pressure us again.

I drew up a plan and convinced Rupert to go along with it.  Instead of waiting to be hit, as we were expected to do, we went on the offensive instead.  The warlord and his men never saw us coming, not until it was far too late.  We smashed his troops in open combat, shattering once and for all the myth of his invincibility.  His own people, downtrodden serfs who hated him and now no longer feared him, rose in his rear.  We kept moving, punching through his defences and eventually smashing his castle, breaking his power beyond repair.  It was a stunning victory, capped by the rescue of Princess Helen - daughter of the powerless King Jacob of Johor - from the forces of Warlord Cuthbert.  We had changed the world.

But my victory led to a more personal defeat.  My sudden rise had discomfited the city fathers, including some of Rupert’s family.  The rebellions I’d seeded, and the tactics I’d introduced, could easily be turned against them and they knew it.  They planned to quietly kill me, before my power base grew to the point I could crush them.  Princess Helen warned me of the plot, then offered to take me into her service.  It would mean leaving everything I’d built behind, but ... it was the best of a bad set of options.  I didn’t want to launch a coup and I didn’t want to leave everything and run.

And so, nearly a year after I arrived in the Kingdom of Johor, I finally found myself in the capital of a powerless king.  And that king’s daughter wanted me to make him powerful once again.

I got to work at once.  I took the decorative – and completely useless – army they gave me and turned it into a decent fighting force.  I took the wealth they gave me and invested it, funding the development of printing presses and factories as well as guns and weapons.  I took the estates they gave me and handed them over to the farmers, giving them incentive to produce all the food they could instead of the bare minimum.  I made all sorts of contacts with the city underground that saved my life.  And I started to fall in love with Fallon, a sorceress-in-training.

But I had made enemies, powerful enemies.  The local nobility was threatened by my arrival and my success.  The thought of the king and his daughter wielding a powerful army was enough to convince the bastards that something had to be done – and quickly.  They started by slandering Helen, telling the world I’d deflowered her – lying shitheads – but they rapidly moved on to outright treason.  The coup – I’ll give them that much – was well-planned.  Fallon and I were kidnapped by a sorcerer, while the nobility took control of the city and murdered the king.  They told themselves that all they had to do, to win, was marry Helen off to their chosen monarch.

They should have killed me.  It was their first mistake.  And their last.

We escaped – you don’t want to know how – and made our way to my estates.  My private army – I was allowed to recruit armsmen – marched on the city, while I and a handful of allies sneaked through the defences, liberated the prisoners and retook the castle, saving Helen’s life.  She was crowned Queen – the first Ruling Queen Johor had ever known – while I, now the mightiest of her aristocrats, readied myself for the wars to come. 

I did not have long to wait.

Chapter One

The day war broke out, I said to Lord Brock, “You fool.”

Alright, I didn’t say it.  But I thought it.  Lord Brock was Queen Helen’s strongest supporter amongst what remained of the city’s aristocracy, a man so old he seemed to think he was serving her grandfather ... personally, I thought he was a little senile.  It wasn’t clear quite what he’d been doing when the Traitors, as Helen insisted the coup plotters be called by everyone, had taken over the city, but I suspected he was too slow to realise anything had happened until it had been too late for him to do much of anything.  And it had worked out for him.  Helen had so few aristocrats willing to support her that the ones who did come forward were guaranteed high positions and heavy responsibilities.

I sighed inwardly as I surveyed Lord Brock’s work.  Roxanna, as a city, had never been particularly well defended – the warlords wanted to make sure they could kick the king’s ass whenever he tried to stand up to them – and there just hadn’t been time to built more than a handful of thin and fragile walls before the Traitors made their move.  The fact they hadn’t tried to make the defences even stronger when my army had been breathing down their neck was telling, at least in my opinion.  They might have told themselves they were standing up for tradition and a rightly ordered society, but the truth was they were serving the warlords.  I wondered, nastily, if Lord Brock was doing it too.  Or if he really was senile.

The walls in front of me would have been daunting, once upon a time.  They were built of solid stone, with guardposts at regular intervals and plenty of room for soldiers to man the battlements and rain death on anyone stupid enough to try to clamber over and force their way into the city itself.  Before me – before the mysterious Emily – the walls would have forced the attackers to either lay siege to the city, a time-consuming process that might easily have led to disaster, or accept horrendous losses in a bid to storm the walls and take the buildings beyond.  Now ... the attackers could batter the walls down with cannons, dig mines under the city, cram them with gunpowder and blow the walls to hell, or even – if some of the stories were true, fly over the walls and land within the city itself.  Lord Brock’s defences were worse than useless.  They’d make the defenders think they could hold out indefinitely when they’d barely protect the city for a few days if the defenders were lucky.  I shuddered to think what modern guns and bombs would do.

I tried to be diplomatic.  Really, I did.

“My Lord” – I used his title in a bid to soften the blow, even though I technically took aristocratic precedence – “the defences need to be deepened.  The enemy will break through and we have to be ready to cut them off and throw them back.”

Lord Brock looked mutinous as I went on and on, outlining the need for trenches, makeshift minefields and a hundred other tricks more suited to the Western Front than a world barely nosing its way into the gunpowder age.  I understood his feelings – he’d grown up in a world where strong walls made good neighbours – but I had no time for them.  Warlord Cuthbert had made his hostility very clear, the day he’d tried to kidnap Helen, and nothing he’d done since had suggested he’d changed his mind.  He’d bankrolled the Traitors and the sorcerer who’d kidnapped me, all the while building up a modern army.  I doubted he was my match when it came to training men for the new style of warfare – I had the advantage of hindsight, of knowing what had worked for Lee, Grant, Pershing and so many others – but quantity had a quality all its own.  What did it matter if each of my soldiers was worth two of his, I asked myself, if we were outnumbered three to one?

“I’ll send out more workers and advisors,” I told him finally, reminding myself to make sure I put someone capable of being both firm and diplomatic in command.  I’d had commanding officers who’d hidden away, leaving command in the hands of their NCOs ... funny, I’d never thought I’d miss the lazy bastards.  It would be better for all concerned if Lord Brock stayed in nominal command while someone else did all the work, but he was too stubborn to go to his tent and claim the credit afterwards.  “We have to be ready to stand off a major offensive.”

“We’ll bleed him white if he tries,” Lord Brock assured me.  “The walls will stop an army.”

They won’t stop a modern army – or what passes for a modern army in this place – for long, I thought, tiredly.  Perhaps it was time for Lord Brock to suffer an accident.  The man was old enough to be my grandfather.  It was a minor miracle he’d lasted long enough to declare for the queen.  No one would think much of it if he passed away peacefully one day.  The sooner he’s removed, the better.

I sighed, again, as I took my leave.  Lord Brock seemed to be loyal enough.  His son had vanished under mysterious circumstances – personally, I suspected he’d backed the Traitors to make sure the family would have a foot in both camps – and he had no other heirs, nor did he have much to leave anyone.  I had no qualms about assassinating snooty assholes who sneered at me and my men for being commoners – or, worse, mercenaries – but it went against the grain to kill someone for being a bit limited in his thinking.  Armies had a nasty habit of training for the last war, rather than the next, and it wasn’t easy to break them of that.  The fighting in Iraq would have gone better, I thought, if we’d realised we’d be fighting a multi-sided insurgency from the very start.

My bodyguards kept their distance as I walked around the city, my keen eye surveying the small army of soldiers, labourers and – unfortunately – slaves as they trained for war or built the defences.  Helen had freed all the old slaves, but a surprising number of aristocratic retainers and mercenaries had survived the purge and promptly found themselves enslaved and put to work.  My stomach churned in disgust.  I’d done everything in my power to eradicate slavery, but now I was forced to use slave labour?  I knew I didn’t have a choice – if we killed the bastards, their guilds would ally against us; if we kicked them out, we’d just be sending the warlords free reinforcements – but it still gnawed at me.  It felt like a betrayal of everything my ancestors had undergone when they’d been sold into slavery and put to work in the fields.

The mercenaries will be freed once the fighting is over, I told myself.  And the retainers will have a chance to earn their freedom.

I kept my face under control as we passed one of the mustering points outside the city, where the new recruits were drilling under the experienced eye of my slightly more experienced soldiers.  Helen had seized ultimate power, which meant she could mobilise the entire city for war – and God help anyone who dared defy her – and thousands of young men had flocked to the colours, but it wasn’t all good.  I didn’t have anywhere near enough training sergeants, let alone an entire infrastructure to support them.  I was doing my best to supervise, but I was uneasily aware there were all sorts of opportunities for abuse, graft and all the other problems that exploded into the light when an army expanded too far too fast.  It was just a matter of time before something really serious happened, something I’d have to punish harshly to make sure everyone drew the right lessons.  I wasn’t looking forward to it.

And we won’t know how the city-folk will react, when they face the elephant for the first time, I thought, as we neared the factories.  How many will run, when they hear the sound of guns?

“Wait outside,” I ordered.  There was no threat to me inside the factories.  “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Craftsman Amman met me with a sweeping bow as I stepped into his fortress.  I nodded back to him, silently relieved I’d managed to convince him not to prostrate himself before me whenever I entered the room.  I’d saved him and his family from a fate worse than death and I knew he was grateful, but there were limits.  No wonder so many aristocrats were entitled brats, if they grew up with everyone grovelling before them.  My children, if I ever had anymore, wouldn’t be allowed to think themselves better than anyone else.  They’d be cleaning their own damned rooms and making their own damned beds.

“My Lord,” Craftsman Amman said.  “Thank you for coming.”

I nodded, impatiently.  I’d freed him and his family and yet he’d stuck with me.  I supposed it spoke well of him, if badly of the world outside.  “Your message said you’d made progress?”

“Of a sort,” Craftsman Amman said.  “Not as much as I had hoped, but progress.”

I kept my face blank.  It wouldn’t do to let him think I was disappointed, let alone angry, at the lack of progress.  Craftsman Amman had grown up in a world where satisfying his patron – me – was all-important and failure would be harshly punished, even if it wasn’t his fault.  I was within my legal rights to whip him or toss him onto the streets or do horrible things to his family ... I told myself, grimly, that he and everyone else would eventually grow out of those attitudes.  But until then, it was just something I’d have to tolerate.  Besides, it wasn’t as if I’d given him an easy job.

I’d read hundreds of books where the time traveller had invented modern technology in the past, books that had made it seem easy.  Real life was rarely so obliging, even without someone who appeared to have taken all the low-hanging fruit.  I would have killed for a book explaining how things worked – hell, I would happily have worked with one of General Lee’s engineers, if it meant having access to his knowledge and skills.  Railroads, telegraph wires, ironclads ...

It hadn’t been easy to design a very basic electric generator.  The army had taught me a lot – the less said about public education the better – but there’d never been any lessons in rebuilding civilisation from scratch.  I’d had a friend who’d been deeply into survivalist dogma and, as much as I hated to admit it, he would probably have done better than me.  The knowledge in my head wasn’t anywhere near as useful as I’d hoped.  And yet, I had been able to reason out the basics.

Craftsman Amman pointed to the device on his workbench.  “This produces very faint flickers of electric power, My Lord,” he said.  He’d been doubtful when I’d explained the concept to him, even though he’d been one of the first craftsmen to embrace the New Learning when it reached Roxanna.  “But it doesn’t produce a steady stream of current.”

“Not yet,” I said.  It would be years, if not decades, before we could build anything resembling a modern tech base, but we’d get eventually.  “You can flicker a light bulb or send a signal through the wire, right?”

Craftsman Amman looked worried.  “Yes, but ...”

I nodded in understanding.  We’d had to invent light bulbs too.  Craftsman Amman had had to resort to sorcery to make the first bulbs work, something that worried me.  My smartphone hadn’t survived whatever had brought me to my new world, which meant ... what?  There was magic in the air, literally.  I vaguely recalled some gibberish from Harry Potter about modern tech not working in magical environments.  If the air was saturated with high-energy fields or something along those lines – I was no sorcerer – there might be a hard cap on just how much technology we could develop.  The idea of developing our very own internet might be a non-starter.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, I told myself.

“Share what you’ve developed,” I told him.  “And see who picks up your work and runs with it.”

“My Lord,” Craftsman Amman said.  “The more people who know about this ...”

“The more minds working on a given problem, the greater the chance of someone figuring out a solution,” I told him.  I’d told him that before, I was sure, but ... I understood, better than I cared to admit.  Trade secrets were the key to a better life, for the craftsman who devised them.  What sort of fool would give away his edge so quickly?  And yet, my mystery counterpart had done that and more.  “You’ll still be in the lead.”

And have first call on everything I remember from Earth, I added, silently.  You really will have an edge.

“I’ll write it up now,” he said.  “And ... what do we do about the light bulb?”

“We need to be able to produce a vacuum without magic,” I mused.  It could be done – there was no magic on Earth – but I had no idea how.  “Offer a reward to the craftsman who figures it out, on the usual terms.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Craftsman Amman said, reluctantly.  “I’ll see to it personally.”

“You did well,” I told him.  “I ...”

Someone banged on the door.  I cursed, one hand dropping to the flintlock pistol I wore on my belt.  I still missed the modern firearm I’d brought with me, but that was lost somewhere in the countryside.  The sorcerer who had taken it ... it unmanned me to even think of what he’d done – had been sitting on a treasure trove and tossed it away, as casually as one as one might discard a cigarette butt.  I rested my hand on the pistol as the door opened, bracing myself.  It was probably bad news.  My bodyguards wouldn’t have let him through unless he was a messenger.

“My Lord!”  The messenger threw himself to the ground.  “I come with ...”

“Get to the point,” I growled.  I wasn’t dumb enough to shoot the messenger, literally or figuratively.  Unfortunately, too many local aristocrats thought blaming the messenger for bringing bad news was somehow a good idea.  Idiots.  Bad news didn’t go away if you kicked the messenger in the nuts and threw him out the window.  It just ensured you didn’t get the bad news until it was far too late.  “What happened?”

“My Lord, an envoy has arrived from Warlord Cuthbert,” the messenger said.  “He requested an immediate audience with Her Majesty.  She requests your urgent presence.”

“Understood,” I said.  It wasn’t a short walk from the walls to the palace, but it was better to walk than take a horse.  Too many aristos wouldn’t give a damn who got crushed under their hooves ... I shuddered.  There was no way I could allow myself that attitude.  I needed the support of the people and it was terrifyingly easy to lose.  “I’ll be on my way at once.”

I nodded to the craftsman – he was already mentally back at work, trying to solve the problem I’d given him before other minds started to compete – and hurried out, leading my bodyguards in a swift jog through the gates.  The guards checked my credentials – they looked nervous, but at least they did it – before waving me through.  I made a mental note to commend them as we broke into a run, heading the streets towards the palace.  If I knew Helen, and I did, she’d stall as long as possible.  The aristos might say that any insult to their ambassadors was an insult to them, but the truth was there was nothing we could reasonably offer – including Helen’s hand in marriage, the throne and my head on a pike – that would satisfy the warlords.  War was coming.  Everyone knew it, even the people who normally had their heads firmly buried in the sand.

The stench wafted across my nostrils as we jogged over the bridge and into the palace.  I grimaced.  Helen had put the heads of her enemies on pikes and left them there to rot, a grim reminder of just what had happened to the men who’d killed her father and tried to force her into marriage to a useless fop.  I’d tried to talk her out of it – the rotting heads were breeding grounds for disease – but she’d been adamant.  Helen was a Ruling Queen in a world where women rarely held power in their own right.  She had to make it clear she could be twice as ruthless as any man.

“My Lord.”  Chamberlain Arnett bowed.  “Her Majesty is waiting in the Throne Room.”

I nodded, silently relieved there was no time to change.  I looked like a soldier returning from the wars, not an aristocrat or an officer with more gold braid than brains.  The old court would have been shocked.  The new was more jingoist than the idiots Rhett Butler had scolded for having nothing but cotton, slaves and arrogance.  I put the thought out of my head as I stepped through the rear curtains and took my place beside Helen, just as the herald announced the envoy’s arrival.  He looked just as I’d expected, an aristocrat wearing his master’s livery.  I didn’t need to look at Helen to feel her bristle.  He was the living representative of everything she hated, of the men who’d constantly humiliated her father and tried to force her into marriage.

The envoy didn’t bow or prostrate himself.  It was a calculated insult.  Luckily, we’d planned what to do.

I stepped forward, looked him in the eye, and smiled.  “We accept your surrender.”

Chris Hemsworth said it better, I think.  But the effect was much the same.

Chapter Two

The envoy goggled.  The court laughed.

I didn’t blame them.  I hadn’t seen a man gape like that outside a bad cartoon.  The envoy looked as if he’d been punched in the face and yet, couldn’t quite wrap his head around what had happened.  I supposed he had a point.  If you were prancing around, being all Mouth of Sauron, you’d be surprised if someone flipped the script on you too.

“You jest,” he managed finally.  “My master ...”

“Has sent you here with a message, we presume,” Helen said.  Her tone was calculated to get on the envoy’s nerves.  The reminder he was just an envoy probably didn’t help.  “Let us hear you out, before we throw you out.”

The envoy spluttered.  I hid my amusement with an effort.  It was very far from diplomatic, and I’d tried to argue in favour of more diplomacy when Helen and I had discussed our plans for the envoy’s arrival, but she’d insisted.  I understood her thinking.  There was nothing we could reasonably offer the warlords, certainly nothing they’d accept.  They were little better than gangsters, taking everything they could and then demanding more.  And if the monarchy had stood up to them, decades ago, the kingdom would be in a far better state.

It is always easy to try to appease the unappeasable, I thought.  How many times had that lesson been learned and forgotten, only to be learned again?  But once you pay the Danegeld you never get rid of the Dane.

“My master is greatly concerned with your preparations for war,” the envoy said.  His voice dripped honey and battery acid.  I felt my fist clench with a burning desire to punch the envoy in the face.  “He and his peers see them as a direct threat, and a stark renunciation of agreements signed by your father and grandfather.  They demand you meet their terms at once or face war.”

Helen affected a bored look.  “And what are their terms?”

The envoy steadied himself.  “First, you are to immediately disband your forces and dismiss your troops,” he said.  “Second, you are to banish all foreign mercenaries” – he gave me a nasty look – “from the kingdom.  Third, you are to permit the exiles, unjustly banished from their homes, to reclaim their lands and titles.  Fourth, and most importantly, you are to submit the question of your marriage to a commission who will consider the interests of the kingdom and determine who you will marry.”

I sensed, more than saw, Helen’s flash of anger.  But her voice was studiously calm.  “Is that all?”

“My master and his allies will dispatch troops to enforce the agreement, once you accept it,” the envoy said.  “They will be accompanied by the exiled noblemen and distinguished judges who will consider each case on its merits and determine what level of recompense should be paid to the dispossessed.  You yourself will be taken into protective custody and ...”

“And raped.”  Helen’s voice was suddenly icy.  “That’s what your master has in mind, isn’t it?”

The envoy looked shocked.  “My master has nothing but the greatest respect for you ...”

Helen cut him off.  “Your master attempted to kidnap me, then backed treacherous nobles in a bid to murder my father and unseat me,” she snarled.  “If that is respect …”

She calmed herself with an effort.  “What does he do to people he doesn’t respect?”

My lips twisted.  Warlord Cuthbert was right at the top of Helen’s shit list – and who could blame her?  He really had tried to kidnap her, and then force her into marriage.  I felt a flicker of sympathy for his wife and children, who would be put aside in favour of a woman who could legitimise his bid for the throne.  It made me wonder what sort of agreements the warlords had made between themselves.  The only reason they hadn’t forced Helen into marriage long ago, long before my arrival, was that they hadn’t been able to agree on how to share power amongst themselves.  If they’d come to an agreement ...

We can probably play on their fears, even if they have, I reflected.  They’re not the most trusting of people.  They’ll be watching their allies for betrayal even as they pretend to cooperate with them.

“Your Majesty ...”  The envoy took a breath and started again.  “Your Majesty, I am charged with carrying your reply back to my master.”

“Quite.” 

Helen rose to her feet, looking every inch the warrior queen.  She’d had more training, in magic as well as mundane fighting skills, than the average princess, although it was all too likely her enemies would think her defenceless.  My spies told me too many of her lower-ranking noblemen had received messages from the warlords – some offering wealth and power, some so bizarrely focused on male bonding it was hard to believe anyone could take them seriously – and while I thought none of those offers had been accepted it was impossible to be sure.   Too many high-ranking men had doubts about serving under a woman.  Idiots.  Helen was already shaping up to be a more effective monarch than her father.

“Your master’s terms are rejected,” Helen said.  “There will be no more discussion.  You will go back to your master and inform him he has one week to disband his troops and come to this city – alone and unarmed – to pay homage to me, or he will be crushed, and his family driven from the kingdom. Do you understand me?”

I winced, inwardly.  One week ... it was barely enough time for the envoy to get to his master and make his report, let alone for the warlord to mount a horse and ride back to the city.  And demanding the warlord came alone, without even a handful of escorts ...?  It was the kind of demand one made after beating the enemy army, not before; the kind of demand that would only be accepted by prideful and stubborn men, when resistance was no longer anything but kicking and biting on the way to the gallows.  Warlord Cuthbert was more likely to order his troops to march south immediately than disband his soldiers and bend the knee to the queen.

If he comes alone, he knows he’ll be imprisoned at the queen’s pleasure, I thought.  And if his son leads troops to free him, the queen might order him executed out of petty spite.

I sighed inwardly.  Johor was a snake pit, a snake pit that made Game of Thrones look positively civilised.  There was no real law and order, certainly no government capable and willing to enforce the law without fear or favour ... it was quite possible, I reflected, that the warlord’s sons would go on the offensive in hopes their father would be executed, allowing them to lay claim to their inheritance.  They’d never say it out loud – sons were supposed to be loyal to their fathers, even though everyone knew their loyalty could be very self-serving indeed – but it was true.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the envoy said.  His face was pale.  I’d heard Warlord Cuthbert had a nasty habit of blaming the messenger.  I didn’t think he could make the message any more palatable either.  No amount of delicate wording could disguise the fact Helen had demanded the warlord’s unconditional surrender.  I wondered, idly, if the messenger would try to lie to his master.  It would cost him his head.  Helen would make sure he took a written copy of the message back too.  “I understand.”

Helen snapped her fingers.  Two black-clad men emerged from the curtains behind the throne, grabbed hold of the envoy and half-carried, half-dragged him out of the chamber.  A rustle ran through the room, the crowd struggling to come to terms with the latest development.  It was vanishingly rare for anyone to mistreat a messenger, no matter what he’d come to say.  It was a declaration of total war. 

I frowned inwardly.  Helen’s private guardsmen – the Black Roses – had expanded rapidly, after she took the throne, but ... I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with them.  They reported directly to her, through their commander ... I understood, I really did, that Helen didn’t want to become dependent on anyone, but it still bothered me.  The Black Roses were more than just her guard.  They were expanding into intelligence and counterintelligence and making their presence felt on the streets.  I feared they’d wind up causing a disaster at the worst possible time.

And they look too much like a secret police force, I reflected.  They’re already very unpopular outside the palace.

Helen addressed the crowd.  “For generations, the warlords – my father and grandfather’s overmighty subjects – have terrorised the kingdom, threatening to send us all to rack and ruin.  No more.  There will be no more concessions.  There will be no more submissions.  They will be stopped.  They will be destroyed.”

Her words hung in the air.  “If any of you are afraid to fight, go back to your homes and abandon all hope of a place in the new world.  Or run to the warlords and be destroyed with them.  But if you are ready to fight for the throne, for a kingdom free of overmighty subjects, remain with us now.  Make your choices quickly and well.  There will be no second chances.”

I smiled, inwardly.  Too many of the old aristocracy had a nasty habit of playing both sides of the field.  They sent one of the sons to fight for the king and the other, as the saying went, to fight for the rebels, in hopes of ensuring they’d have someone who could speak for them no matter who won the war.  Helen had done everything she could to make it impossible for someone to sit on the fence, from executing or exiling most of the old nobility to ennobling merchants and craftsmen who could be relied upon to support her.  I scanned the crowd, carefully noting reactions.  The new noblemen were excited and afraid.  They wouldn’t keep their titles if the warlords won the war.  They’d be lucky to keep their lives.

I shuddered, inwardly.  I’d started a wave of land reform, first in my estates and then in estates belonging to executed or exiled aristocracy, that was reshaping the kingdom.  If the peasants were allowed to own their own land ... the warlords would crush the poor bastards if they won the war.  Land reform was a direct threat to their wealth and power, and they knew it.  So too were guns and everything else that levelled the playing field, allowing the commoners a chance to stand up to their supposed betters.  Helen’s supporters knew they were playing for keeps.  If the warlords won, they’d do everything in their power to turn back the clock.

It won’t work, I told myself.  It’ll just lead to newer and bloodier rebellions against the status quo.

My lips twisted.  No one, not even my closest supporters, knew precisely how far I was prepared to go.  I’d practically surrendered my estates to the tillers.  I’d allowed some of our most sensitive technological secrets to be leaked.  I’d ensured the spread of reading and writing and everything else ... whatever happened, the kingdom would never be the same again.  The warlords were just a remnant of a dim and distant past, soon to be completely forgotten.  I wouldn’t be another Andrew Johnson.  I wouldn’t betray the people who trusted me and fought for me and expected me to honour my promises ...

“I cannot promise an easy victory,” Helen said.  “There will be much bloodshed before the warlords are done.  But we will win.  Never doubt we will win.  Dismissed.”

The courtiers bowed or curtseyed, then hurried out.  I wondered how many of the old hands were convinced, given that the meeting with the envoy had been little better than a masterful – and pre-planned – performance.  Helen had to do a surprising amount of her business in public, if only to keep rumourmongering to a dull roar, but there’d still be suspicions she’d made time to have a private chat with the envoy earlier.  There’d be people watching to make sure he really was thrown out of the city, rather than kept in the guardhouse until Helen could meet with him again,

At least Helen keeps a tight grip on these sessions, I thought.  Her father had held audiences where everyone, or at least everyone who thought they were anyone, had insisted on having their say.   It was astonishing how many people could say the exact same thing time and time again, rarely even bothering to vary the words, just so they could tell the world they’d had their say.  And she listens when people bring their concerns to her in private.

“Elliot,” Helen said.  She stood, brushing down her robes.  She’d insisted on wearing her father’s outfits, rather than the dresses that looked as if they’d come out of a Disney princess movie, but I rather thought they suited her.  “Walk with me.”

I nodded, following her as she led the way through the curtains and into a long – and private – corridor.  There were people in the kingdom, even in the palace, who would have killed to have a private meeting with the queen ... I felt a twinge of amusement at their probable reactions, if they’d known I didn’t share their awe.  There was nothing special, to me, in spending time with an aristocrat.  Besides, I knew Helen as a person.  She was more than just a monarch to me.

“It should be safe to talk here,” Helen said.  “My maids and guards are loyal.”

I nodded, feeling a twinge of pity.  Helen had next to no privacy.  She’d rarely been alone, from the moment she’d been born ‘til the day she took the throne and became queen ... even now, her ladies were never far away.  We’d searched the aristocratic townhouses, after the coup, and discovered missives from her ladies-in-waiting and maids, reporting on everything from her reading patterns to her menstrual cycles.  It was creepy.  I’d had very little privacy in the army, but ...

And a bunch of maids were executed, to remind the others to keep their mouths thoroughly closed, I thought.  It should keep them quiet and loyal for a few months, although I doubted it would last forever.  The maids might be scared into submission, but her ladies came from prominent families.  They’d face immense pressure to give their impressions of their mistress to their masters.  The poor girls will be caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

“There will be no peace now,” Helen added, after a moment.  “Good.”

I nodded, curtly.  I’d seen enough war – here and back home – to know war wasn’t particularly glorious.  I knew men who’d gone to war and come home crippled, despite everything modern medical technology could do.  Here, it was far worse.  A man who lacked the money to pay for a healer would be lucky if he came home with amputated limbs.  I’d done what I could to improve what passed for medical science, but ... I shuddered.  It would be kinder to send a man to be tortured.

“We couldn’t have come to terms with them anyway,” I said.  The warlords were clearly spoiling for a fight.  Helen could give them everything they wanted and they’d have found an excuse to go to war anyway.  Not that she could, even if she wanted to.  The changes had spread too far to be reversed.  “Not after ...”

I sighed.  The kingdom had existed in an uneasy balance of power for decades, the king too weak to put down his overmighty subjects and the warlords reluctant to rock the boat by trying to unseat the king permanently.  I’d changed that, partly by accident, when I’d defeated Warlord Aldred.  The warlords had thought they could just play a waiting game to bring the kingdom to heel.  I’d proven the kingdom could and would take the offensive and slay the warlord beasts in their lairs. 

And now they’re ganging up on us, I thought.  Cuthbert wasn’t the only warlord modernising and mobilising his forces.  The remainder were preparing for war too.  They had no illusions about how deeply Helen hated them, about what she’d do if she had them in her power.  She’d sign their execution warrants with a smile.  They have to hang together or be hanged separately.

Helen touched my arm.  I tensed, despite myself.  We might be alone, but ... we weren’t really.  The rules had changed since she took the throne – she’d effectively had herself declared a man, just to ensure she could attend council meetings – yet there were limits.  If rumours got out ...

“Elliot,” she said.  “Can we win?”

I took a breath.  “Yes,” I said.  It wasn’t an idle boast.  I’d spent the last few weeks planning the war.  It was going to be tight – we had better weapons, the warlords had more experienced men and mercenaries – but we could do it.  “It can be done.”

Helen smiled, humourlessly.  “I believe you once told me nothing is certain in war.”

“It isn’t,” I said.  “But we can stack the deck in our favour if we move fast.”

“Good.”  Helen changed the subject with surprising rapidity.  “And Fallon?  Have you agreed on a date yet?”

I hesitated.  The idea that my marriage was an issue of national security still felt absurd.  Sure, I was one of the most powerful noblemen in the kingdom, but I still felt like a poor boy who’d joined the army to better himself and climbed all the way to the top.  And yet, it was no longer true.  My every word was law for thousands of people who’d never even heard of me a year ago.

“We are making progress,” I said.  Someone – I forgot who – had cautioned me against falling in love with local girls, while on deployment.   It could lead to complications ... not, I supposed, that it mattered here.  I’d never be going home again.  “Why do you ask?”

“The longer before you take her to wed, the harder it will be for her,” Helen said.  Her face was blank.  I couldn’t tell if she was advising me to marry now or forget the whole thing and just keep Fallon as a mistress.  It was not a pleasant thought.  “Make your mind up quickly.”

Her lips twitched.  “And I’ll expect to see you both at the council meeting this afternoon.”

I nodded.  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Chapter Three

It was a source of some relief to me, and more so to Helen, that the old councillors had blotted their copybooks so thoroughly during the coup.  If her father had died naturally, she would have been obliged to keep them on as her advisors even though she knew their advice was almost always worse than useless.  Instead, they’d either taken part in the plot or done nothing to oppose it when the plotters seized the city, earning themselves an instant death sentence for being on the losing side.  Helen had taken advantage of the sudden vacancies – and the aristocracy’s general loss of influence – to nominate people she could trust, at least partly because they owed everything to her, to the council.  I’d done my best to convince her to listen to them, even if they disagreed with her.  The leaders who didn’t listen to their subordinates were the ones who led their countries to ruin.

I took my seat – Helen had simplified the old protocol, which served to do nothing more than waste time – and looked around the table.  Fallon – now Councillor of Magic – sat facing me;  Lord Harris, an accountant who had been raised to the nobility as Councillor of the Exchequer; Sir Horace, Lord Mayor of Roxanna and Councillor of City; Lord Smith, a merchant prince who’d become Councillor of Merchants and, somewhat to my concern, Lord Jacob, Councillor of State.  He was, according to a magical test, Helen’s illegitimate half-brother.  I hoped he wouldn’t cause problems down the line, even though bastards were technically barred from the throne.  I’d be astonished if he didn’t resent his position.

And she put him in charge of her secret service, I reflected.  Lord Jacob ruled the Black Roses.  That’s either a stroke of genius or a lethal mistake.

I studied Lord Jacob thoughtfully as we waited for Helen.  He was a tall dark-skinned man, hair cropped close to his skull.  He reminded me a little of myself as a younger man, although I’d never been that good at keeping my emotions under control.  His face was a mask, completely unreadable.  It bothered me on a primal level that I couldn’t get a good read on him.  His father hadn’t exactly disowned him, or kept him under house arrest, but ... he hadn’t been a good father either.  And what sort of relationship did he have with his older half-sister?  I wasn’t even sure the warlords had known he’d existed before he’d been appointed to the council.

Helen entered.  We stood.

“Please, sit,” Helen said. Servants flitted around, bringing food and drink.  I eyed the goblet of mead in front of me wearily, then signalled for water.  The mead had a strong kick and the last thing I needed was to get drunk in front of the council.  “There is much to discuss.”

I nodded as the servants retreated, leaving us alone.  The old council would have thrown a fit if their servants had been banished, as if they couldn’t pour wine without aid.  The newer councillors were a little more self-reliant.  I wondered, not for the first time, how many of the servants had actually been spies, so lowly they were beneath suspicion and yet in perfect places to gather intelligence and forward it to their real masters.  There’d been a purge, after the plotters had been defeated, but I feared we hadn’t eliminated all the spies.  The remainder would still be dangerous, if we hadn’t scared them into keeping their heads down. 

“Warlord Cuthbert has effectively declared war,” Helen said, opening the meeting.  “His verbal message was effectively a demand for our complete submission, his written message was a little more detailed – and contained a handful of suggestions it might be in our interests to cooperate with him against the other warlords – but it effectively boiled down to the same thing.  We have a choice between fighting or bending the knee.  We choose to fight.”

There was no disagreement, open or covert.  I allowed myself another moment of relief.  The old council would have talked and talked and talked, debating meaningless issues as they sought to run out the clock so they didn’t have to make a real decision, but the newer councillors were definitely more practical.  None of us, save for Helen herself, would be allowed to live if we lost the war and Helen would suffer a face worse than death.  The prospect of hanging concentrated the mind wonderfully, as the saying went, particularly when there were still moves one could make to escape the gallows.

“We have been preparing for this moment since we first heard about Aldred’s defeat,” Helen continued.  “Yes, we could have done with a few more months to train more soldiers and produce more muskets, cannons and gunpowder, but we are ready.  We can win.  We will win.”

She looked at me.  “Lord Elliot, you may begin.”

I nodded, unfurling the map I’d brought with me.  It was about as accurate as a child’s sketch of his neighbourhood – if I relied on it completely, I would get badly lost – but it showed everything in roughly the right position.  Roughly.  The warlord’s lands looked pitifully small and a handful of cities look large enough to be countries in their own right, but it would suffice.  It would have to.  I’d had surveyors drawing up more accurate maps of the country ever since I’d entered Helen’s service, but their work wasn’t even half done. 

“Warlord Cuthbert is a powerful man,” I said, as if everyone around the table didn’t already know that and more besides.  “Prior to the Aldred War, he deployed a force of roughly five thousand men, mainly cavalry with a hard core of heavy infantry.  Since then, we know he has been bulking up his infantry and arming them with gunpowder weapons, although we suspect he’s been reluctant to trust his vassals and serfs with firearms.  We don’t have a solid estimate for how many men he currently has under arms, but I believe fifteen thousand is the upper limit.  This time, the vast majority will be infantry.”

Lord Smith leaned forward.  “Will they fight for him?”

I said nothing for a long moment.  The warlords had, in theory, the lands and populations they needed to raise really large armies.  In practice, given how unpopular they were with the smallholders, serfs and outright slaves that made up the majority of their subjects, they were reluctant to risk mobilising their manpower in large numbers.  Their subjects, armed with weapons that could slay mounted knights and tear down castle walls, could easily decide to turn on their former masters instead.  I’d been sending agents north to encourage underground resistance, even open revolt, for months.  But, in truth, I had no idea if it would have any effect.  I wouldn’t know until the shooting started.

It isn’t easy to break out of a slave mindset, I thought, bitterly.  My ancestors had certainly had trouble standing up for themselves, let alone getting away from the plantations and making their way north to freedom.  The door might be open, beckoning them to a better life, but as long as they can’t muster up the courage to step through ...

“We have to assume they’ll fight,” I said, curtly.  I wanted to believe they’d turn on their master, or simply turn and run, but I dared not assume they’d do as I wished.  It would end badly if I relied on something outside my control.  “If if that happens, we’ll have to beat them in the field.”

I drew a line on the map, leading from Cuthbert’s lands to Damansara.  “We know Cuthbert has been backing raiders and mercenaries in Aldred’s lands.  He’s also been sheltering a handful of survivors from the previous war, promising to assist them in regaining their lands and powers in exchange for their fealty.  I suspect Cuthbert will have to advance south fairly quickly, both to isolate Damansara and to keep us from sending aid.  If he isn’t on the march now, he’ll be on his way shortly.”

“If he gets caught up in a lone siege, his army will be pinned down,” Sir Horace said.  “Right?”

“No.”  I shook my head.  A year ago, that had been common sense.  Now, it was outdated and actively dangerous.  “He has gunpowder weapons now.  He can surround the city, bring the walls down with his cannons and then storm the streets beyond.”

I shuddered.  I’d seen horrors in my military service, horrors that haunted my nightmares, but none of them came close to the sheer savage barbarity of a medieval sack.  If Damansara fell, the warlord’s troops would sweep into the city and unleash hell.  They’d loot everything that wasn’t nailed down, rape every woman unlucky enough to fall into their clutches, kill every man of military age ... I felt sick, remembering the good people I’d met when I’d lived in the city.  Their council might have been composed of assholes who couldn’t look beyond their own wealth and power, but the common folk didn’t deserve to be thrown straight into hell.

“There is another danger,” I added, reluctantly.  “The city may choose to submit rather than risk a sack.  If that happens, the craftsmen and gunsmiths in the city will be forced to serve Cuthbert.  That’ll give him a chance to even the odds against us.”

Lord Smith made a choking noise.  “They wouldn’t betray their own people!”

“It’s easy to be brave when you’re sitting in an armchair, hundreds of miles from the battle, and talking with the advantage of hindsight,” I said.  God knew I’d met more than a few chickenhawks in my time.  “It’s harder to hold the line when an enemy army is at the gates, armed with weapons that can tear the gates down and deliver the city into their hands.  If the city councillors feel the situation is hopeless, they’ll sell out for the best terms they can get.”

“Which will be harsh,” Lord Jacob said, coldly.

“Yes,” I agreed.  “Damansara’s independence will come to an end.  At the very least.”

I took a breath.  “It will take several days for the warlord’s envoy to return home.  We have a window of opportunity to act, to get the drop on him, if we act now.  If we can protect Damansara, and best Cuthbert’s army in the field, we can intimidate the other warlords into submission and win the war.  But we can only do that if we win.”

“A gamble,” Lord Smith said.

“Life is a gamble,” Helen said, curtly.  “We cannot afford to lose.”

I nodded.  “The warlord’s army is cumbersome,” I said.  “Ours is not.  We have an edge.”

My lips twisted.  I hadn’t understood some of Aldred’s moves during the war until I’d realised his army wasn’t an integrated force, but – in a manner of speaking – a multinational coalition.  It seemed absurd, yet it was true.  The warlord had his personal levies, but much of the rest of his men came from lesser noblemen – all of whom had to be treated with kid gloves – or mercenaries, who refused to throw their lives away for a losing cause.  Getting anything larger than a regiment or two moving in the same direction required tact, diplomacy and a certain willingness to put birth ahead of merit.  Their chain of command had to look more like a spider’s web.  That, at least, wasn’t a problem for me.  My chain of command was so simple even a child could work out who was in command at any given point.

And my men can march for hours without grumbling, which is more than can be said for any of theirs, I thought.  The warlords could set off with a mighty army and discover, when they reached their destination, that half their men had deserted.  Their cavalry spent half their time patrolling the edges of their formations, like the NKVD standing at the rear of Soviet formations during the Great Patriotic War, ready to shoot anyone in the back if they didn’t advance on command. Very few of their infantry actually want to be there.

I smiled.  A year ago, soldiers had been regarded as parasites and mercenaries as something akin to child molesters.  Mercenaries were still hated and loathed – I’d had to promise a reward for anyone who captured a mercenary, just to keep my men from murdering the bastards on the spot if they tried to surrender – but soldiering was starting to look like an attractive career.  My army, the one I’d taken apart and put back together again, had plenty of manpower, without emptying the jails and press-ganging unwary drunkards.  Really, I had more manpower than I needed.  If I’d had a couple of years to build up my forces, it would have been a rout.  The warlords wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“The army will leave in two days,” I said.  It would be a rush, and it wouldn’t look very professional, but it could be done.  “I’ll lead the advance force personally on a force-march to Damansara, using the railway to supplement our troops and resupply our forces.  We should get the regiments in position well before the warlord can get his own troops underway and prepare ourselves to take the offensive.  Either he comes out to fight, in which case we’ll best him in the field, or we’ll strike deep into his lands and take his coalition apart from the inside.”

Lord Jacob shot me a challenging look.  “Can you really convince his vassals to switch sides, when they’ll lose their ancient rights?”

I hid my irritation.  It was a valid point.  Normally, vassals – lesser aristocracy, wealthy freemen – would switch sides the moment they thought their old master could no longer either protect them from their enemies or punish them for desertion.  The monarchy had lost most of its power, in the reign of Helen’s grandfather, because it hadn’t been able to do either any longer.  On paper, an advancing army was just the sort of thing that would have aristocrats frantically re-evaluating their loyalties.  But in practice ...

“We will be freeing the slaves, ending serfdom and handing out land rights to the people who actually work the lands,” I said, calmly.  “But if they submit, they’ll be able to keep at least some of their property.  If they refuse, they’ll lose it completely.”

Lord Jacob didn’t look convinced.  Or, perhaps, he’d noted the sting in the tail.  The aristos might want to continue the fight, even though it was suicidal, but the commoners would have other ideas.  Why would they fight for their tormentors?  One might as well expect plantation slaves to don Confederate Grey!  The moment our army approached, the commoners would switch sides fast enough to leave their former masters in the lurch.  It had happened before and it would happen again.

If they surrender, they’ll salvage something, I told myself.  And if they don’t it simply won’t matter.

Sir Horace cleared his throat.  “Are you sure you can beat Cuthbert before the other warlords intervene?”

“Yes,” I said, with a great deal more confidence than I felt.  Nothing was ever certain in war.  “If our reports are accurate, they have yet to mobilise their troops and prepare for the offensive.  We can, and we will, deploy our own forces to hold them back if they do take the offensive before we’re ready for them.  We also have the city’s new defences and the militia to back them up.”

And agents sent into their territory to get them fighting each other, I added, silently.  The warlords were in an odd position.  They had to crush us before we built up the forces to do it to them, but if they won they’d have to figure out how to share the kingdom between them.  Who would be the anointed king?  It seemed absurd, to a man raised in a democratic state, yet they took it very seriously.  The moment one of the warlords becomes king, the rest will start plotting to clip his wings.

I kept that thought to myself.  Instead, I ran through a brief outline of my plans and preparations for war.  They didn’t need to know the precise details – I didn’t think they’d betray us willingly, but what they didn’t know they couldn’t tell – yet it was important they sensed my confidence.  They didn’t need to know all my contingency plans either.  A handful of the wilder plans would only upset them.

“We stand to risk everything, if your offensive fails,” Lord Jacob commented, when I’d finished.  “What happens if we lose?”

“We cannot afford to stand on the defensive,” I told him.  “They could, and they would, pin us down and then crush us.  We have to take the offensive as quickly as possible or we’ll be effectively conceding eventual defeat.”

I scowled.  Warlord Aldred’s men hadn’t known about muskets.  They’d charged straight into the teeth of our fire and very few, if any, had lived long enough to understand what had happened.  Warlord Cuthbert wouldn’t make the same mistakes.  Given time, he’d dance around us while using his cavalry to harass our farmers and burn down our fields, along with all the improvements I’d made over the last few months.  And then we’d starve ...

Helen tapped the table.  “The plan is sound,” she said, as if it had been the first time she’d heard it.  We’d discussed a dozen variants over the last few weeks.  “If any of you feel otherwise, say so now.”

No one spoke.  I hoped that was a good sign.  Helen wasn’t one of the idiots who regarded dissent as treason, and blamed the messenger for the message, but everyone at the table – except me – had grown up in a society where saying what one really thought could lead straight to their execution.  Helen didn’t have a reputation for lashing out at the bearer of bad news, but still ...

“Good.  We will proceed.”  Helen stood.  “Lord Jacob, attend upon me.”

On that note, the meeting ended.

Chapter Four

I was well used, by this time, to odd looks as I walked from the palace to my mansion.

It baffled me.  The distance between the two wasn’t that great.  It wasn’t as if I was trying to walk from New York to San Francisco.  But they still seemed to expect me to ride on horseback or in a horse-drawn carriage, rather than sully my feet with walking.  It was just absurd.

Fallon walked beside me, her dark eyes grim.  I suspected she wanted to say something but wouldn’t – couldn’t – until we reached the mansion.  I felt a twinge of disquiet I didn’t want to look at too closely, after Helen’s words.  Fallon and I were lovers and ... did I want to marry her?  I wasn’t sure.  My last marriage had ended badly, and I dreaded to think what’ll have happened if I’d stayed in my own world.  Would Cleo have kept the kids from me, while demanding two-thirds of my paycheck?  Or would she have calmed down and come to more reasonable terms?  I didn’t know – and I knew I never would.  My kids were on the wrong side of the dimensional divide and I would never see them again.

I kept my eyes open as we passed through the crowd.  Hundreds of people – merchants and traders, soldiers and craftsmen, aristos and commoners – thronged the streets, some trying to make deals with the queen and her representatives, others trying to make plans for a future that might or might not include a powerful monarchy.  I knew hundreds more had fled – or been ordered to head to the enemy camps by their families – in hopes of making sure their world survived, no matter who won the war.  I kept a wary eye on the latter.  I understood their thinking better than they knew and yet neither I nor Helen could trust them.  They would switch sides the moment a clear winner emerged.

Fallon nudged my arm.  “There’s more of them,” she said, nodding towards a black-clad trio standing by the side of the road.  “How many of them are there?”

I frowned as I saw the Black Roses.  Queen Helen’s men were on the streets ... and doing surprisingly little.  They weren’t directing traffic or stopping and searching passers-by or even harassing anyone who looked wealthy enough to draw their eye without being powerful enough to take revenge.  It was odd, in my experience.  The trick to taking control of a city was to make it clear that you were in charge, by making sure everyone was aware of your presence, while not tolerating any rivals.  Helen’s men simply were.

My lips thinned.  Helen’s decision to trust Lord Jacob was either genius or madness and I didn’t know which.  Not yet.  Could he be trusted, on the grounds that blood was thicker than water?  Or would his resentment lead him into dangerous waters?  I wished I knew more about their relationship.  Lord Jacob could have been legitimised at any moment, if his father had been willing to take the risk of putting his daughter aside.  Why hadn’t he?  It was, to the locals, the obvious question.  Lord Jacob had the advantage of being male in a society that didn’t think women could rule.

The thought nagged at me as I reached the mansion and stepped through the gates.  The guards nodded to us, keeping their eyes on the crowd.  I hid my amusement with the ease of long practice.  It had taken weeks to convince them they didn’t need to bow and scrape in front of me, certainly not when it would distract them from their duties.  I was no newly promoted junior officer who needed validation, nor was I an aristocrat who got my jollies from everyone grovelling in front of me.  And besides, I was uneasily aware the warlords wanted me dead.  There had already been attempts to assassinate me.  One had come so close to success I knew I’d escaped through sheer dumb luck.

Chance and careful planning, I thought, as we entered the mansion.  More of one than the other.

My lips quirked.  Sigmund, my old Castellan, would be utterly horrified if he could see the mansion now.  The great chambers and ballrooms had been converted into offices and workshops, the gardens outside had been repurposed as training fields ... hundreds and thousands of people, mainly commoners and soldiers, came and went every day, none of them even bothering to take off their shoes and show proper respect to the master of the house.  The noise wasn’t that loud, but it was impossible to ignore.  Sigmund ... my heart twisted, recalling how the old man had betrayed me.  I’d sent him into exile, rather than killing him with my own hands or sending him to the block.  I still didn’t know if I’d done the right thing...

“We’ll go to the office,” I said.  “Coming?”

The din slowly died away as we climbed to the uppermost floor.  I’d thrown some of the bedrooms open to my officers and staff, although a certain degree of paranoia had led me to rotate sleeping arrangements for my men.  If something happened to the mansion ... the walls were strong, and there were powerful wards worked into the stone, but I was uneasily aware the defences were far from invulnerable.  I dared not give the enemy a chance to kill our entire command staff in a single blow.  It would be utterly disastrous.

“Violet wants to talk to you,” Fallon said.  I followed her gaze to where the former street urchin was lurking, looking out of place despite trading her rages for middle-class garb.  “Can we talk first?”

“Yeah.”  I motioned to Violet to wait, trusting her to speak up if it was truly urgent, then led the way into my office.  “It’s been a long day.”

Fallon said nothing as I poured us both glasses of water and passed one to her.  I frowned inwardly – clearly, something was bothering her – and sat on a comfortable armchair, rather than the sofa.  She would tell me, in her own good time.  I sipped my water and waited, feeling a strange twinge of unreality as my eyes traversed the office.  I’d done what I could to make it a more comfortable place to work – it had been so richly decorated, months ago, that it could have passed for a high-class hotel – but it still felt unreal.  I intended to make sure the new military headquarters, when we had a moment to build it, would look a great deal more functional, rather than being designed to cater to the warlord’s ego.  I’d felt my ego get bigger when I’d taken the old chair – it had looked like a throne – and I’d known better than to let the feeling convince me of anything.  Even now, I could lose everything in the blink of an eye.

And besides, we sold the artworks and made enough money to raise more regiments, I thought, sourly.  Comic opera militaries never lasted long when they faced an enemy that put military efficiency ahead of appearance.  If we lose the war, we’ll be lucky if we are merely tortured to death ...

Fallon took a breath.  “I ... the magicians are coming along,” she said.  I was as blind as the average man to a girl’s true feelings and yet even I knew she was dancing around the real problem.  “We should be ready to coordinate the regiments as they take the offensive.”

I nodded, almost relieved she was focusing on business even though it was a delaying tactic.  It would be years, at best, before we developed working radios, let alone force trackers and everything else we’d used to coordinate modern armies in the field – micromanage, part of my mind added darkly – but magic could fill the gap.  Sort of.  It was crude compared to the old radio net, and I didn’t pretend to understand the limitations, but it was so much better than anything the locals had had before I’d arrived everyone was delighted.  And yet, it was a grim reminder there were parts of my new world that would forever be a closed book.  Magic was dangerously unpredictable.  If a powerful magician joined the war ...

Fallon is one of the weakest magicians in the world and yet she can turn you into a frog with a snap of her fingers, my thoughts reminded me.  What can a full-fledged sorcerer do?

“That’s good,” I said.  I met her eyes, trying to be reassuring.  “What do you really want to discuss?”

She swallowed, visibly.  My heart sank.  It was going to be bad.

“I ...”  Fallon stopped and swallowed again.  “Elliot, I’m pregnant.”

I stared.  For a moment, my brain refused to accept what it heard.  “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” Fallon repeated.  Her lips twisted into a bitter smile.  “It’s your fault.”

I ... I had no words.  She could have punched me in the face and I would have been less surprised.  I’d assumed I couldn’t have more children ... stupid, in hindsight.  I was only in my forties and I knew aristos who were still having children well into their sixties.  Sure, Helen might have a deadline, a point beyond which she couldn’t have children of her body, but I didn’t.  I was as fit and healthy as any man in the new world and ... and I knew I could have kids.  I already had two ...

My mouth seemed to speak without my brain’s input.  “I thought you were taking care of it.”

Fallon looked down.  “I thought I was too.”

“Oh,” I said.  “And ...”

I forced myself to think.  It was vanishingly rare for a properly brought up young woman in Johor to have sex outside marriage, unless she was a magician.  The unspoken rules were clear – and as misogynistic as they came.  A woman’s virginity was one of her most prized assets – to herself and to her family – and if she lost it, even through rape, she would be disgraced.  Bastards.  No one chooses to be raped.  And yet, the rules didn’t apply to magicians.  I had no idea if it was because magicians could cast contraceptive spells or simple fear of what a witch might do, if she was subjected to a torrent of misogynistic invective, but it didn’t matter.  I’d assumed Fallon could keep herself from becoming pregnant.  And I was wrong.

Oh, the nasty part of my mind whispered.  And are you sure she didn’t set out to get pregnant to lure you into marriage?

I told that part of me to shut up.  Fallon wasn’t Cleo.  She wasn’t ... she wasn’t so dependent on me she’d do something incredibly risky, not when we couldn’t be sure we’d get married and live together.  I was a powerful nobleman and my marriage was a matter of state ... something else, I reflected ruefully, I had trouble accepting.  Fallon could end up cast aside if she miscalculated, for all she was a magician.  And our child might end up like Jon Snow.  I still wondered why he hadn’t simply walked away from his bitch of a stepmother.  Being pissed at your husband for cheating on you was understandable but taking it out on the bastard child was unforgivable.

And yet ... my mind spun.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about her.  I wasn’t sure how she felt about me.  Did she have feelings for me?  Or had she come with me because she saw a chance to ride my coattails to glory?  Or ... I told that part of me to shut up too.  I was going to become a father, again.  I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t become my father – the bastard had abandoned his children – and I meant it.  I hadn’t left my older children – not willingly – and I wasn’t going to leave this one too.

I took a breath.  “Are you sure?”

Fallon nodded, without looking up.  “I was late,” she said, without going into detail.  “I ... I cast a spell to check, then went to the healer.  She confirmed I was pregnant.”

“Oh.”  I needed time to come to terms with the sudden change.  I knew I wasn’t going to get it.  My thoughts were a mess.  I’d put down roots and yet, part of me was afraid to put down more.  If I was trapped in the city ... I told myself, angrily, that I wasn’t trapped.  There was no reason I couldn’t leave, taking my wife and child with me.  I’d been careful to put some money aside for emergencies, just in case.  “I ... how long?”

“The healer said I was about six weeks pregnant,” Fallon said.  “It must have been ...”

Her skin darkened.  I flushed, grateful – again – that my complexion hid it.  If she’d conceived the very first time ... it felt unbelievable and yet I knew better.  My mother had made it clear to me, when we’d had the talk, that unprotected sex could – and perhaps would – lead to pregnancy, even if it was the very first time.  Fallon was in the prime of life.  There was no reason she couldn’t get pregnant.  And she had ...

I wondered, suddenly, what her family would think of it.  They hadn’t been able to pay for her magical education.  The best thing they could have done for her, back in Damansara, was arrange a good match to another merchant, someone who wanted an intelligent and educated wife to help grow his business.  It was sickening to me and yet, it was just a reality of life in my new world.  A woman on her own was dangerously vulnerable. 

That will change, I told myself.  The influx of new ideas and technology would reshape the entire world, no matter what the warlords tried to stop it.  And the next generation will know freedom.

I put that thought aside, then reached for her.  She had to be wondering what I intended to do.  Would I accept the child – accept her – or pretend she was just my mistress and the child had been fathered by someone else or ... or what?  I knew officers in my ranks who’d arranged for their mistresses to marry their junior officers, to put a veneer of legitimacy on their bastard children.  I didn’t pretend to understand why anyone would go along with such a scheme, particularly when everyone already knew what was happening even if they claimed otherwise.  There had to be limits, surely?  I’d bitched and moaned about my former commanding officers – some of whom had been time-servers, others dangerously unaware of the realities of modern war – and none of them had ever done anything like that!  And if they’d tried, their court-martial would be the shortest formality on record ...

“Fallon,” I managed.  I gave her a hug, but held her at arm’s length so she could see my face. “Will you marry me?”

I wondered, suddenly, what I’d do if she said no.  She had to be thinking it.  She wasn’t completely without options, far from it.  She had magic ... she didn’t need to marry a man technically old enough to be her father.  If she said no ... I tried not to think about the possibilities.  The child was mine.  I would be a part of his – or her – life and that was all there was to it. 

She looked up at me, eyes bright with tears.  “Do you ... do you want to marry me?”

My heart twisted.  She knew the realities of the world at a very primal level.  They were part of her life ... I told myself, savagely, that they were part of mine too.  I wasn’t the American soldier deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan or somewhere else now, not the person who did a tour of duty in a poor and wartorn country before shaking the sand out of my boots and going back home to the real world.  I wasn’t even an immigrant who could concede defeat and go back home.  Back on Earth, I’d been detached from the locals while I was on deployment.  Here ... I wasn’t.  And it was high time I accepted it.

“Yes,” I said, simply.  It wasn’t even a lie.  Fallon was beautiful and intelligent and she had magic, all of which made her an asset to an up-and-coming nobleman.  She might not have the birth for one of my exalted rank ... but neither did I! The very thought was absurd.  I doubted the aristocracy, or what remained of it, would be throwing their daughters at me.  “I do.”

I took a breath.  “I’ll make the arrangements at once.”  I wasn’t sure how the locals would react, when someone counted back and worked out that I’d impregnated Fallon before marrying her, but there was no point in taking chances.  “If you stay here as my Castellan ...”

“No.”  Fallon met my eyes, evenly.  “I’m coming with you.”

“The child ...”

“Will be perfectly safe,” Fallon said.  Her tone brooked no argument.  “Besides, you have to meet my parents.  Properly.”

“You have to take care,” I insisted.  I wasn’t sure what to say.  “Going into battle could ...”

“I will be perfectly safe,” Fallon repeated.  “I have faith in you.  And the army.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that.  The army might be the most powerful and capable force on the planet, at least as far as the locals were concerned, but to me it was dangerously ramshackle.  We’d expanded, and then expanded again, and again after that ... there were too many soldiers with too little training, very few of whom had seen any kind of fighting.  If my army had been armed with modern weapons and sent to battle a USMC company, the jarheads would have scattered us in short order.  I dreaded to think what would happen if the warlords, who had no qualms about hiring mercenaries, managed to catch us by surprise.  There were limits to how far we could train the men before the shit hit the fan.

“I hope you’re right,” I said, reluctantly.  Legally, once we were married, I could command her to stay behind.  Practically, even trying would destroy our marriage before we even tied the knot.  “Be careful.”

“I will.”  Fallon managed a smile.  “And now you’d better go see what Violet wants.”

I stood and bowed.  “Yes, My Lady.”

Chapter Five

“She told you, then?”  Violet shot me a mischievous look.  “I knew it!”

I stared at her.  “You knew?”

Violet smirked.  “You didn’t?”

Her face fell a second later.  I felt a twinge of pity.  I’d thought I’d had a hard childhood but compared to Violet I’d grown up in the lap of luxury.  Her mother had been a whore, from what little she’d told me, and she’d fled onto the streets when her mother’s pimp – a man I intended to kill if I ever met him – had started implying that Violet could take her mother’s place.  And even though she’d dressed as a young man, she’d been in constant danger.  If I’d been a regular nobleman when she tried to rob me, I’d have cut her down in a moment and left her to bleed out in the gutter.

“No,” I said.  I’d assumed it wasn’t going to happen.  Careless of me.  I’d had two kids already.  I knew I wasn’t infertile.  I knew men who’d had kids in their eighties and I was nowhere near that old.  “It never crossed my mind.”

Violet looked pained.  I could guess what she was thinking.  A man who fathered a child out of wedlock could pretend the child didn’t exist, if he wished.  She probably knew hundreds of women who’d been knocked up and then abandoned, left to raise their children in poverty or sell them into slavery or something even worse.  I wouldn’t do that – I wouldn’t – but who knew?  I could name a dozen politicians who’d railed against abortion on grounds of moral principles, only to secretly pay for abortions when unexpected pregnancies threatened to torpedo their lives and campaigns.  Bastards.  It wasn’t as if most political leaders couldn’t afford to raise an additional child.

“I’m going to marry her,” I said, unsure of why I was justifying myself to her.  “Anyway … what is the mood on the streets?”

Violet straightened.  I smiled inwardly.  Violet hadn’t had any education at all, at least until I’d taken her into my service, but she was smart.  Street-smart.  If there was anyone who could put their finger on the pulse of public mood, it was her.  She and her ring of spies could go anywhere, unseen and unremarked, and listen to the people as they spoke over beers or in the workplaces or everywhere else.  I paid them well too, giving them half the money to use as they saw fit and spending the other half on shelters and schools.  Given time, I told myself, life would become better for all the street children.  Besides, it was more than anyone else had ever done for them.

“There is a sense of cautious optimism,” Violet said, clasping her hands behind her back.  “The average man on the streets has a great deal of faith in you, after you returned from exile and kicked out the aristos who wanted to sell us out to the warlords.  They think you’ll win again, even though the warlords are powerful.  And there’s very little support for seeking any sort of peace.”

I nodded, stiffly.  The warlords had had a stranglehold on the kingdom for decades.  They’d been hated and feared … now, they were merely hated.  I’d taken a small army deep into Warlord Aldred’s lands and destroyed him; I’d crushed his armies, shattered his castles and freed his serfs.  The warlord had been unprepared for me – and I knew his peers had been working desperately to build up their armies ever since I turned their world upside down – but it had still been a decisive victory.  The balance of power had shifted.  The warlords knew they could no longer rely on raw numbers and brutality to maintain their supremacy.

And the numbers might well be on our side, I thought, wryly.  It’s astonishing how few of their serfs actually want to fight for them.

I leaned forward.  “How is this affecting recruiting?”

Violet smiled.  “A vast number of men say they’d join up in a heartbeat,” she told me.  “I’d say around a third of them actually will.”

I snorted.  It was easy to say one would go to war, but harder to do it.  The traditions that had shamed young Americans who’d refused to fight for their country didn’t exist here.  There was no sense the people had any real stake in their world, or that there would be any significant reward for serving their monarch.  Most of the population preferred to hide, or to stand on the sidelines and be a reward for the victor, rather than risk their own skins.  That was changing – it had already changed in some places – but it would be a long time before military service became a respectable occupation for commoners.  No matter how hard I worked to improve things, I feared it wouldn’t happen in my lifetime.

“We should have the numbers soon,” I said, shortly.  “It’s harder for the warlords now.”

The thought made me smile.  There were limits to how many serfs the warlords could pull from the fields and arm without risking revolt.  No one really liked the idea of bullying their own friends and families, let alone being forced to work their asses off for a warlord who barely left them enough to keep them alive.  One might as well expect black slaves to willingly fight for the Confederates!  Giving serfs weapons was always risky and the warlords would have to be desperate to do it in large numbers … and if they did, there was a very strong prospect of revolts in their rear.  I’d certainly done all I could to encourage them.  The warlords had tried to block communications between our lines and theirs, but no one could keep peasants and serfs from talking.  They knew Warlord Aldred had been crushed so completely his bloodline would never recover.

And we promised that anyone who rose against their master could keep their lands afterwards, I reminded myself.  They have to be aware of the danger from their own people.

My smile grew wider.  They were doing everything they could to build up their stockpiles of modern weaponry, or whatever passed for modern in this strange world, but their mindsets were still trapped in the 14th century.  They were used to small forces, armies that would vanish without a trace in the vast hosts that had fought the American Civil War, the First World War and even the Iraq War.  The bigger their armies, the harder it would be to exercise any kind of real control.  They’d have to trust their commanders – and their mercenaries – and they wouldn’t find it very easy.  Hell, if they gave me a couple of years, I’d steamroll them so efficiently half my armies wouldn’t even know they’d been in a fight.

Violet took a breath.  “There’s also a great deal of respect for your other improvements,” she said, slowly.  “The fresh water alone has done wonders for them.”

I nodded, curtly.  I still didn’t understand how a world could be aware of germs and yet not tell their population to boil water before they drank it.  Everyone drank beer – even the children – because the water simply wasn’t safe to drink unless you were a magician or extremely wealthy merchant or aristocrat.  I’d insisted on boiling water, washing hands and a hundred other simple precautions that saved lives if they were carried out religiously.  It would be several years, at best, before the plumbing reached the standards of Earth in the early 1900s, but we were improving that too.  There’d be one hell of a population boom in the next fifty years or so. 

“I guess they love me,” I said, dryly.  “What’s the bad news?”

Violet tensed.  I felt a pang of pity, then guilt.  She’d grown up in a world where shooting – or beheading – the messenger was regarded as a perfectly reasonable reaction to bad news.  It wasn’t safe to be the one bringing bad news to a man who could kill you in a heartbeat – and would, if he wanted to take his anger out on the nearest target.  I’d read the reports from the team assigned to work out what had happened, in the final days of Saddam’s regime, and they’d all agreed that no one had dared bring bad news to their dictator.  They’d been lying about everything, even as American tanks probed into Baghdad.  Idiots.  If the dictator had actually had a realistic idea of what his forces could do, he might have been able to make the invasion a great deal harder.

“I don’t punish people for telling me bad news, as long as it’s the truth,” I said, as reassuringly as possible.  I owed it to myself to try.  Violet would probably never trust me completely – she’d been kicked so many times she’d spend the rest of her life bracing herself for more kicks – but the more I showed myself a reasonable person, the more she’d be willing to tell me things I didn’t want to hear.  “What’s the bad news?”

I leaned back, trying to look unthreatening as she frowned.  “They don’t like the Black Roses,” she said, finally.  “They’re poking their noses into everything.”

I grimaced.  “In what way?”

“They come into shops, sometimes, and demand to know who is buying what,” Violet said, slowly.  “Or they ask about taxes and insist on seeing the accounts.  Other times … they break into bars and ask pointed questions, or simply march the streets in force.  The people don’t like it.”

I made a face.  I understood Helen’s determination to coup-proof her regime after the aristos had come very close to taking control, then marrying her off to some poor sucker, but if it was starting to cause resentment … I cursed under my breath.  The city’s tax system was a mess – it desperately needed reform – and fixing it would take years.  If the middle classes started to resent paying their taxes …

No taxation without representation, I thought, crossly.  And there’s very little representation here.

“It could be worse,” I said, finally.  “Have they found anything important?  Or dangerous?”

“Not as far as I know,” Violet said.  “But they did lock up a couple of men for saying they wouldn’t fight for the queen.”

I groaned, inwardly.  Nothing gave such ideas more credence than punishing people for saying them.  Nothing.  The more punishment was meted out, the more people believed in them even if they were unwilling to say it out loud.  And then … even if they didn’t believe, they still resented such treatment and it coloured their later attitudes to the world …

“I’ll have to do something about it,” I said, tiredly.  “Is it likely to cause problems?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said.  “It might.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “It might.”

I rubbed my forehead as I stared down at my desk – and the piles of paperwork that required my personal attention.  Someone – I forgot who – had said the French Revolution had been both the most predictable and unpredictable event in history.  On one hand, the French had been so badly mistreated by their government that revolt was inevitable; on the other, government repression had been so effective it was impossible to predict when the revolt would take place, let alone when it would buy the rebels enough time to put together a government of their own.  And the hatred had grown so intense – in France and Russia and many others – that there’d been no hope of a peaceful solution.

But the half-hearted attempts at reform only made things worse, I reminded myself.  Do our reforms go far enough?

I sighed, inwardly.  People without hope didn’t revolt.  People who had no sense things could get better saw no reason to risk their lives battering their heads against a brick wall.  But if they started to feel that things really were changing … I groaned.  Helen had signed an entire bunch of reforms into law, in the first days after she’d been restored to power, and the city’s aristocracy were no longer in any state to oppose them.  It was quite possible she’d whetted the people’s appetite for reform, to the point nothing she could reasonably give them would match the expectations she’d raised …

“We’ll just have to hope we can stay ahead of matters until we win the war,” I said, finally.  There was no longer any large pro-warlord faction in the city … and anyone who did support them would be keeping it very quiet, not when it was unlikely they’d survive long enough to face trial and execution.  Helen might or might not be that popular, but compared to the warlords she was as popular as the average overpaid celebrity.  “Afterwards, we can deal with the Black Roses.”

Violet raised her eyebrows.  “Will the Queen let you deal with them?”

I sighed, again.  The problem with wartime security measures was that they had a habit of lingering, like a bad stench, when the war was over.  Governments could be relied upon to take advantage of any emergency to increase their powers and make lives harder for anyone who opposed them, branding any dissent as treachery.  I didn’t blame Helen for wanting to secure her throne, yet it was only a matter of time before her security measures started turning people against her.  The TSA had been popular once, after 9/11, but that hadn’t lasted very long.  The only reason it wasn’t the most hated and loathed agency in the US was because it was up against some very stiff competition.

“I can try to talk her into disbanding them,” I said, finally.  “Or, at least, cutting back on their excesses.”

Violet didn’t look convinced.  I wasn’t convinced either.  Government agencies tended to grow and grow, no matter how many people demanded cuts.  It wasn’t easy to trim the fat when the agency’s leadership was fighting desperately to maintain their empires … hell, it was damn’ near impossible to reform an agency that was losing its way.  And then …

“We’ll see,” I said.  “But first we have to win the war.”

“The people are betting on you,” Violet said.  “They don’t want the old days to come back.”

“No one does,” I said.  “And we can’t afford to let ourselves get bogged down now.”

Violet nodded, then curtsied.  “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes,” I said.  “Keep an eye out for enemy agents.  They’ll be sneaking into the city if they’re not already here.”

Violet curtsied again and left the room.  I sighed, once again, as I looked down at the small mountain of paperwork.  One wouldn’t expect a primitive army – and city – to produce quite so much, but … I shook my head in quiet amusement as I started to flip through the sheets of parchment and papers.  I’d been training new clerks and yet, it would take time to train up enough to satisfy demand.  There just hadn’t been anywhere near enough educated people to handle the work when I’d arrived.  I’d had to start training the trainers before I could start training clerks.

It’ll be fixed in time, I told myself.  I’d been planning to rotate army officers between the front lines and the rear, to make sure they never lost track of what was important, but I didn’t have time to do that either.  Given time, we can fix everything.

I turned my attention to the map and frowned.  I’d hundreds of projects in mind – sewers, aqueducts and canals, factories – that would improve lives, if I ever managed to get them off the ground.  It wasn’t going to be easy to get any of them done, at least until I trained up more craftsmen and workers.  And yet … given time, the reforms would attain a momentum that would make them impossible to stop.  If the warlords gave me the time …

They won’t, I reminded myself.  They wouldn’t have sent that ultimatum if they hadn’t been sure they could best us in the field.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.  They had problems understanding me, but I had problems understanding them.  Their mindsets were … practically alien.  Keeping one’s property for the next generation was one thing, but keeping humans as property was quite another.  It was unthinkable and yet, I knew generations of humans had considered it very thinkable indeed.  There was no way I could talk them into letting their serfs go …

It might be worth mounting long-range raids into their territory, I thought.  The warlords patrolled the borderlines, making sure serfs couldn’t sneak out of their lands and hide in the cities.  If we can take out a few of their patrols, their population might desert completely.

My mind started to wander.  I was going to be a father.  Again.  How would I cope?  There was no way in hell I was going to turn my child over to the staff, not when I was determined to be a good father.  And yet … raising Martin and Jack had been difficult, not least because I’d been on deployment on a regular basis.  I’d left Cleo alone … the pain of coming home to discover she was cheating still stung, but now it was dulled by the grim awareness she really had been alone.  Would Fallon feel I’d left her behind too?

There was a knock at the door.  I looked up.  “Come.”

A messenger entered, looking as conceited as only a fool of a young man could look.  “My Lord, Her Majesty demands your presence.”

My earlier thoughts mocked me.  The messenger was annoying.  Sure, he was doing his duty, but … I shook my head.  It didn’t matter.  He was nothing more than a messenger, carrying messages for his mistress.  The locals thought of them as the organ-grinder’s tame monkey, with all the unpleasantness that implied.

“Thank you for informing me,” I said, calmly.  There was nothing to be gained by snapping at him.  He was only following orders.  “Please let Her Majesty know I’ll be along as soon as possible.”

Chapter Six

“You’re looking remarkably happy,” Helen said, once I was shown into her private reception room.  We weren’t entirely alone, I was sure, but her guards and servants knew to keep their mouths closed these days.  “Should I be concerned?”

I hesitated, unsure what to say.  Helen was remarkably perceptive when it came to reading people.  She’d had no choice but to learn.  The Royal Court had been a snake pit even before her father’s death and the purge of the untrustworthy aristos who had committed the dreaded sin of launching a coup and then losing.  She knew how to tell what a person was really thinking and … I honestly wasn’t sure what to say.  I wasn’t even sure of my own feelings.  But there was no point in trying to deny it.

“Fallon and I are expecting a child,” I said, finally.  “And she has agreed to marry me.”

Helen’s face became a blank mask.  I suspected that was a bad sign.  She was very good at presenting the image she wanted, to the point she was also the most capable liar I’d ever met.  I’d seen her embrace men I knew she wanted dead and offer no support to people she wanted on her side.  That she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say – or think – now … I didn’t know what it meant.  I doubted she wanted to marry me.  Even if she did, she had a duty to marry someone who would strengthen her throne.

And someone who won’t try to take it from her, my thoughts mocked.  Such a paragon will not be easy to find.

“You should have told me,” Helen said, finally.  “Your private life is not your own.”

I frowned.  “It’s my private life,” I said.  “Does it matter …?”

“You are one of the most powerful noblemen in the kingdom,” Helen pointed out, sharply.  I could have kicked myself.  “Your marriage is a matter of public concern.  Your wedding day is – will be – the social event of the year.  And whoever you marry will enter society at a very high level indeed.”

“I’m not that important,” I said.  Helen was deluding herself if she thought the aristos would ever see me as anything other than a jumped-up mercenary.  They’d hated me from the moment she made me her warlord, looking down on me as someone who’d lucked into a post that should have been theirs by right.  I doubted any of them would willingly attend my wedding.  And they’d had few qualms about spreading the worst sort of lies about our relationship.  “And our wedding will be simple …”

Helen shook her head.  “You cannot afford not to invite everyone with a title,” she said, curtly.  “If you don’t, they’ll see it as an insult.”

I felt a hot flash of anger, mingled with the grim awareness Helen was as much a creature of her society as her aristocracy, or what remained of them.  It was like high school all over again, only worse.  If you were invited to all the best parties, you were a winner; if you were never invited at all, you were so much a loser the other losers would look down on you.  And here … I wondered, idly, how many aristos would willingly attend my wedding if I invited them.  I certainly didn’t want them.  They’d be waiting for the chance to lodge an objection.

“Fallon is a magician, which makes her better than a commoner,” Helen continued.  “But she comes from commoner stock and they’ll look down on her.”

I placed firm controls on my anger.  “Are you saying I shouldn’t marry her?”

Helen met my eyes.  “I’m saying you might be better off, politically speaking, to marry someone with better connections.”

I shook my head.  There was no way in hell I wanted to marry an aristo’s daughter, particularly one whose father had told her she was going to marry me and bear my children or else.  I doubted any candidate would be allowed to say no and that meant, if I married her, I’d be a de facto rapist.  I’d hung rapists!  And besides … there was no way in hell, either, that I was going to allow my child to grow up without a proper father.  I was going to make an honest woman of Fallon and that was all there was to it.

“She’s pregnant,” I said.  I didn’t know if Helen knew Fallon was pregnant.  She was very perceptive, but … she hadn’t said anything to me about it.  “And I won’t let my child grow up without a father.”

Helen looked irked, just for a second.  I sighed inwardly.  What was she expecting me to do?  Marry Fallon off to someone who’d accept the child as his own?  Give her a payment and tell her to keep the child out of my life?  Or … pretend the child was a distant relative and never acknowledge him as my own?  No.  I couldn’t do anything like that.  The child would have a proper father even if that meant taking Fallon and lighting out for somewhere else, leaving my post and property behind.  I wondered if Helen truly thought I’d do it.  Most aristocrats would sooner die than give up their property and titles.

But then, they were raised to believe the property and titles were theirs by right, I thought, tiredly.  I’d realised, the day I arrived in the city, just how easily I could lose everything if the balance of power shifted in the wrong direction.  I had contingency plans for leaving without looking back if the alternative was being executed.  I never had anything of the sort when I grew up.

“You need to plan for a proper wedding,” Helen said, finally.  I wondered, suddenly, if she’d been planning my marriage.  No one would have batted an eyelid if I’d married well and kept Fallon as a mistress.  Bastards.  “But now, we have other matters to concern ourselves.”

She leaned back and held out a scroll, the wax seal dangling uselessly.  I felt a tingle as I took the parchment, something that never failed to disturb me at a very primal level.  Magic was an integral part of my new world and yet … I shook my head as I scanned the document, parsing out the words one by one.  It was written in an archaic manner that was difficult to follow, the tiny handwriting only making it harder to understand.  And whoever had written it had spent several paragraphs flattering Helen before coming to the point.  I felt a twinge of disgust.  The writer was practically leaving a trail of saliva on her boots.

“We received the message only an hour ago,” Helen said, as I parsed out the final words one by one.  “Warlord Cuthbert’s forces are on the march, probing south into what remains of Warlord Aldred’s territory and heading towards Damansara.  The City Fathers have requested our help as a matter of urgency.”

I nodded, sourly.  I knew the City Fathers.  They’d used me and discarded me without bothering to praise me.  If they were asking for help now … I wondered, sourly, what had happened to the army I’d built for them.  It hadn’t been that long since I’d left the city … not long enough, surely, for the army to fall to ruin?  The city had experienced military leaders and infantry, to say nothing of factories and workshops churning out newer and better weaponry.  I found it hard to believe they were that desperate.

But if Cuthbert has better weapons of his own, the city might be vulnerable, I thought.  And they’ll have to sell out for the best terms they can get.

“They might have a point,” I conceded, ruefully.  “If Cuthbert has cannons, the city’s walls will provide very little protection.”

It was a thoroughly disturbing thought.  Damansara had been impregnable when I’d arrived in the new world, although – given time – the city could have been starved into submission.  The walls were just too strong to allow enemy troops to storm the city, not without losing so many lives that the serfs might have risen successfully and freed themselves.  But if the walls could be battered down … I shuddered, all too aware the fall would be followed by an orgy of looting, raping and burning that would leave the population slaughtered and the city in ruins.  It would be a nightmare that would make the worst atrocities of Islamic State look like nothing.

I turned my eyes to the map.  We needed Damansara as a base if we wanted to strike north and take out Cuthbert before his allies could mobilise and threaten us from the south.  He knew it too – I assumed he could read a map – and that meant he had to take the city, or at least neutralise it, before we could get there in force.  The city wasn’t exactly an easy target – I’d made sure of that – but the City Fathers wouldn’t sell their lives for their queen.  If they thought there was no hope of relief, they’d sell out.  And then …

They’ll have to disarm, at the very least, I thought.  And then they’ll be defenceless when the warlord starts making more and more demands.

“They need help,” Helen said.  “And we have to prove we can help them.”

I nodded.  Damansara wasn’t the only semi-independent city-state.  There were others, arming themselves to stand against their tormentors and yet unsure they could rely on us to come to their aid.  If Helen proved she could and would send her troops to protect her allies, they’d be reassured and switch sides … I looked at the map, silently contemplating what would happen if half the cities joined us.  The warlords would rapidly find themselves outnumbered and outgunned.  And they’d lose.

Helen tapped the map.  “Can we help them?”

I nodded.  “We were already making preparations to thrust north,” I said.  I’d hoped for more time, but it was the one thing the warlords knew not to give me.  “I should be able to push out a sizable force …”

My eyes narrowed.  The railroad network wasn’t anything like as extensive as I’d wished.  We had a single track running north and that was it.  I’d hoped to be able to rush troops to the border, as Prussia had done in 1871, but it wasn’t going to happen.  Not yet.  I’d need to march most of the force north, which would put some very solid limits on just how many men I could send …

I glanced at her.  “It should be doable,” I told her.  “We could be off in a day or two.”

Helen looked surprised.  “So quickly?”

“The faster we move, the less time they’ll have to prepare for us,” I said.  I understood her surprise.  Most local armies moved like tortoises.  The cavalry was faster, of course, but men on horseback couldn’t do that much against an army with modern weapons.  I’d shredded Aldred’s first offensive when his cavalry had charged straight into my guns.  It had been like shooting fish in a barrel.  I would have felt guilty if I hadn’t known exactly what they wanted to do to the people behind me.  “And if we can best them in the field, immediately, we might bring his whole edifice tumbling down.”

I smiled.  Helen wouldn’t want to know all the details.  I didn’t intend to tell her how I’d be sending more and more agents north, making contact with rebels and dissidents and turning them into assets.  The warlord wouldn’t be able to cling to power if we destroyed his army in a single terrible blow.  His serfs would rise against him, while the lesser nobility would start reassessing their positions … it was unlikely, I thought, we could get them to turn on their master, but it was worth a try.  We stood to lose nothing and gain much. 

“We have an opportunity we can’t miss,” I said.  “At the very least, crushing his army will render him powerless before his allies can intervene.”

Helen nodded.  She didn’t lack for nerve.  “Do it,” she said.  “And don’t let him tie you down.”

I shrugged.  That wasn’t going to happy.  My men knew how to march at speeds the locals had thought impossible.  If I ran into defence lines I couldn’t handle, I could simply march around them and take the enemy in the rear, or pin them down if there was no way to break the lines without heavy losses.  My logistics system was a joke, compared to the system back home, but it was so much better than anything local that everyone was delighted.  The usual risks of settling down to lay siege to a castle – or a city – simply didn’t apply to us.

“I won’t let you down,” I promised.  “Once Cuthbert is gone, we can deal with the others.”

Helen nodded.  “I want him dead,” she said.  “You understand me?  No promises.  No deals.  No chance for him to come back and regain his powers.  I want him dead.”

“I understand,” I said.  Helen hated all the warlords, but her hatred for Cuthbert was deeply personal.  He’d undermined her father, turned her aristocrats against her, plotted to marry her – rape her – and God alone knew what else.  There was no way in hell she’d leave him alive, once she had him at her mercy.  I just hoped she wouldn’t slaughter his entire family.  The warlords would fight harder if they thought their entire existence was at stake.  “What about his clients?”

Helen scowled.  “If they bend the knee to me, and prove with their words and deeds they are willing to serve me, they can live,” she said.  “But they will never be trusted and they will never be allowed enough independence to become a threat.”

I met her eyes.  “If you keep the boot on their necks, they will resent it and they will turn against you,” I said.  There were limits to how much you could punish someone, even for the worst crimes, even if they understood their guilt, before they started resenting their treatment and plotting revenge.  It was the old problem.  If you failed to offer the chance of redemption and forgiveness, what was the point of trying for it?  “We need to either drive them out for good or offer them a way back into your good graces.”

“They were never in my good graces,” Helen muttered.  Her eyes darkened as she studied the map.  “But if we drive them out …”

I knew what she was thinking.  She did have some aristo supporters, either through genuine faith in her or the awareness she’d take their lands and redistribute them if they didn’t support her.  If she set a precedent for destroying entire families … I winced.  It would be so much better if the aristocracy was unceremoniously terminated, their lands handed out to their workers and the aristocrats themselves sent into permanent exile, but it wasn’t going to happen.  And yet, I knew what would happen if we missed the chance for permanent reform.  Jim Crow might never have raised its ugly head if the plantations had been destroyed, the land handed over to the former slaves … how long would it be, I asked myself, before the aristocracy regained its power?

Not as long as I’m alive, I thought, darkly.

“If they bend the knee to me, they will have a chance,” she said.  “But there will be no second chances.”

I carefully didn’t show my relief.  I suspected she saw it anyway.

“I can issue the orders now, with the lead elements leaving tonight or tomorrow morning,” I said.  I wanted to send the cavalry to sweep the countryside, just to make sure the enemy wasn’t planning to be cute.  “Is there anything else we need to address?”

“Just one,” Helen said.  “You issued standing orders that mercenaries were to be executed on the spot.”

I nodded.  The irony hadn’t escaped me – everything thought I was a mercenary – but I saw no choice.  The warlords were hiring every mercenary they could convince to take their money and I wanted to try to convince the mercenaries they would be better off seeking employment elsewhere.  It wasn’t that much of a risk.  Normal monarchs were reluctant to crack down on mercenaries because they might wind up needing mercenaries themselves, but Helen had plenty of volunteers.  She didn’t need to hire outsiders.  And besides, a policy of hanging mercenaries wherever we found them would be astonishingly popular.  The people would forgive us much, if we killed every last mercenary.

“Cancel the order,” Helen said.  “It will cause too many problems.”

I shook my head, without thinking.  “We don’t need them,” I said.  “And we’ll be undermining the warlords by forcing their mercenaries to go elsewhere.”

“And we don’t need the mercenary guilds joining up against us,” Helen said, sharply.  “If they all join the warlords, it could cost us everything.”

I doubted it.  There were hundreds of thousands of mercenaries scattered across the Allied Lands, perhaps more, but they weren’t going to unite against us.  Mercenaries didn’t want to die for a point of principle, not when they wouldn’t get to live and enjoy their reward.  Why go to war against a monarch who would execute you if you were captured, when there were other monarchs who’d treat you with kid gloves?  They might need mercenaries themselves one day.

“They won’t march to their deaths,” I told her.  “And if they think death is all that awaits them, they won’t march at all.”

“I hope you’re right,” Helen said.  “Because if you’re wrong …”

“I will stake my life on it,” I said, unable to escape the awareness that was exactly what I was doing.  “We will move fast and break things and then we will return in time for the wedding.”

Helen smiled, rather dryly.  “Go issue your orders,” she said.  “And tell my secretary to send in Lord Jacob as you pass.”

I nodded.  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Chapter Seven

“I want you and your troop to scout ahead of us,” I told Sir Ransom.  “If there are any problems, from enemy pickets to dropped bridges, I want to know about them.”

Sir Ransom nodded.  I studied him thoughtfully.  He was supposed to be a good and capable cavalry officer, with enough common sense to break off and run if he encountered something he couldn’t handle, but I feared what he’d do once he was out of my sight.  He wanted glory and I was sure he’d do whatever it took to win it, even if it meant going against my direct orders.  And there was little I could do about it.  I couldn’t ride with him, I couldn’t send a trusted subordinate to accompany him, I couldn’t even hammer the message home without turning him against me.  The young man was a prideful ass.

“We cannot afford surprises,” I told him, firmly.  “You must inform me the moment you run into trouble.”

He bowed, then left the office as I dismissed him.  I scowled at his back, then turned my attention to the map.  It was better than the last set of maps, but I knew not to take it too seriously.  Some places were depicted as being right next to each other, even though they were dozens of miles apart, and others were so far out of proportion it was easy to believe they were larger than the biggest city in America.  I’d done everything I could to hire teams of proper surveyors and mapmakers, but there were limits.  The warlords – of course – hadn’t allowed us to map their territory.

But at least we were able to talk to refugees, I thought.  The maps still weren’t very good, but we weren’t advancing completely into the unknown.  We know more about their territory than they might wish.

I sighed inwardly.  I’d spent the last few hours mustering the troops, issuing orders and working frantically to patch up the holes in my organisational structure.  My plans had looked good on paper – plans always did – but real life had cruelly exposed all the problems that my planning hadn’t taken into account.  I had officers who were supposed to be in two places at once, infantrymen who were confused about when and where they should report to their officers and a logistics system that – if I’d been back home – would have earned me an instant court-martial and dishonourable discharge, if my CO didn’t simply shoot me in the face and blame it on the enemy.  It was astonishing how much supplies an army needed, particularly one that wasn’t allowed to live off the land.  And if I didn’t keep my army fed, I wouldn’t be able to keep them from looting.

And that will turn hearts and minds against us, I reflected sourly.  The locals regarded soldiers as little better than hordes of locusts, regardless of which side they were on.  I was doing what I could to change that, but it would be a long time before the peasants and tradesmen started to regard soldier as an honourable occupation.  And until then they will happily betray us to the warlords in the hope we’ll kill each other off.

I finished scanning the paperwork – I hoped and prayed the logistics train would hold up long enough to get the army to Damansara – and then headed outside.  The makeshift army camp – it looked terrifyingly fragile, by local standards – was heaving with life, thousands of men and hundreds of horses moving around as they formed up into units and marched out to join the units readying themselves for the march.  I pretended to ignore the long line of soldiers outside the brothel, trying to get laid one last time before they started the march upcountry.  I’d put the brothels under military control, ensuring they had far better hygiene than the average whorehouse back home, but I was still in two minds about the whole affair.  I knew my men would be trying to get laid, with or without my approval, and yet I wasn’t sure how many of the whores had entered the whorehouses willingly.  They were well paid and yet … I shook my head.  I’d banished their pimps and given them the chance to leave.  They still could, when they’d saved enough money to open their own shops.  I’d heard some of them had been quite successful.

And yet … I put the thought out of my head as I made my way across the training ground to the artillery range.  The cannoneers were already hooking their guns to horses, readying themselves for the march.  Behind them, the supply wagons were being checked and checked again.  I swept my eyes over the cannons, makeshift machine guns and mortars, scowling inwardly as the officers saluted.  I’d have to have a word with them about that later.  The enemy rifles were probably no more accurate than our own – a lone rifleman would have trouble hitting the broadside of a barn – but their archers were surprisingly good.  The last thing I needed was an arrow through the head and if my officers kept saluting me, they’d mark me out as a target.

Particularly as I don’t look like a typical officer, I reflected.  The average aristocratic officer looked like a dandy out of a Regency romance, decked out in bright colours to ensure everyone knew who he was.  That was going to change in a hurry, I was sure.  I’d already given orders to my gunners to shoot at anyone who looked like a human peacock.  If the enemy scouts have any sense at all, they’ll work out who I am from the salutes.

“Sir,” Colonel Hammersmith said.  He was a burly man, born on the wrong side of the blanket.  He’d had trouble finding any sort of employment until I’d come along and offended social propriety by offering him a job.  “We are ready to march on your command.”

I nodded, taking a moment to sweep my eyes up and down the crude formation.  I’d taken pains to ensure that the artillery had an escort, just to be sure they had time to deploy if they ran into trouble.  Unhitching cannons and bringing them to bear on their targets was a cumbersome task at the best of times, harder still if the enemy was charging the guns in a bid to overrun them before they could open fire.  I had no idea how my gunners would react, when someone tried to re-enact the Charge of the Light Brigade.  Would they remain calm, unlimber their guns and open fire, or would they panic and run?  There were limits to how realistic we could make the training and very few of my men were blooded in real combat …

“Very good,” I said.  I trusted him to know his job, but I had to check.  “Did you practice deploying while on the move?”

“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith said.  If he had any doubts, he didn’t show them.  “We can bring the guns to bear very quickly.”

I nodded and headed on.  There was no way to be sure how his troops would react when they got their first taste of combat.  I knew someone who’d done very well in basic training and wet himself the first time real enemies started shooting at him.  No matter how hard you pushed the training, it was still training and you weren’t really trying to kill the trainees.  Drill Instructors weren’t real monsters … the thought made me smile as I rounded the corner and inspected the riflemen, drilling frantically in preparation for the march.  It looked as if they were mastering their trade and yet … I sighed inwardly, wishing I didn’t have to think about it.  I’d worked hard to train my subordinates, to raise a whole corps of training officers and instructors who knew how to prepare men for combat, but far too many of them hadn’t seen the elephant.  And others had been quite unsuitable for the role.  I’d dismissed four and hanged two and yet, their malignant influence lingered on.  It would be years, at best, before new recruits learnt to trust the system.

The air seemed to tingle around me as I neared the spellcasters and knocked politely on the door.  The majority of my magicians were young women, too weak in the magical arts to be given proper training … or so I’d been told.  I had my doubts.  Fallon was advancing in leaps and bounds, now that I’d hired a private tutor.  I wished I had a few more powerful magicians attached to the army, even though … I didn’t want to think about the warlock who’d kidnapped me only a few short months ago.  It felt … I wouldn’t have minded if I’d been bested in unarmed combat, but magic … it felt as if I’d been fighting with Superman.  No matter how hard I trained, there was no way I’d ever match him.  And if Superman had been real, our society on Earth would have developed one hell of an inferiority complex.

“Sir,” Lady Jayne said.  She was older than the average magician, more of a den mother and chaperone than a military officer.  I’d given her a provisional rank, hoping her department could be more formalised later on.  “We’re ready to march too.”

My lips quirked.  The magicians – male and female alike – would be riding in coaches, rather than horseback or marching on their own two feet.  It would provoke envy and resentment, I was sure, yet better that than the alternatives.  If the infantry decided to harass the women … it would be terminally unwise, but men on deployment tended to lose common sense when they were feeling deprived.  It would end badly, if I let it.  I didn’t intend to let anything get out of control …

“Good,” I said, dismissing the thought.  “Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” Lady Jayne said.  “I’ve consulted with magicians in Damansara and they insist they can supply us with everything we need if we run short.”

I nodded.  There’d been a long argument, during the planning sessions, about drawing supplies from the city.  Damansara was becoming a factory town, after all, and its weapons were some of the best in the known world.  In theory, the city could give us everything we needed.  In practice, I wasn’t so sure.  It was unwise to become completely dependent on one’s friends and the city wasn’t exactly our friend.  The City Fathers, given time, would come to regard Queen Helen as a threat to their independence, just like the warlords.  And they would be reluctant to supply us with anything they might be used against them.

“As long as you have what you need for the march, and the first engagements,” I said.  “We can bring up more if we need them.”

I glance from magician to magician, feeling a twinge of … not unease, not really, but absurdity.  Many of them were teenage girls, not real soldiers.  It felt absurd to even consider sending them into battle.  And yet, I had no choice.  I needed them to handle communications so I could coordinate my forces and remain in touch with the queen.  I’d just have to hope they could handle the job.

“They’ll be ready,” Lady Jayne assured me.  “And we can defend ourselves if need be.”

I hoped she was right.  I feared she wasn’t.  The girls in front of me, eying me with a mix of interest, calculation and dismissal, were almost completely untrained.  I’d felt the power of a far greater sorcerer and even he had been minor, compared to some of the greats.  Or so I’d been told.  The stories seemed wild, so wild I could barely believe them… and yet, some were true.  There had been a network of portals linking the major cities together, only a few months ago.  No one was quite sure why the network had collapsed, or what was happening further west.  What few stories we’d heard hadn’t made any sense.

“Remember your orders,” I said.  “If you run into trouble, retreat at once.”

The girls looked unimpressed.  I hoped they’d have the sense to listen.  They weren’t that powerful.  I doubted anyone would try to take them alive either, once they realised what the girls actually were.  Perhaps it would have been wiser to spread claims that they were my private harem, and that I’d dragged them along so I didn’t have to go a day without sex.  It would have been believable – I’d had to dismiss an officer who turned up with enough baggage for a small army – but they’d never have forgiven me.  Besides, it would have made them targets.

I nodded to them, then turned and left the building.  They’d be ready to ride and that was all that mattered.  It was a shame they couldn’t do much more – their fireballs were devastating, but hardly game-changing – but I had to make do with what I had.  I put the thought out of my mind as I made my way down to the infantry training grounds, where the men were marching up and down.  My staff appeared to be doing a very good job.

But too many men haven’t seen the elephant, I reminded myself, once again.  How many are going to break and run when the bullets start flying?

The thought haunted me as I walked back to the garrison and peered at my small army of clerks.  The staff – mostly young women – barely noticed as I stepped past.  It felt wrong to construct a bureaucratic edifice – I’d always felt the army bureaucracy was a greater enemy than terrorists, insurgents and enemy soldiers – but I had no choice.  The bigger the army, the more bureaucracy you needed to maintain it.  It was going to be a struggle, in the months and years to come, to keep the bureaucrats from strangling the life out of the army. 

And these young women won’t be going to war, I thought, coldly.  They won’t ever know what’s important.

I sighed inwardly as I stepped into my office and stopped, dead.  Fallon was sitting on my desk, waiting.  I tried not to wince.  We might be lovers, and we were going to get married, but that didn’t mean she was allowed to walk into my office without permission.  People would talk.  It wouldn’t be long before they started asking if the only reason she got the job was because she was sleeping with me.  I’d seen it happen back home, even though my society was – on paper – far more equal.  I knew one female officer who’d been damn’ good at her job and still had people wondering if she’d slept her way to her post.  Bastards.

“We need to talk,” she said.  A shiver ran down my spine.  It always boded ill when someone started a conversation with that.  “You’re marching out tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.  There was no point in denying it.  “You need to stay here …”

“No.”  Fallon stood and met my eyes.  “I’m coming with you.”

I hesitated, suddenly unsure of what to say.  There was no way I could guarantee her safety if she marched with me.  I wanted her to stay home, where she’d be safe.  And yet …

“You’re pregnant,” I said, finally.  “If you march to war, the baby …”

“The baby will be fine,” Fallon said, cutting me off.  “I should be coming with you.”

I hesitated, again.  Technically, I had the power to tell her she was staying behind and make it stick.  Our relationship was complex, to say the least, but … I doubted it would survive if I ordered her to do as I said.  She was hardly the sort of woman to accept her future husband’s orders without question.  And yet …

“There will be a very real risk to you specifically,” I said, finally.  Warlord Cuthbert might ransom the rest of the girls, if they fell into his clutches, but Fallon was probably on his kill list.  The warlords hated me personally and, unlike Helen, there was nothing to be gained by keeping Fallon alive.  They’d kill her just to make me suffer.  “If they capture you …”

Fallon glared.  I felt the air tingle around me.  “I knew the risks when I joined up,” she said, tartly.  “They haven’t changed …”

“Back then, you were just another young woman with a talent for magic,” I reminded her.  “Now, you’re going to be my wife.”

“And what sort of wife would I be if I let you go into danger without me?”  Fallon looked me up and down.  “Do I actually have a role here, in the mansion?”

I hesitated, once again.  The hell of it was that she had a point.  A regular aristocratic wife was the mistress of the household, her husband’s regent when he went off to war.  The idea of one of them sitting around looking pretty was absurd, particularly after she’d had a child or two.  She had the training to handle everything, the training Fallon lacked.  I wanted to point out she could continue her studies, or continue serving the queen, but … the words refused to form.  I didn’t want to let her out of my sight either.

“It will be dangerous,” I said, finally.  I really wasn’t keen on the idea of risking both her and the baby and yet, I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t listen if I told her to stay.  “And we’ll have to avoid being too affectionate, on the march.”

Fallon grinned.  “You mean I won’t have to kiss you?  How … terrible.”

I had to smile, despite my fears.  “I’m sure you’ll survive,” I said, dryly.  I would have to tell Helen I was taking Fallon, then make arrangements for her to ride with the magicians.  “We leave at first light.”

“I’ll be ready,” Fallon said.  “I’ve already packed.”

Chapter Eight

We marched at first light.

Despite the hour, there were surprisingly large crowds gathered to bid us farewell.  Helen sat on a horse and watched as we marched past the makeshift review stand and headed north, while hundreds of wives, children and ladies of pleasure waved goodbye.  The latter had been paid to be there – I wanted my troops to feel that the population supported them – but the former were something of a surprise.  Perhaps it shouldn’t have been.  My army might be small, compared to the armies back home, but it still drew from a surprisingly wide range of social classes.  They were not the scum of the earth, enlisted for drink.  They were the children of merchants and tailors as well as labourers and noblemen.  And their relatives were more than happy to support the troops.

I marched, too.  The trick to keeping men loyal, to convincing them to put everything on the line for you, is to make it clear that you share their experiences.  You eat the same food, you drink the same drinks, you march when they march and ride when they ride … it is important, true, to keep a line between officers and enlisted men, but when that line becomes an impassable gulf, it is only a matter of time before the army breaks.  Nothing spurs hatred and resentment more than a marching infantryman watching an officer canter past, or dining on the choicest meats while pawing at a courtesan who obviously didn’t want to be there.  The Russians hadn’t known, in 1917, what would happen when the gulf became a yawning void.  I did – and I had no intention of letting it happen to me.

The marching wasn’t that bad, not compared to some of the forced marches of old.  Our kit was actually lighter, and most of our supplies were carried in the baggage train.  The railroad engine puffed past, dangerously slow to my eyes and yet capable of mustering a constant pace that would – eventually – leave both the infantry and cavalry in the dust.  I couldn’t help thinking of the old stories about railroads pushing further and further into the Wild West and bringing civilisation with them, binding the states together for better or worse.  It was just a matter of time before someone decided to try to rob a train …

I smiled at the thought.  Our rail tracks were decidedly fragile, compared to the tracks back home, but they had the great advantage of being easy to repair.  I’d made sure the locomotive crews could and would fix any problems they encountered, without having to remain in one place long enough to invite attack.  The trains themselves were armoured, with railway troops assigned to cover the crews as they drove their engines north.  Anyone planning a repeat of the Great Train Robbery was in for an unfortunate surprise.  I hoped they choked on it.

The men marched on, some grumbling under their breaths.  I pretended to ignore it.  I’d have been more worried if they weren’t, although – as we marched – I was sure they would grow too tired to grumble.  I kept a wary eye on the rough formations as we kept going, leaving the city far behind.  The air grew hot and dry, sweat prickling down my back as the sun beat down.  The troops swigged from their canteens, without breaking step.  I hoped they had the sense to follow orders and not drink their canteens dry in a hurry.  We had more water in the baggage train, but there were limits.  My plans to bring the wonders of modern irrigation techniques to the farmers had never got off the ground, while I doubted we could trust the local water sources forever.  If I was in Cuthbert’s shoes, I’d have planned to poison the local oasis.  It would make me about as popular as a mercenary, one or two steps down from a child molester, but if it worked …

I put the thought aside as I moved from regiment to regiment, making sure to be seen.  The men were more spread out now, the overall formation growing ragged as some men fell to the rear, but they kept going.  I wasn’t surprised.  Tight formations were the stuff of movies, not real life … certainly not when we might be heading straight into combat.  The cavalry hadn’t spotted any threats, but I was morbidly sure something would happen before too long.  The land was vast and modern communications almost non-existent.  A smart enemy could get into position for an ambush, then strike before we saw him coming. 

The day wore on.  We paused for a short break, then resumed the march.  I frowned inwardly as we passed through a small town, seemingly as abandoned as the ghost towns I’d seen out in Nebraska.  I was fairly sure the population had taken one look at the advancing army and scattered, hiding their women and children while driving their animals into the countryside and out of our path.  I didn’t blame them.  I’d hammered the point home, time and time again, that anyone who committed crimes against the civilian population would be hanged, but no civilian in this world would believe me.  Why should they?  They had so much experience of local armies that they had no reason to think my army might be different.

We’ll convince them in time, I told myself, as we left the deserted town behind.  And then things will be different.

We camped – for a given value of camped – on the edge of the desert.  I kept walking, even as the men settled down on bedrolls for the night, making sure I was seen eating field rations and drinking boiled water.  The men looked tired, but happy.  Most of them had passed their personal humps long ago, learning how to tap into reserves of energy they hadn’t known they possessed.  I exchanged nods with the march leaders, the ones who’d taken the lead and stayed in front, making mental notes to ensure they were on the short lists for promotion.  I wanted to draw my officers from the enlisted men, so they knew what it was like to be in the ranks.  It would cut down on the number of stupid greenie lieutenants who had to learn their lessons in someone else’s blood.

I wanted to go to Fallon as I finished my survey and posted pickets along the edge of the campsite, but I knew I couldn’t.  Instead, I turned and surveyed the scene.  It was remarkable – campfires, hundreds of campfires, lit up the darkness, threatening to turn light into day.  There was no hope of keeping our location a secret … not, I thought, that that had ever been possible.  If the warlords didn’t have spies keeping an eye on the city from a safe distance, I’d be very disappointed in them.  There might even be cavalry watching us march north … I peered into the darkness, wondering who or what was looking back at me.  If nothing else, the sheer speed of our march should have shocked any watching eyes.  The men had marched faster than anyone could reasonably have expected …

Don’t get cocky, I reminded myself.  Warlord Aldred’s men had been nothing more than glorified thugs.  Dangerous to unarmed civilians, particularly ones who had been beaten into submission, but no threat at all to disciplined men with weapons and the knowledge to use them.  Did the warlords understand their own weaknesses?  Were they trying to correct them?  Could they?  You don’t know what they might be doing, under the fog of war.

The thought haunted me as I slept lightly, ate the same breakfast as everyone else and led the army onwards.  We marched through more and more deserted towns, then crossed swathes of semi-habitable land that needed more water to be turned into proper farmland, then … I felt my eyes start to tire as we kept moving, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm me.  I cursed under my breath as I forced myself to keep going, eyes swinging from side to side to watch for possible threats.  The air tasted of sand, smoke and human despair.  I wondered, as we passed through the remains of a small community, if there was anything we could do to save the land.  The hamlet hadn’t been attacked, as far as I could tell.  It didn’t look as though a horde of human locusts had ravaged it from one end to the other.  I thought the farmers had just … given up.  I didn’t blame them.  It was hard enough growing crops even when rampaging armies and taxmen weren’t stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.

I looked up as a cavalry trooper galloped towards me.  “Sir,” Sir Ransom said.  “We have a problem.”

“What?”  I should have been calmer, but I could taste dust in my throat.  “What’s happened?”

“The Marquis of Winter is blocking the railway track,” Sir Ransom told me.  “He’s demanding a toll to cross the bridge.”

I scowled, then scrambled up onto the horse.  “Take me there,” I ordered, as I sat behind him.  It would make me a laughingstock, if anyone had the energy to notice, but I found it hard to care.  The only other option was pitching him off his own horse and forcing him to walk behind me and that was even worse.  “Now.”

Sir Ransom didn’t bother to argue.  He merely pushed the horse into a gallop.  I took advantage of the chance to take a drink and rub my eyes, then peered into the distance as the Marquis’s lands came into view.  The Marquis of Winter – and that was an ironic name, given how few locals experienced winter – was supposed to be loyal to the queen, and we’d built a railroad bridge on his property, but I doubted he cared one jot for his monarch.  He was the sort of person who’d take all he could get, then come up with a legalistic excuse for not keeping his side of the bargain.  If we hadn’t needed to build a bridge on his lands … it would have been easy to march the army around his lands, or over them, but the railroad was a different story.  We needed that bridge if we wanted the track to run as straight as possible …

My mood darkened when I saw his lands.  The serfs in the fields looked beaten down; the fields themselves looked dry, as if the only thing keeping them alive was near-constant tending … I suspected, looking at them, that it wouldn’t be long before the crops simply died, condemning the serfs to die too.  I ground my teeth in frustration as the serfs huddled into themselves.  Helen had freed the serfs and slaves, but clearly the Marquis of Winter hadn’t gotten the message.  No doubt he’d come up with some legalistic debt bondage shit to justify himself to all and sundry.

“The train has been stopped by the near side of the bridge,” Sir Ransom said.  “The guards have been ordered to remain by the train.”

I nodded, stiffly, as I took in the scene.  The railway bridge sat next to a far older footbridge and a castle that reminded me of an elaborate sandcastle, complete with the sense it wouldn’t last long once the waves started lapping around the foundations.  It looked dusty and old and worn down by the elements … my lips twitched as I saw the private guardsmen standing on the battlements or clustered around an older man I took to be the marquis.  They didn’t have muskets, as far as I could tell, and there were no cannons on their walls.  I tried not to snicker as Sir Ransom brought the horse to a halt.  A year ago, the private guards would have been a credible threat.  Now, they were just laughable.  The railway guards would have no trouble dealing with them.

I muttered orders to Sir Ransom, then allowed myself to slide off the horse and step towards the Marquis of Winter.  Up close, he looked as if he was prepared to be stubborn to the point of insanity, something I’d seen before in people whose authority depended on them showing not a hint of weakness.  The moment he refused to defend his ancient rights, they’d be gone … and what would he be without them?  Sir Ransom galloped away as I glanced at the railway troops, then met the Marquis of Winter’s eyes.  He was surprisingly short, but somehow managed to look down his nose at me.  It would have been impressive if I hadn’t been cut down by experts.

“I am the custodian of the ford,” the Marquis of Winter said, without preamble.  It was an insult, and not a particularly subtle one, but I couldn’t be bothered to be annoyed.  I’d been insulted by experts too.  “You cannot move your … trains through my territory without paying …”

I looked at the dry gorge, then the bridges.  The troops didn’t really need them.  The gorge wouldn’t be that hard to negotiate, not for infantry or cavalry.  It was the wagons and trains that really needed them and …

“I see no ford,” I said.  If there was any water at the bottom of the gorge, I couldn’t see it.  The title had been granted years ago, back in the semi-legendary days when the kingdom had been overflowing with milk, honey, and noblemen who were truly noble.  “We’re not crossing any water.”

The Marquis’s face darkened.  He knew he was being mocked.  I supposed I should have been a little more diplomatic, but really … he was a slavemaster and a fool and he was in my way, and I knew that conceding even the slightest bit of ground would come back to bite me.  Hard.  I heard the sound of approaching hooves and smiled.  Sir Ransom had brought the mounted infantry, as I’d ordered.  The Marquis was running out of time.

“You want to use my bridge, you need to pay,” he said, stubbornly.  “You …”

I nodded to my infantry as they dismounted.  “Seize him.”

The Marquis opened his mouth to protest, too late.  His guards didn’t stand a chance as my men overwhelmed them with practiced efficiency, then grabbed the Marquis himself.  He reached for a dagger, only to have it knocked from his hand before he could even get it out of the sheath.  I allowed myself a tight smile as he started to swear, calling me everything from a bastard mercenary and a runaway serf to an oathbreaker.

“When we built the bridge, it was on the understanding that you would make no attempt to interfere with troop trains,” I said.  Maybe I could be legalistic too.  “And you have kept your serfs in bondage, despite the Royal Edict freeing the serfs and granting them the right to leave their estates …”

The Marquis glared at me.  “The serfs were not hers to free!”

I felt a hot flash of anger.  People were not property.  My ancestors hadn’t asked to be slaves and I was damn’ sure the serfs in the fields hadn’t signed up for serfdom either.  If they’d signed papers they couldn’t read … it was possible, I supposed, but I didn’t care.  Taking advantage of someone’s ignorance was a shitty thing to do, particularly if you were pressuring them into signing under threat of banishment or death.

“Your estate is hereby confiscated,” I said, savouring every word.  “I will detach a garrison to remain here and ensure the bridges remain open, while sending you and your family back to the city to face the queen.  Your serfs will be freed and your private guards will be dismissed.  You can make any further complaints to the queen.  I’m sure she’ll be very pleased to hear them.”

The Marquis gaped at me, as if I’d started speaking in tongues.  I supposed he was right to be surprised.  The idea of having his estates confiscated, just like that … it didn’t happen, not to the aristocracy, unless the line was well and truly crossed.  There were people in the city who thought Helen had made a mistake by cracking down hard on the coup plotters and their families, even though they’d murdered her father – regicide – and then tried to marry her off to someone who’d legally rape her.  I understood their concerns for property rights, but still …

I directed my men to search the castle, then sent the trains on as the first rows of soldiers crossed the gorge.  I’d wasted quite enough time on the affair.  The Marquis’s wife made a horrible fuss as she was escorted out of the castle and loaded into a wagon for the trip to the city, his son eyeing me unpleasantly until his captor threatened to smack him over the head with an iron gauntlet.  I refused to feel guilty.  The young man had probably lorded it over everyone, secure in the knowledge no one would dare raise a finger to him.  I knew the type.  I’d shot one in the back.

Sir Ransom joined me as I started to walk back to the infantry.  “Sir … what will Her Majesty make of this?”

I kept my face impassive.  “The Marquis was trying to block our lines of communication and extort money from us,” I said, curtly.  I could understand his thinking – the idea I’d simply brush him aside would have been alien to him – but it was still stupid.  “Either he was fool enough to assume I’d pay him on the spot, or at least let him get away with it, yet …”

My voice hardened.  “The Queen will understand,” I told him.  The Marquis wasn’t the only person in a position to slow us down.  If we paid Danegeld, as the saying went, we’d never get rid of the Dane.  “We had to make an example of him, or it would happen again and again.”

And it didn’t.  Not then.

Chapter Nine

I couldn’t help feeling a little unsure of myself as Damansara came into view.  I’d entered the city as a penniless refugee and left it as one of her greatest soldiers, a man who – I’d discovered too late – had both won the war for them and convinced the City Fathers he was too dangerous to keep around after the fighting was over.  They’d called me a mercenary and feared what I might do, with an army more loyal to me than to the city’s rulers.  If Helen hadn’t talked them into letting me go into her service instead … my lips twisted in disgust.  I hadn’t wanted to rule the city.  I hadn’t wanted to make myself the king of all I surveyed.  And yet, if they’d tried to kill me …

I felt the excitement behind me as I led the troops towards the main gates.  Damansara hadn’t changed that much in the year since I’d left, save for a railroad station and a handful of buildings outside the walls.  The freight trains were already unloading, a small army of porters carrying supplies to the barracks or into the city itself; I frowned, despite myself, at the very visible guards on the walls.  The City Fathers had been reluctant to allow any of my troops into the city, during the negotiations.  I didn’t blame them.  They had to wonder if I wanted a little revenge, considering how they’d treated me.

And even though I don’t, my troops might misbehave, I thought.  I couldn’t blame them for that either.  Or even start fights with the city’s soldiers.

I put the thought out of my head as I directed the troops to start setting up camp outside the city, then headed to the main gates.  The reception committee was already waiting.  I smiled in genuine pleasure as I spied Rupert Drache and his father – Rupert had brought me into his service – then frowned as I saw Lord Gallery right beside him.  The man didn’t bother to hide his displeasure at seeing me again.  I was surprised he’d even joined the welcoming committee.  But then, if he’d realised I’d shot his rapist son in the back, he’d have spared no expense to have me killed.

“Sir Elliot,” Lord Drache said.  “Welcome to Damansara.”

I nodded, shaking his hand firmly.  We’d never been equals, but right now there was a very good chance I was his social superior.  Perhaps.  The rules were complex, contradictory and I found it hard to care if one of us was superior to the other by one micron.  Breeding and an inherited title didn’t make someone automatically good at maintaining whatever he’d inherited, let alone anything else.  Harbin Gallery had been born to the very highest in the city and he’d been a fool ... I sighed, inwardly, as I exchanged cold nods with his father.  Perhaps it had been a mistake to insist that the wretched boy had died a hero.  He might have gotten himself killed even if I hadn’t shot him.

“You got here sooner than we expected,” Lord Gallery said.  He made no attempt to shake my hand.  “Or were you already on the way?”

“We marched hard,” I said, curtly.  It would be all too easy for him to start raising doubts in hostile minds.  “We wanted to get here before Cuthbert.”

Rupert smiled, although there was a hard edge to the expression.  “The warlord’s troops are probing the edges of Aldred’s former territories,” he said.  “We’ve skirmished with them, but …”

I nodded, looking him up and down.  Rupert hadn’t been a fool, when we’d first met, but he’d been ignorant and set up as the scapegoat for the inevitable thrashing the city was going to take, a thrashing I’d proven to be anything but inevitable.  He’d learned fast and well, yet I would have preferred him to have a longer apprenticeship before taking the reins himself … not, I supposed, that he’d done a bad job.  He looked as if he’d kept up with the exercises – I hoped he’d had the wit to get down in the trenches – and carried a pistol rather than a sword.  It cost me a pang.  The pistol I’d had with me, when I’d been swept into my new world, was lost somewhere in the countryside.  I feared it would never be seen again.

“We’ll be ready for them,” I assured him.  If Cuthbert attacked the city, we’d beat his army in the field; if he held back, we’d march straight into his lands and give him a flat choice between standing and fighting or letting us smash his castles and fortresses one by one.  I knew he’d fight.  The moment it became apparent he couldn’t protect his clients, they’d switch sides so rapidly they’d leave sonic booms behind them.  “How is the army?”

“Guarding the walls,” Lord Gallery said.  “The city must be protected at all costs.”

From us as well as the warlords, I thought, hearing what he didn’t say.  What do you intend to do if Cuthbert starts ravaging the fields and destroying the crops?

I considered the point thoughtfully, letting my mouth run on autopilot as I introduced my senior officers and made small talk.  The warlord might be able to storm the city by battering down the walls, but would he?  I would have attacked the city, if I’d been in his place, yet … I sighed inwardly.  It might be better from his point of view to destroy the farms, particularly the ones run by freemen.  Their crop yields were already higher than serf-run farms.  It wouldn’t take long before the warlord’s population started asking some pointed questions …

I’ll make sure of it, I thought, as we were led into the city.  If we can convince them to revolt in his rear, his entire position will come apart.

The streets looked cleaner, I noted, although the city’s stench still hung in the air like a shroud.  I’d done what I could to convince the City Fathers to improve basic hygiene and ban crimes like crapping out the windows, but there’d clearly been limits.  The handful of people on the streets eyed us warily, a far cry from the reception they’d given my troops after we’d met Warlord Aldred’s thugs and crushed them like bugs.  I understood what they were thinking.  A strong monarch could keep the warlords in line but could easily become a threat herself.  In the old days, the city could hide behind its walls and wait an army out.  Now …

But iron, cold iron, is the master of them all, I quoted to myself.  The city will have to come to terms with the queen or face destruction.

“His father paid for that,” Rupert said, as we neared City Hall.  “What do you think?”

I hid my amusement with an effort as the statue came into view.  It was … it was hard, so hard, not to snicker.  The statue was so heroic, so exaggerated, I wouldn’t have known it showed Harbin Gallery if there hadn’t been a nameplate underneath the statue.  Harbin looked bold and noble and true and … and like someone who’d stepped right out of a comic book, rather than real life.  The proportions were all wrong too … not, I supposed, that it mattered.  It was selling a fantasy.  The real Harbin would probably have been delighted.

Or perhaps not, I reflected.  It was like telling the world you were a great poet, when in reality you couldn’t string together more than a line or two of doggerel.  The reality would disappoint.

“I hear you are to wed,” Rupert said.  “My own wedding has been arranged and will be taking place this summer.”

I nodded, hearing the edge in his voice.  My detractors had insisted Rupert and I had been sleeping together, something that had surprised me.  They didn’t care about the homosexual aspect, and there was no stigma attached to it, but the suggestion Rupert had been the bottom was … I tried not to snort in disgust.  There was an awful lot of stigma attached to that and yet … I shrugged.  It was hardly the worst difference between my old world and the new.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” I said.  “Are you?”

Rupert smiled.  “We can talk, at least,” he said.  “It’s better than nothing.”

I nodded, again.  The upper classes had their marriages arranged by their parents and they were lucky if they knew each other, let alone fell in love.  No one would say anything if Rupert kept a discreet mistress on the side – his wife wasn’t allowed anywhere near as much latitude – as long as there were children and their inheritances were carefully arranged to benefit the families.  It wouldn’t squash the rumours, though.  Rupert could have four wives and a harem of beautiful women and people would still believe – or pretend to believe – the rumours.

“Make sure you give her some space,” I advised.  I preferred the idea of marrying for love, but … that hadn’t worked out too well last time.  “And don’t make life too easy or hard for your children.”

Rupert snorted, then met my eyes.  “Gayle is also engaged,” he said.  “Don’t try to speak with her alone.”

I nodded.  Gayle and I had been … friends, of a sort.  More like co-conspirators.  There had never been any hint our relationship might turn sexual – she was from the rarefied heights of the city’s aristocracy, I wasn’t even the stable boy – but we’d shared a few confidences and … I put the thought aside.  Gayle had every reason to be wary of that becoming public now that she was engaged.  If her prospective in-laws had even the slightest hint she wasn’t a virgin …

Which makes Harbin’s attempt to rape her all the worse, I thought.  He wasn’t just hurting her.  He was hurting her entire family.

The thought haunted me as we walked into the banqueting hall, the table already groaning under the weight of the food.  I sighed inwardly – I’d have preferred to go straight to the War Room – and then directed my officers to mingle.  The City Fathers wanted to welcome us properly … I tried not to feel a twinge of guilt at the spread laid out in front of us.  It looked like a Roman buffet and probably cost enough money to feed the poor for weeks, but … I tried not to grimace at the stuffed mice and other delicacies.  It still felt weird to be eating rodents …

And if you were starving to death, my thoughts pointed out, you’d happily catch, cook and eat rats as well as mice.

I forced myself to mingle, taking the time to speak to people I knew and others who’d joined the council after my departure.  Rupert stayed close to me, despite the risk … I made a mental note to suggest he took his prospective bride to the arena or somewhere else they could be seen in public together, then put the thought aside.  The conversation was surprisingly muted, save for a factory owner boasting about how he’d convinced his workers to work harder for less money.  I doubted it would last.  The factories weren’t anywhere near as specialised as the factories back home.  Given a few months, half his workers would be setting up factories of their own or simply leaving for greener pastures elsewhere.

Helen will make sure of it, I thought.  The aristocracy had been slow to realise the importance of factories, ensuring the commoners had time to start their own before their social superiors locked them out.  She’s offering start-up funds to anyone with a halfway convincing proposal for something profitable.

I smirked.  They’d missed the importance of worker’s rights legislation too.  I’d convinced Helen to pass a bunch of laws that seemed mildly pointless now, but would take on more and more importance as the years went on.  There would be no non-compete clauses here, no cartels locking out the uneducated, no demand for pointless credentials or regulations or anything that would provoke bitter resentment, class hatred and eventual civil war.  I doubted I could keep unscrupulous capitalists from taking shape and form, but as long as I could keep them from twisting the law to crush their competitors before they had a chance to become a real threat to their dominance … I hoped, prayed, it would be enough.  It was all too easy for someone to come up with reasons to undermine the law that, on the face of it, would be quite legitimate.   It was only when they started having unexpected – or all too expected – consequences that people realised the downsides and then it was often too late.

The discussions went on and on, touching on absolutely nothing of significance.  Helen would have been in her element, I was sure, but me … I was bored stiff within the hour.  I didn’t want to hear about an elderly man’s latest conquest, or be told about a middle-aged woman’s eligible daughter, or hear bragging from aristo youths about their glorious feats when I could tell, just by looking at them, that they’d never been in the military.  I knew it was important to keep everyone on my side, but … I shook my head.  It felt as if they were fiddling while their city burned.

“We are grateful for your support,” Lord Gallery said.  “But there are limits to how far we will allow Her Majesty to dictate to us.”

I bit down a sharp reply.  He wasn’t the wretched Marquis of Winter – I wondered how he was faring, back in the city – and I couldn’t push him around, certainly not so effectively.  And yet … I considered, briefly, trying to arrange an accident for him.  It wouldn’t be easy – his son had been in the middle of a battle, while the father rarely left his mansion and never the city – but perhaps it would be possible.  There was no way he’d be anything, apart from a monumental pain in the butt.  And if he ever worked out what had happened to his son …

“Her Majesty has already ratified and reissued your Charter of Autonomy,” I said, as diplomatically as I could.  Ass-kissing just wasn’t my thing.  If I’d done a tour of duty in the Pentagon, perhaps I would have been better at it.  “Your independence will be respected, as long as you honour your obligations.”

“There are limits to how far we can go, when we have Cuthbert breathing down our necks,” an older man said.  He wore fine robes, but I hadn’t caught his name.  “If we go too far, he will cry foul and destroy us.”

“Lord Grayling has a point,” Lord Drache said.  I hid my surprise with an effort.  He’d been one of the loudest war hawks on the council, back in the old days.  “If we anger Cuthbert, he will destroy us.”

I bit down the urge to point out that if I had a name like Cuthbert, I’d be angry all the time too.  I’d known a girl whose parents had named her Daenerys before Season Eight of Game of Thrones had rolled around and she’d been teased so badly I wouldn’t have blamed her for taking a dragon and laying waste to everyone who made fun of her.  There were even stories on this side of the dimensional divide of dragon-riders who’d done just that …

“Cuthbert will not be satisfied, not now, with anything less than total submission,” I told him, bluntly.  “You can no longer hide behind your walls and wait for his army to get sick or simply give up and go away.  He can batter down your walls and storm your city within a day or two, if you refuse to bend the knee.  You have the choice between fighting or spending the rest of your lives grovelling to him, and if you fight now you’ll be fighting alongside a trained and experienced army.”

“And if we don’t fight beside the queen, she may turn on us afterwards,” Lord Harbin pointed out.  “That’s what you didn’t want to tell us, isn’t it?”

I didn’t bother to deny it.  The trick of switching sides – or even just getting off the fence – is to time it just right, so you make the move when you still have something to offer your new friends while minimising what your new enemies can do to you.  Helen – I was sure – wouldn’t pick a fight with her loyal allies, but she’d take a dim view of Damansara sitting on the fence and trying to remain neutral while her forces fought the warlords for supremacy.  She didn’t have to invade the city to make her displeasure felt.  She could simply refuse to update their charter or side against them when they came into conflict with the countryfolk or even deny them access to the trade routes.  If she carefully redirected the railroads so they excluded the city …

“I can’t promise you victory,” I said.  I certainly wouldn’t be around to apologise for the broken promise if we lost the war.  “But I can tell you this – if you side with Queen Helen, she will reward you and honour her obligations to you.  Can the warlords say the same?”

“No,” Lord Drache said.

“And they can be beaten,” I added.  “I believe I showed you that, did I not?”

“Yes,” Lord Harbin said.  “But it came at a cost.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  I tried not to feel a twinge of sympathy for a man who’d lost his son.  I knew how that felt, even though my sons had never tried to rape anyone and I’d have thrashed them to within an inch of their lives if they had.  “But the cost of bending the knee will be so much higher.”

“And we cannot afford to pay,” Lord Drache said.  “We must fight.”

Chapter Ten

“It feels so … different,” Fallon said.

I nodded in agreement.  Damansara had never been the cleanest of cities – the travelling people called cityfolk Stinkers, which was both rude and entirely accurate – but it had improved remarkably since I’d left the city and headed south.  The streets were surprisingly clean, the pavements were swept regularly and large signs promised harsh punishments to anyone who crapped out of the windows.  I’d set up gangs of street children to collect manure – human and animal, which had a number of uses – and I was amused to note that the practice had continued.  It was far from perfect, by modern standards, but it was so much better than before that everyone was delighted.  There’d be a population boom shortly, I was sure, and this time the vast majority of the children would live to see their first birthday.  Who knew what would happen then?

My smile widened.  I’d done a lot, from classes on basic hygiene and medical care to cleaning up the public baths and giving lessons in reading, writing and all the other skills of the modern world.  It was astonishing how many deaths could be prevented just by mandating doctors and nurses washed their hands regularly, then keeping wounds clean before bandaging them up.  These days, from what I’d been told, patients kept sharp eyes on their doctors – chirurgeons, they were called here – and screamed blue murder if the doctors didn’t make a show of washing their hands.  It was better that way.  The old habits had often been more deadly than the wounds, or the diseases.

I put the thought out of my head as we neared the merchant quarter, the shops slowly closing as night fell over the city.  It was hard not to feel nervous, unsure of myself, even though I was a grown man.  The idea of meeting Fallon’s parents … it had been hard enough meeting Cleo’s parents and they’d hailed from the same culture as myself, one where I’d known the rules.  Here … the easiest way to get into trouble in a foreign culture was to mess around with women, particularly in regions where women were second-class citizens or seen as belonging to their parents.  I had no idea how Fallon’s parents would react to me.  My imagination provided too many possibilities.  They might love me, or hate me, or be wary of me … it felt weird to think they might consider me too good for their daughter, but it was quite possible if they thought me a nobleman.  And if they saw me as a mercenary …

They’d be happier seeing her married to a street sweeper than a mercenary, I reflected, sourly.  And if they see me as a nobleman, they’ll expect me to put her aside for a proper marital alliance.

I sighed inwardly.  Back home, marriage had been between two people and very few people cared what the in-laws thought about it.  Here … marriages were between entire families, binding together clans and bloodlines in a web of mutual obligation.  The opinions of the girl – and often the boy – were not always important, not when money and position were at stake.  They were expected to lie back and think of the family and keep their affairs, if they had them, to themselves.  No one gave a damn about their feelings.

“Here we are,” Fallon said.  I could tell she was nervous too.  She’d gone against her family’s wishes by joining the army, then going with me.  “Are you ready?”

I shrugged.  “I went into battle with a smile on my face,” I said, with a deadpan look.  “Why is this so much worse?”

Fallon snorted.  “Don’t take them too seriously, please?”

I made a face.  Would they fawn on me, as a rich man lifting their daughter to unimaginable heights through a venereal transmission of power?  Would they be wary, fearing I was toying with her until someone better came along?  Or would her father demand a duel, on the grounds I’d deflowered his daughter?  Or would he be honoured his daughter had been deflowered by such a man?  It was quite possible.  There were quite a few relationships between wealthy and powerful men and poorer women that had ended with the woman being given a sizable dowry, ensuring prospective husbands would overlook the matter of virginity or even paternity.  Silly, to me, but just the way things were done in this world.

Fallon knocked.  I stood beside her and ran my eyes over the house.  It was a three-story building, with a shop and storerooms on the ground floor and room for the family and their servants, if any, on the upper two stories.  There were two main entrances – one for the shop, one for the family home; the latter fancy enough to give the impression of an up-and-coming family that might join the aristocracy in a generation or two – and a smaller servant’s door, set so carefully within the sand-coloured stone that I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking.  It was clear proof, if I’d needed it, that Fallon’s family were successful merchants.  You couldn’t rent homes in this part of the city.  You had to have the money to buy before anyone would sell. 

The door opened.  A young girl looked out, saw Fallon and dropped a hasty curtsey, then saw me and dropped an even deeper one.  It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so serious by local standards.  If the maid accidentally insulted me through not giving the proper level of respect, she’d be put out on the streets so fast … I nodded in return, allowing Fallon to do the talking as we were shown into the house and up a long flight of stairs.  The interior was surprisingly comfortable, rather than aping aristocratic styles.  I found myself relaxing as the maid opened the door and invited us to walk into the living room.  The two people in the chamber stood to greet us.

“Mother, Father,” Fallon said.  Her voice was nervous.  I squeezed her hand gently.  “Please allow me to introduce Elliot, my husband-to-be.”

I nodded, bracing myself.  Fallon’s father reminded me – irony of ironies – of Vernon Dursley, although it was clear from a glance that he was slightly fitter and certainly a hell of a lot more decent than Harry’s uncle.  He was in his late forties, perhaps fifties, with hair shading to white, a growing paunch and eyes that flickered back and forth, as if he couldn’t decide if he should meet my eyes or keep his lowered.  There were enough signs, in the way he moved, to prove that he worked for a living.  His wife, standing next to him, was a few years younger; red-headed, plump, and surprisingly light-skinned for someone who’d grown up in Damansara.  It crossed my mind to wonder if she hadn’t.  It wasn’t impossible.  A trader would have ample opportunity to meet a girl from somewhere a long way away, then bring her home as a bride …

Perhaps that’s a good sign, I thought, as they bowed.  They might be more understanding of me.

“Welcome to my home,” Fallon’s father said.  “I am Griffin, Son of Griffin.  This is my wife, Margo.”

“Pleased to meet you.”  It was impossible to escape the feeling I was stumbling through some very alien etiquette.  “I am Elliot, Son of Richard.”

Griffin looked, for a moment if he had a multitude of questions.  I understood how he felt.  If my daughter was marrying someone who’d effectively appeared out of nowhere, a year or so ago, I’d have questions too.  And yet, it was rude – to say the least – to bombard aristocrats with questions, if indeed I was an aristocrat.  My title had been given to me, rather than handed down from my father …

I took a breath.  “We must speak plainly,” I said, shooting him a grin.  “I have enough trouble with the etiquette at court.  There are people who can’t even ask to leave the room without a flowery soliloquy and a round of verse.”

“As you wish,” Griffin said.  “Where did you come from?”

Fallon jumped.  “Father!”

“It’s a reasonable question,” I said.  The trouble was that I had no way to answer it … not if I wanted to be believed.  Most people here had no idea of the concept of alternate worlds, let alone imagined it possible to jump from world to world.  Hell, I didn’t know how I’d arrived in my new world and I was the one who’d done it.  Or had it done to me.  “It’s just difficult to answer.”

And half the world thinks you’re a mercenary, my thoughts added.  If her parents think that too …

“I was born a long way away,” I said.  “I thirsted for adventure, so I set out on the road.  My wanderings, through random chance, brought me to Damansara.  I think you know the rest.”

Margo met my eyes.  “And your family?”

I didn’t have to fake the sudden stab of pain.  “Gone,” I said, flatly.  My relatives – my children – were on the other side of the dimensional divide, lost forever.  There was no way home.  “I have nothing back there, nothing to go home to.”

“I’m sorry,” Margo said.

“It’s not your fault,” I said.  “Suffice it to say, I am alone in the world.”

Griffin frowned.  “And why do you want to marry my daughter?”

Fallon blanched.  “Father!”

“She has magic,” Margo pointed out.  “She is a noble.”

I took a moment to consider my answer.  Griffin was right to be concerned.  Princess Helen had raised me high and Queen Helen had confirmed my titles, then raised me even higher.  It was the perfect opportunity for an up-and-coming young man, or middle-aged man, to secure himself a wife from the purest bloodlines, a wife who’d ensure he couldn’t fall too far when his inevitable rise came to a halt, then started to fall.  It didn’t matter what – if anything – the poor girl had to say about it, not when so many pure bloodlines had been indicted for treason and threatened with total eradication.  Her family would force her into the match, into my bed …

I shuddered.  I couldn’t do that.

My thoughts raced.  Love wasn’t the answer.  I was fond of Fallon, very fond, but her parents were merchants.  She’d said enough about them to make it clear they were practical people first and foremost, arranging marriages for their children based on what was good for the families, not for their hearts.  And yet, the hell of it was that – on paper – Fallon offered very little.  She had no bloodline, no money, nothing … beyond magic and a good heart.  I cursed under my breath.  What sort of answer could I give?

“She joined me when I was preparing the defence of this city,” I said.  “Since then, she has been a reliable part of my household” – here, the team really meant organisation – “and she has saved my life several times, as well as serving as my assistant, castellan and quite a few other roles.  I can rely on her completely, not something I can say about many others.”

Margo cocked her head.  “And you’re not looking for a high-ranking bride?”

“Fallon has magic,” I said.  I knew what she meant, but to me the whole concept was just silly.  “She’s an aristocrat by power, if not by birth, and no one will dare say otherwise.”

“True enough,” Margo said.  She shared a look with her husband.  “Fallon, perhaps you would care to join me upstairs?”

I blinked.  Aristocratic women were commonly dismissed when the menfolk started to discuss serious issues – Helen was an exception, and even she had problems; she was lucky she had me, rather than someone who’d grown up in the same culture – but I’d expected better of the merchants.  Or … I wondered, suddenly, which one of the two really wore the pants?  Margo was almost certainly a merchant herself, or at least raised in a merchant family, and she would have insights of her own … she’d done her best, too, to ensure Fallon got as good an education as possible.  I guessed the two were going to compare notes after Fallon and I left for the night, before giving us their blessing.

Fallon winked at me, then followed her mother through the door, closing it behind her.  I tried to relax, all too aware of Griffin studying me.  The man was very far from stupid.  No merchant could have stayed in business for long, not here, without a working brain.  And a certain willingness to be ruthless, when necessary.  An alliance with me – bound together by blood, and an unborn child – could easily turn into a two-edged sword.

“They haven’t seen each other in quite some time,” Griffin said, quietly.  “I was very surprised when she chose to go with you, rather than return home.”

I had the feeling that wasn’t entirely true.  Fallon had seen a chance to better herself – really better herself – and taken it, despite the risk.  It wasn’t even that dangerous, particularly after she learned enough magic to protect herself.  She could have changed her clothes, left the mansion, and effectively vanished if the shit hit the fan. The prize had been well worth the risk.

“She’s a very brave woman,” I said, flatly.  It had been nerve-wracking talking to Cleo’s father.  This was much worse.  “And …”

“There’s also a war on,” Griffin said.  “Can you protect her?”

Nothing is ever certain in war, I thought, darkly.  I’d been in enough war zones to know a situation could go from reasonably stable to chaotic in the blink of an eye.  I thought we could best the warlords – we’d certainly stolen a match on them by moving a small army to the city-state – but who could be sure?  A single unexpected twist of fate would be enough to tip the balance against us.  If the warlords get lucky …

“I will,” I said.  Fallon’s father didn’t need to hear doubts or quibbles.  Fallon herself knew the risks, knew what would happen if she fell into enemy hands.  The dagger she carried in her sleeve was for herself as much as the enemy.  “She’ll be safe with me.”

“And if your enemies down south overwhelm you?”  Griffin leaned forward.  “What’ll happen to her then?”

“The city aristocracy has been broken,” I assured him.  It was just a matter of time until the survivors started plotting again – an overwhelmingly powerful monarchy was not in their best interests – but it would be years before they worked up the nerve to try something again.  Unless, of course, the warlords won the war …  “And I do have contingency plans for utter disaster.”

Griffin raised his eyebrows so theatrically I knew the gesture was fake.  “You plan for disaster?”

“All possibilities must be at least considered, up to and including complete disaster,” I told him, rather severely.  A great many problems in Iraq and Afghanistan might have been averted if someone at the Pentagon had wondered what could go wrong, then drawn up rough plans to deal with it.  They wouldn’t have been perfect, not in any real sense of the word, but at least they would have provided a framework when something did go wrong.  “I try to plan for everything.”

“Difficult,” Griffin observed.

“I studied war extensively,” I said.  “The Battle of Blaydon Fields, for example, wouldn’t have gone so badly if the losers had a contingency plan for defeat, allowing them to draw together their still-formidable resources and make a stand further to the west.  They could have fallen back on the bridges and held them against superior force, or even manned the city defences, but instead they scattered.  Their enemy didn’t move quickly to secure their victory – they didn’t even try to keep the losers running – yet … they didn’t have to.  The chance to turn the war around was lost, because they didn’t allow themselves to admit they could be defeated.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Griffin said.  “Now, about the new trade routes …”

We chatted, dancing from topic to topic, for nearly an hour, until the maid arrived to tell us dinner was served.  Margo and Fallon rejoined us as we went into dine; the food, I noted, was an interesting collection of dishes, each from a different part of the world.  A clear message, if I’d needed it, that the family had interests and contacts all over the continent.  I wondered, idly, just how big the merchant family actually was.  Fallon’s siblings were nowhere in evidence, nor were her aunts, uncles and cousins.  The maid served us with practiced ease, then left.  I felt a twinge of guilt, even though I knew she’d probably put some food aside for herself too.  I certainly hoped so.

“It’s getting harder to hire good domestics,” Margo commented, when Fallon asked about borrowing the maid.  “They want higher wages.”

I hid my amusement.  The servant problem had been universal on Earth – and here too now.  A year ago, young and poor girls had had few other options; now, thanks to the enigmatic Emily, they didn’t have to spend their lives serving wealthier families, putting up with everything from harsh treatment to sexual assault.  If wealthy families wanted to hire servants now, they had to treat them better or they’d simply leave.  And good riddance.

“I rather think we approve,” Griffin said, when the meal was done.  “You have our blessing.”

Fallon looked relieved.  “Thank you …”

“You do need to get married quickly,” Margo added.  “People will talk.”

I nodded.  Someone would count on their fingers, work out our child had to have been conceived months before the wedding and whisper that our kid was a bastard.  And then … we were lucky, I supposed, that I had no relatives, ready to try to snatch the child’s inheritance …

“Yes, Mother,” Fallon said.  “We will.”

Chapter Eleven

“Sir,” Horst said, two weeks later.  We stood together on the battlements, staring into the darkening sky.  It was easy to believe, as darkness swept across the land, that we were alone in an infinite desert.  “Where are they?”

I shrugged.  “Here we are, all dressed up, waiting for our partner to put their clothes on and take us to the ball,” I said.  “How rude he is, to be sure.”

Horst shot me a sidelong look.  “Sir?”

“We need time too,” I pointed out, dryly.  “Don’t complain about them giving us all the time we need to prepare for them.”

He didn’t look convinced, I noted, as he turned away.  I understood, all too well.  The army had been kept busy over the past two weeks – digging trenches, raising battlements, training and training and more training – but problems were starting to appear.  There was a limit to how long the troops could remain on alert, without jumping and shooting at shadows; there were limits, too, as to how long they could be kept away from the red-light district before they started sneaking out in search of some fun.  I’d done what I could – the army had taken over some brothels and bars, and established a rota to make sure everything had a chance to visit – but there were limits.  Hell, there were limits to how much discipline I could impose before someone started talking mutiny.

At least I’ve made it clear the rules apply to everyone, I thought.  There was always at least one mid-ranking officer, a little shit by any reasonable definition, who thought the rules were for the common soldiers, not him.  I’d been lucky, I supposed, it had happened so quickly, in a place I could deal with it without interference.  The twit had left his post and gone to visit a high-class brothel, for which I’d demoted him and forced him to run the gauntlet.  He’d been more upset about the demotion than the gauntlet, somewhat to my surprise.  But then, there’s little hope of being promoted again unless he really does well in the coming campaign.

The thought nagged me as I waited.  Why are they taking so long?

The problem was simple to understand, not so simple to overcome.  There were two things keeping the warlords in power: their armies, the most powerful forces in their lands, and their vassals, junior aristocrats who’d pledged themselves to a senior aristocrat in return for his support and protection.  The vassals had smaller armies of their own, and the right to call up the peasant levies from their lands, and in theory those armies were at the disposal of their master.  In practice, it wasn’t so simple.  A warlord who lost his army would lose his head very quickly – Aldred’s lands had come apart, the moment his army had been smashed beyond repair – as the vassals might renegotiate the teams of their servitude, or the peasant levies might decide it would be better to rise against their master instead of their master’s enemies.  Cuthbert and his peers had the numbers, on paper, but assembling a sizable force without disaster would be tricky, particularly after Aldred had been crushed.  Who knew which way the vassals and levies would jump?

My lips twitched in cold amusement.  It wasn’t just that Cuthbert couldn’t trust his vassals – our intelligence suggested he’d been inviting their wives and children to visit his castle, hostages in all but name – to fight his war.  It was his logistics.  Feeding and supplying a small army was a nightmarish task, even in the modern world I’d come from.  Here … local armies were used to living off the land, but I’d done what I could to move food and fodder out of their way, forcing them to set up supply dumps at the edge of our territory before they started their advance.  They were doing it too – at least one person on the other side had a clear grasp of the problem – but they were proceeding so slowly I wondered if I was missing something.  Did Cuthbert have something clever in mind?  Or was he hoping we’d invade his territory instead?  It wasn’t impossible.  Sooner or later, the stalemate would have to be broken. 

We keep sending in spies, I told myself.  The enemy garrisons, towns and villages were almost defenceless against my spies and agents.  They didn’t seem to have any concept of operational security, something else that bothered me.  It was tricky, sure, to hide entire armies and their supplies moving through the land – peasants saw everything – but with a little effort they could have made intelligence gathering a great deal harder.   Are they fucking with us or are they just that dumb?

I didn’t know.  We’d sent messages into enemy territory, inviting Cuthbert’s vassals to switch sides and informing them of the laws of war, promising them that we’d execute any aristocrat who encouraged his troops to commit atrocities or even just turned a blind eye to them.  I didn’t know if they’d take heed – the local aristocrats thought they could maim, rape and kill to their heart’s content – but I owed it to myself to try.  We’d sent other messengers into the enemy army itself, trying to warn the soldiers and mercenaries to refrain from atrocities.  It was impossible to say how much effect they’d had, but given how few messengers had returned …

They know what we’re doing, I thought.  It wasn’t easy to keep rumours from spreading through an army like a virus, no matter how hard the officers tried to crack down on it.  Hell, the more they cracked down, the more credence the rumours would have.  And they have to do something, before their army starts coming apart at the seams.

I put the thought aside and started to walk along the battlements, peering down at the makeshift camps and barracks.  My men were good soldiers, by and large, although two-thirds of them had never faced combat.  The ones who had seen the elephant had been promoted and deployed through the ranks as stiffeners, but … I was uneasily aware that the first taste of combat could easily lead to disaster if I lost control.  It was impossible to properly prepare them for that moment, not with the limited tech and magic at my command.  Even back home, there’d been limits.  Paintball guns had been unpleasant, to be sure, but they hadn’t been lethal.  There’d been no real risk of dying …

They have worse problems, I told myself.  Who knows?  Perhaps we can just wait for them to crack, then go home.

I shook my head.  It wasn’t going to happen.  The warlords couldn’t afford to wait much longer.  Queen Helen’s armies grew stronger, at least on paper, with every passing day.  Her gunsmiths were turning out newer and better guns, cannons, mortars and even makeshift rocket launchers, a degree of innovation the warlords couldn’t possibly match.  If they didn’t stop us, we’d have both quality and quantity on our side.  A year would be quite long enough for me to build a force that could crush all the warlords in a single decisive campaign, smashing them one by one. 

No, they had to act now.  And yet, why weren’t they moving?

They’ll be having problems of their own, I reminded myself.  The days in which a small cavalry troop could intimidate a town, or a city, or even a king were over.  And we’re doing everything we can to make their problems worse.

The thought haunted me as I passed the outer lines and made my way deeper into the city.  Damansara was quieter at night these days – a combination of high employment and a more active City Guard keeping crime under control – but there was still some activity, from late-night bars and brothels to a handful of shops and businesses.  A line of prostitutes stood by one wall and waved to me invitingly, their pimps watching warily from a safe distance … I sighed inwardly, all too aware the women were effectively slaves, held in bondage by fear, addiction, or violence.  They wouldn’t have been working the streets if there’d been any other options … I made a mental note to see if the recruiters could find jobs for them.  It wasn’t impossible.

Poor bitches, I thought.  The women couldn’t be that old, but they looked ancient.  If we can find them something better …

The guard outside the Town Hall snapped to attention.  “Sir, I need to see your face.”

I struck a pose, ignoring his obvious nerves.  The guards had strict orders to check the names and faces of everyone who went in or out of the Town Hall, no matter how high-ranking or well-connected.  I didn’t blame him for being worried.  He might have his orders, but there were hundreds of aristos who’d demand anyone who insisted on blocking their way, at least as long as it took to check their identity, be severely punished.  Idiots.  All it took was one person thinking the rules didn’t apply to him to compromise our security beyond hope of repair.  I’d promised the guards I’d back them, if someone took umbrage at them doing their job, but they had no way to know I could be trusted.  It would be very easy to throw them under a bus …

And we live in a world full of shapechanging sorcerers, mind-control spells and God alone knows what else, I thought, darkly.  I didn’t believe someone I knew well could be replaced by a complete stranger, not for more than a few hours at best, but the guards didn’t know any of their seniors that well.  A sorcerer wearing my face could breeze through the checkpoints effortlessly.  Our defences are thinner than anyone would prefer.

The thought haunted me as I made my way into the war room.  Back home, there were fingerprint scanners and blood tests and biometric ID cards and a dozen other ways to prove someone’s identity beyond a reasonable doubt.  Here, there was nothing.  Fallon and her peers had cast a handful of security spells, designed to ward out intruders, but she’d openly admitted they could be subverted by someone who knew what he was doing.  It made me paranoid, a paranoia I hadn’t dared confess to anyone else because it would lead rapidly to complete chaos.  And yet, what if I wasn’t being paranoid enough?

Rupert looked up as I entered.  “Elliot,” he said.  “It’s been a while.”

I smiled.  “Not that long,” I said.  “Our last command conference was only two days ago.”

“That’s at least a decade or two, in political time,” Rupert said.  “Father used to say an hour was a long time in politics.  I think I know, now, what he meant.”

I nodded.  Rupert had grown up in the year since I’d met him, shifting from a naive – if decent – young fop to a grown man and army officer, although one who had never seen real action.  Not quite a REMF, thankfully, but not a seasoned commander either.  It could have been worse, I reflected.  Rupert might have done most of his military learning through studying books and learning from me, but that made him more qualified than many other officers.  At least he had the common sense, when the bullets started flying, to step back and let someone else take the lead.

“I understand Griffin gave you his blessing,” Rupert said.  “A good choice, if I may say so.”

“Thank you,” I said.  He hadn’t mentioned Margo.  He’d been raised in a world where the mother’s opinion was irreverent.  Odd, given his younger sister was one of his sneakier supporters.  “We’ll be getting hitched shortly.”

“If the war doesn’t get in our way,” Rupert said.  He pointed to the map on the table.  “What do you make of it?”

The nasty part of my mind whispered there was nothing more dangerous than a greenie officer with a map.  I told that part of me to shut up.   Rupert had ridden over the lands on the map.  He knew the mapmaker hadn’t done a very good job.  Everything was roughly in the right position, relative to everything else, but the distance estimates were so badly wrong that they made Washington and San Francisco look about an hour’s drive apart.  I cautioned myself not to take the map too seriously.  If I had proper cartographers under my command …

“Cuthbert took control of Houdon,” I said, flatly.  The free city had the extreme ill-luck to be positioned right between Warlord Aldred and Warlord Cuthbert’s territory, making their independence something of a joke.  I’d hoped, back when I was in command of Damansara’s armies, that we could make an alliance with Houdon, but Cuthbert had pre-empted it by moving his forces to the city and taking control before the council could put my plan into action.  “And he’s using it as a base.”

“He’s flooding men, guns and supplies into the city,” Rupert said, more to himself than to me.  I already knew it.  I also knew much of our information was days or weeks out of date.  “What’s he waiting for?”

“He can’t afford to be defeated,” I pointed out.  “He can’t afford to take heavy losses either.”

Rupert shot me a sharp look.  “What do you mean?”

“If he beats us, and it costs him half his army, his position is going to be fatally weakened,” I explained.  “He won’t take out all of the queen’s army, even if he slaughters every last one of us.  She could resume the offensive shortly, if she wishes, or wait for his vassals to rise against him.  We have been making offers …”

“Hah,” Rupert said.  “Do you think they’d trust her?”

“It depends,” I said.  Personally, I doubted the warlord’s vassals knew anything of honour.  They certainly wouldn’t fight to the death, not when it might cost them everything.  “If they think they’re trapped on a sinking ship, they’ll do whatever they have to do to jump to safe harbour.”

“So he has to attack soon,” Rupert said, slowly.  “What’s he waiting for?”

“It isn’t easy to get an entire army marching in the same direction,” I said.  God knew it had been nightmarish for us, and I had the advantage of a modern military education.  The warlords weren’t used to deploying giant armies and it showed.  “They’ll be on the march soon enough.”

“We’ll see,” Rupert said.

“Get some rest,” I advised.  “There’s no point in worrying yourself to death about it now.”

“You too,” Rupert said.  “Gayle was hoping you and Fallon would come to her gathering, the day after tomorrow.”

I nodded, then left the chamber and headed upstairs to my quarters.  Taking a suite in the Town Hall was a gamble – it pleased the council, who were afraid Queen Helen would sell them out if Cuthbert made a better offer, but it also meant assassins knew where and probably when to find me.  I wasn’t blind to the risks.  A skilled assassin could get through my defences, or simply drive a cart loaded with gunpowder up to the door, lit the match and run for his life.  Or … I tried not to think about the sorcerer who’d kidnapped me.  It was a memory that haunted my nightmares …

Fallon was sitting in the centre of the bed, a flickering light dancing over her palms.  A shiver ran down my spine.  It had been over a year since I saw my fight magic spell, since I’d seen the first completely inexplicable thing that had proven I was a very long way from home, and yet it still chilled me.  The world had turned upside down and … it was still turning, spooking me in a way I could never put into words.  She looked up at me, dispelling the light.  The last flickers shimmered and died.  I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt relieved.

“I’ve just been practicing,” she said.  “How did it look?”

“Remarkable,” I said.  I knew people back home who would have killed for a chance to study magic, although I had the feeling half of them would have gone mad trying to make sense of it.  I’d read a handful of magic tomes and even the simplest had been extremely difficult to follow.  The more complex ones might as well have been written in an alien tongue.  “How did your lesson go?”

“Well enough,” Fallon said.  “They say I have to keep practicing.”

I nodded, then undressed and clambered into bed beside her.  She blew out the lantern and cuddled up next to me.  It was hard not to feel a little guilty – I had a warm bed and a partner; my men, even the senior officers, didn’t have it so good – but I was too tired to care.  I held her gently as we drifted off to sleep …

… And then I was awoken by a loud series of knocks.

“I’m awake,” I growled.  Had I really been asleep?  It was hard to be sure.  The clock insisted it was early morning.  I grabbed my flintlock as I rolled out of bed, just in case.  “What’s happening?”

“A rider just reached the main gates,” the messenger said.  I wondered who he’d pissed off to get this duty.  “The enemy army is on the move!”

“I see,” I said, tartly.  Unless we’d missed an entire army sneaking up on us, we had more than enough time to prepare for the coming battle.  “And is the army outside our gates?”

“No, sir,” the messenger said.  I guessed whoever was in charge of the war room had panicked.  “I …”

“There is time enough to have a good night’s sleep and then beat the enemy,” I said.  Francis Drake would be proud of me, although I wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually said his famous quote.  It didn’t matter.  “Wait until eight bells, then inform the war council – general meeting, ten bells.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” I said.  “Go.”

And with that, I went back to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

The enemy army advanced, slowly and cumbersomely.

I watched from the battlements, shaking my head in disbelief.  Two-thirds of the advancing force looked as if they’d learnt nothing from the last war, despite the muskets and rifles clearly visible on their backs.  They marched in close formation, leaving me wishing helplessly for machine guns, close-air support or even grapeshot, weapons that would slaughter vast swathes of the enemy force and put the survivors to flight.  Their banners told a tale, for those with the knowledge to see, of hundreds of vassal noblemen supporting their liege lord.  I wondered, sourly, just how many of them were reluctant allies.  If the reports of hostages were accurate, quite a few of the men below were there against their will, perhaps even their better judgement. 

The remainder of the enemy troops looked more professional.  They advanced in a loose skirmish line, weapons at the ready, clearly prepared to hit the deck the moment we started shooting.  They’d largely abandoned their armour, unsurprising now that musket balls and rifle bullets could damage or even punch right through what passed for body armour, making them more akin to my mounted infantry than the cavalry or reluctant conscripts we’d slaughtered in the first war.  The enemy cavalry was at the rear, escorting the guns and wagon train … I hoped the aristo fools were simmering with rage as they contemplated their demotion to escort duties.  A year ago, a cavalry charge was to be feared; now, it would just get a great many men and horses slaughtered.  I’d broken a charge, wounding or killing nearly the entire enemy force, and lost none of my men in the process.

“They hired every mercenary they could,” Rupert commented, from beside me.  “And they brought a siege train.”

“Good,” I said.  “More targets.”

Rupert glanced at me.  “Don’t you know what they’ll do, if they break the walls?”

“They won’t,” I assured him.  “And even if they do …”

I sighed, inwardly.  We hadn’t tried to recruit mercenaries.  They were just too unreliable, too prone to commit atrocities that would turn the countryside against us.  I’d contented myself by sending messages to the mercenary captains, warning them that their troops would not enjoy the protection of the laws of war and, if they committed atrocities, we’d hang them in front of their surviving victims.  I wasn’t sure how seriously they took my warnings – kings and princes rarely rebuked mercenaries, because they always needed their services and couldn’t afford to alienate them – but the fact that we’d refused to hire any ourselves should give them pause.  Should.  I had the feeling Warlord Cuthbert would push them to tear down the city walls, kill the men, rape the women and children and a whole string of other atrocities.  We needed to prove we could protect the people.  He had to prove we couldn’t.

He has the easier job, I reflected.  But we will hang anyone who commits an atrocity.

“They know better,” I reassured Rupert.  “And besides, if the plan works, they won’t have time to break the walls.” 

I smirked, then returned my attention to the enemy ranks.  Their commanders were more practiced than I thought, directing their men to establish siege lines and dig trenches to pen us up in the city.  I’d expected more confusion, and the process certainly looked a great deal more chaotic than anything I’d seen back home, but it was working and that was all that mattered.  They’d clearly learned some lessons, I noted, as they threw up earthworks to make it harder for us to pour fire into the trenches.  Even a simple layer of sand was more than enough to stop a musket ball, protecting the men behind.  I wished, again, for weapons that simply didn’t exist here.  A few primitive tanks would be more than enough to shift the balance of power firmly against the warlords and their hired guns.

“They brought everyone,” Rupert said.  “Why …?”

“I guess Cuthbert can’t expect his vassals to stay loyal if he doesn’t keep his eye on them,” I said.  If his vassals had any sense, they’d be drawing up contingency plans for switching sides if the war went against their master.  I wondered, idly, if those plans included a hostage rescue mission.  I’d considered doing it myself, but we knew too little to make the plan feasible.  “And …”

I snickered.  “I’m starting to think the commoners hate their overlords.”

Rupert shot me a sharp glance.  “What do you mean?”

“Look at them,” I said.  “See what I see?”

“No,” Rupert said, after a long pause.  I wasn’t surprised he couldn’t see it.  The world had changed, but he – and his class – hadn’t quite caught up with it.  “They’re showing proper respect …”

“Are they?”  I grinned at him.  “Do you remember what I said about not saluting in combat zones?”

My smile grew wider as I swept my gaze over the battlefield.  It was easy, laughably easy, to pick out the aristocratic commanders … so easy, in fact, that I wondered for a moment if I was being had.  They wore fancy uniforms – one was dressed in gold-plated armour, like a Roman officer from Asterix; another wore a fancy helmet, with feathers that had to have been sewn together – and were surrounded by subordinates, messengers and servants, the latter bowing and scraping in a manner that made me profoundly uncomfortable.  They hadn’t realised – not yet – that guns were getting more and more accurate with every passing year, or that one day wearing fancy uniforms in a combat zone would be nothing more than suicide.  I wished for a sniper rifle.  Or even a simple hunting rifle.  I could have thrown the enemy command structure into disarray with a handful of shots.

Rupert looked disturbed.  “They’re drawing attention to their commanders?”

I nodded.  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?  It’s like they want them to be killed …”

Which would probably improve efficiency no end, my thoughts added.  There was no shortage of jokes about military units becoming more capable once their officers were killed and their sergeants took command … and here, I suspected, it might be true.  The aristo commanders were very much a mixed bunch.  Some were incredibly capable, some were smart enough to listen to their advisors … and some were so convinced their birth made them superior to everyone else that they charged into combat and got themselves – and hundreds of their subordinates – killed.  Or they think they can’t get killed.

I sighed, again.  The fancy comic book uniforms weren’t completely absurd.  They told their enemies they were aristocracy, the kind of person who – if taken captive – would bring a huge ransom.  Not that the commoners who captured them would see much, if anything, of the reward.  Normally, their commanders would take the captives and ransom them themselves … I’d put a stop to that, when I’d taken command, but … really, ransoming them back struck me as brutally unfair.  And yet, not ransoming them would leave a command slot open for someone who might be a little more competent …

And if they capture me, the best I can hope for is a hangman’s noose, I thought.  Technically, I was now an aristo; practically, the warlords knew better than to leave me alive.  They’d come up with an excuse, but … they’d kill me.  I’d better make sure I don’t get taken alive.

I left Rupert watching the army and started to walk the battlements, moving from post to post to exchange a few words of reassurance and comfort as the men – my men – girded themselves for battle.  It was important, particularly here, to show that I was on the frontlines with them, that I wasn’t sitting in a comfortable office or frittering away my time in a brothel.  If the men had faith in me, they’d fight even when the war seemed to turn against us; if they didn’t, if they thought I’d run for my life or sell theirs cheaply, they’d turn and run instead of holding the line.  I made sure to remember the junior officers, sergeants and even a handful of soldiers by name, speaking to them in front of their units.  It was a cheap trick, yet it put me head and shoulders ahead of nearly every aristocrat in the world. 

The enemy army continued its deployment.  We made no move to interfere, something that should have worried their commander.  Letting them set up their lines, trapping us within the city … it was either very brave or very stupid or we had a card hidden up our sleeve, waiting for the right time to pull it out and place it on the table.  We did, of course.  I wanted the enemy army to deploy, to have everything in place.  I kept a wary eye on them as I finished the circuit, silently noting where they were emplacing their cannons, catapults and other siege engines.  It looked as if they wanted to threaten the main gates themselves.

Interesting choice, I thought.  A year ago, attacking the main gates would have made perfect sense.  An assault force that took the gatehouses and threw open the gates would have the city at its mercy, forcing the council to surrender very quickly or watch helplessly as enemy troops stormed the city and slaughtered the population.  Now, it made more sense to attack the walls themselves.  Have they learnt nothing, or are they planning something too?

Rupert glanced at me as I rejoined him.  “They’re nearly ready.”

I doubted it.  The enemy army had marched in formation, but – of course – the formation had become ragged around the edges.  Small units, individual troopers and cavalry were still straggling in, the latter escorting a handful of men in chains.  Deserters, I guessed; they certainly looked like soldiers, rather than prisoners from the surrounding neighbourhood.  I’d done what I could to urge the locals to flee, and a great many had been heading south even before the war started, but … some would have left it too late.  I hoped they were safe.  I knew they weren’t.

“We’ll see,” I said.  It was hard to tell what my enemy was thinking.  On one hand, a long siege would be as hard on them – perhaps harder – as it was on us; on the other, a failed attempt to take the walls and storm the city would break their army, weakening the warlord to the point his own people might rise against him.  “We’ll proceed with the plan.”

“The risky plan,” Rupert said.  He was the only person outside my circle who knew what I had in mind.  “It’s a good thing the council put me in charge.”

I nodded, although I understood the underlying meaning.  If the war went badly, the council would blame everything on Rupert and sell out for the best terms they could get.  I doubted the warlords would accept their arguments, after everything that had happened, but … better they let Rupert call the shots, for the moment, than debate each and every decision for so long that nothing got done.  Running a war by committee was asking for trouble, if not disaster. 

Cuthbert might pretend to believe them, I thought, sourly.  But it would be the end of the city’s independence.

Trumpets blew.  I looked down, just in time to see a human flamingo leave the enemy camp and start walking towards the gate.  I had to cover my mouth to keep from a very undignified giggle.  The man looked like a walking blancmange.  I supposed it made a certain kind of sense – he was very easy to see – but still!  The closer he got, the more I thought I wouldn’t need a modern weapon to hit him.  A simple flintlock pistol would be more than enough.

“We should go down,” Rupert said, as the messenger stopped.  “He’ll have a message …”

The messenger started to speak, his words so loud I knew he was using magic.  “I SPEAK ON BEHALF OF LORD CUTHBERT, WARLORD OF TARSIER, PRINCE OF BELLADONNA” – he went on in this vein for quite some time, listing an entire series of titles Helen had told me the bastard had no right to use – “AND I SPEAK WITH HIS VOICE.  HARK TO MY WORDS, WITH DUE REVERENCE AND SUBMISSION.”

I rolled my eyes.  Even by local standards, that was a bit much.

“LONG HAVE YOU IGNORED YOUR DUTIES TO YOUR LORD AND MASTER.  LONG HAVE YOU DEFIED HIS WILL.  LONG HAVE YOU STOOD AGAINST HIM, AIDING HIS ENEMIES AND DENYING HIM HIS HEREDITARY RIGHTS.  LONG HAVE YOU” – he went on for quite some time – “BUT YOUR MASTER IS MERCIFUL.  IF YOU BEND THE KNEE, HE WILL GRANT YOU YOUR LIVES AND PROPERTY.”

There was a pause.  “OPEN THE GATES.  SUBMIT TO YOUR MASTER.  DISARM YOUR TROOPS.  ACCEPT A GARRISON.  IF YOU BEND THE KNEE, YOU WILL BE SAFE.  IF NOT, YOUR MASTER WILL TEACH YOU YOUR PLACE WITH FIRE AND SWORD …”

“You mean, surrender everything and then trust you won’t storm the city anyway,” Rupert muttered, as the last echoes died away.  “I notice he didn’t mention your army.”

I nodded.  It was unlikely, to say the least, that Cuthbert didn’t know we were in the city.  If he didn’t have any spies inside the walls, and pickets watching the approaches from a safe distance, I’d strip naked, paint my butt purple and run through the streets screaming about alien invaders.  No, Cuthbert would know we were in the city.  I guessed he intended to intimidate the council into surrendering, then insist – as the price for a peaceful surrender – that the city’s soldiers took the queen’s army into custody.  It wouldn’t end well.  If we surrendered peacefully, we’d be slaughtered when we were handed over; if we fought, the city would be torn apart and the warlord’s troops would march in and secure the remains effortlessly. 

“No,” I said.  “Give him time.  He’ll force you to deal with us.”

“No, he won’t.”  Rupert drew his pistol, aimed at the ground in front of the messenger and, before I could stop him, pulled the trigger.  The messenger scampered back as if the hounds of hell were after him.  “We’re not going to surrender.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.  The rules were clear.  Shooting an arrow – aimed to miss – was a very clear rejection of the enemy’s demands, but it wasn’t a total rejection.  Shooting the messenger, literally, really was.  And with the pistols so inaccurate, there was a very real chance it could have happened by accident …

“Good,” I said.  There was no point in berating Rupert for his mistake.  “We’d better brace for attack.”

Rupert shrugged.  “They’re still aiming at the gatehouse.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “Unless they have something up their sleeves …”

I scowled as the minutes slowly turned to hours.  The warlord’s troops were still preparing their siege lines, digging in rather than mounting an offensive.  Were they planning a night attack?  I hoped not – it would screw up my plans – but it was possible, if unlikely.  Coordinating an attack in the daytime was hard enough without modern tech; coordinating one at night was damned near impossible, even with magic.  I couldn’t pick out more than a handful of magicians in the enemy lines, too few – I thought – to ensure that every trooper had a night-vision spell.  Or … I’d shown the world starshells, when I’d led the army to war against Aldred.  Did they have starshells of their own?  Or had they devised spells that did the same thing?

Probably, I thought, darkly.  A conventional war would have made sense.  I had a rough idea of the tech available to them, as well as centuries of awareness of how such tech had been used.  Magic?  Magic was dangerously unpredictable.  For all I knew, they had a mass mind control spell they were aiming at us even now.  What can they do?  What can’t they do?

“The longer they wait, the more time we have to prepare,” Rupert said.  “Right?”

“Right,” I agreed, trying to sound reassuring.  The warlord wanted the city – and its factories – intact.  It was possible, quite possible, he would come up with a better offer, now the city had refused to bend the knee.  I doubted there was any reasonable compromise – the moment the city accepted a garrison, its independence was at an end – but who knew?  We’d stockpiled food for the last month, preserving it as best we could, yet … we would starve eventually.  And starving men got desperate.  “We have time.”

“We don’t need to wait long,” Rupert agreed.  He glanced at the sun, starting to sink towards the distant horizon.  “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” I agreed.  The timing was going to be tight, but the longer we let the army sit outside the walls the harder it would be to make the plan work.  The more I looked at the enemy lines, the more I wondered if they’d had some advance warning.  If they kept building their earthworks, they were going to defeat the plan without ever realising it.  “We don’t have time to waste.”

Rupert grabbed my arm.  “I’m trusting you,” he said.  The grim resolve in his tone nearly made me flinch.  He was taking one hell of a risk, for me.  “If the council finds out …”

“By the time they do, the plan will have either worked or I’ll be dead,” I said, curtly.  It looked good on paper, but so did a bunch of other plans that had failed spectacularly in the real world.  “If that happens …”

“I’ll think of something,” Rupert said.  He smiled, although it didn’t touch his eyes.  This war was going to be worse, a lot worse, than the one we’d fought together.  And if we lost, there was a very real possibility the city would be stormed and destroyed.  “If nothing else, we’ll give them one hell of a shock.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “It will.”

Chapter Thirteen

Once, years ago, I’d heard a song about a city under siege.

It had been a haunting tune, from what I recalled.  The city’s population had been so scared of the besieging army that they had abandoned the battlements to cower behind the walls, unwilling even to look at the enemy troops as they tightened the siege.  They’d shook and shivered and waited for the inevitable end, until a little girl – with more balls than the grown adults – had clambered onto the battlements, ignoring all the warnings, and discovered the enemy army had raised the siege weeks ago and no one had noticed.  The memory mocked me now, as I walked the streets to the far gate to check in with my men.  It would be a long time, if ever, before this siege was lifted or even abandoned.

But that will change, if our plan works, I thought.  If …

Horst greeted me as I reached the staging ground.  “Everyone is ready, sir,” he said, as I swept my eyes over the mounted infantry and magicians.  Fallon had insisted on accompanying us, despite my objections.  “We can open the gates and gallop out on your command.”

I nodded, as darkness swept over the city.  An hour or two and it would be time for us to do or die, or both.  If it didn’t work … I shook my head, taking the time to review the men properly before returning to the battlements.  Horst was a good man, someone who’d advanced in leaps and bounds after I’d taken him under my wing.  I didn’t have to accompany the troops, but … no.  I couldn’t send men to carry out missions I was unwilling to undertake myself.

“Be ready,” I said.  “Once the big ones go up, we’re committed.”

I exchanged glances with Fallon, then returned to the main gates.  Rupert had gone to lie down, on my insistence, but he didn’t look particularly rested as he studied the darkening enemy camp.  They’d planted rows upon rows of tents –unsurprisingly, the common soldiers were sleeping in the open, counting themselves lucky if they had bedrolls - and lit bonfires, suggesting they were settling in for a long stay.  I’d seen their cavalry sweeping the countryside, galloping over fields and chasing any remaining farmers into the undergrowth.  I hoped they’d started to realise just how thoroughly it had been stripped.  Their chances of living off the land had been sharply reduced before the army had even arrived.

“We’re ready,” Rupert said.  “Are you?”

“The troops are in place,” I said.  “Give it a little more time.”

I studied the enemy camp carefully.  It didn’t look as though they were planning to attack, although it was hard to be sure.  If I’d been planning an attack, I would have done everything in my power to keep the target from noticing my preparations until it was too late.  Unless I wanted to intimidate them, of course, in the hopes they’d surrender before I started shooting.  But a tactic like that had always struck me as absurdly chancy …

The minutes ticked away.  I hoped Horst had had the sense to tell the men to relax and goof off a little.  A very little.  Spending all of their time braced for the mission would drain them, leaving them tired and unprepared when the balloon finally went up.  There’d been no way to train for the mission, not beyond the basics, for fear of the enemy spies noticing and working out what we were planning to do.  It would be easy for them to get a message out, with or without magic.  A simple arrow would be enough.

“Now,” I said, quietly.  “You may fire when ready.”

Rupert raised his voice.  “FIRE!”

The catapults fired as one, hurling a massive salvo across the walls and into the enemy camp.  We hadn’t used heavy stones, not this time.  Instead, we’d convinced the glassmakers to turn out giant glass bottles – I couldn’t help thinking they looked like terrariums – and we’d filled them with explosives potions, concentrated alcohol and gas, then rigged up a simple fuse to produce a spark when they hit their targets.  Not all would explode, I’d been cautioned, but it probably didn’t matter.  Enough would catch fire, with the aid of the enemy bonfires, to ensure that the rest ignited too.  The darkness lit up abruptly as flames spread through the enemy camp.  I smirked as the tents caught fire, occupants running for their lives.  They’d have been safer – a lot safer – if they’d slept in the open like common soldiers.

Rupert cheered.  “It worked!”

“Keep firing,” I said, quietly.  Rivers of eerie-coloured flame were flowing in all directions, panicking the enemy, but it wouldn’t last.  Their earthworks weren’t going to catch fire as easily as their tents.  I saw a row of catapults go up in flames, earth shaking violently as a barrel of gunpowder exploded, the fireball rising into the air like a mushroom cloud.  It chilled me even though it wasn’t a nuclear explosion … I hoped, as the wind shifted, that it chilled them too.  “Keep them hopping.”

The wind shifted again, blowing the stench of burning alcohol and human flesh across the battlements.  I gritted my teeth, carefully ignoring the youngsters who were trying not to throw up .  The catapults hurled the last of the makeshift projectiles into the enemy camp – I suspected we’d reached the point of diminishing returns – and then fell silent.  The flames grew worse, growing brighter as they reached for the skies.  The enemy were still panicking.

“What a cocktail,” Rupert said.  “You made it!”

“Molotov made it,” I joked, although it would mean nothing to him.  “You know what to do?”

Rupert nodded.  “Good luck, Elliot.”

I turned and hurried to the waiting horse as, behind me, the guns began to boom.  The enemy, already in disarray, would assume Rupert was planning a breakout, that he intended to open the gates and charge into the enemy position.  The fact it would be almost certain suicide, unless the enemy was far more incompetent than I dared hope, wouldn’t keep them from assuming the worst.  If they did nothing to stop the breakout, it might work after all.  I jumped onto the horse and galloped down the streets as the guns grew louder, the pounding shaking the air.  Thankfully, the citizens had been told to stay indoors after dark.  There was no one in my way as I cantered down the streets, the horse running faster and faster until I reached the barracks.  Horst and his men were already ready, bracing themselves to move into the gatehouse.  I swapped horses – I needed a mount as fresh as possible – and nodded to Horst.  It was time.

“Forward,” Horst ordered.

The mounted infantry trotted forward, into the gatehouse.  We’d worked hard to turn it into a deadly trap for anyone who managed to get through the gates, if the enemy noticed the gates were open before they were slammed closed again.  There was a risk, but one we’d have to endure.  Besides, the enemy were in disarray.  Their troops should be racing, even now, to stop a breakout on the other side of the city, an offensive they couldn’t afford to ignore.  Or so I hoped.

Horst raised a hand.  “Now?”

I nodded, feeling a pang of guilt.  I should have told Fallon to stay put.  In theory, I had absolute authority over her, the moment she accepted my proposal.  In practice … privately, I suspected I had absolute authority only as long as I chose not to use it.  She wouldn’t let me boss her around, even after we were married.  And yet, the idea of taking her into danger … it bothered me.  But she might be in worse danger, part of me reflected, if she stayed in the city.

“Now,” I ordered.

“Cast the spells,” Horst ordered.

Fallon waved a hand at me.  I tried not to flinch as … something … buzzed around me, an invisible insect that came and went so quickly I couldn’t so much as raise my hand to swat it before it was gone.  My eyes blinked automatically, my vision shifting … the dark world didn’t look right, and all the colours seemed oddly slanted, but … I could see in the dark!  A chill ran through me.  I’d worn night-vision gear on missions, back home, and it was pretty good, but this … this was almost perfect.  I just hoped the spell would last long enough for us to reach the supply dump.

Horst barked an order.  The ground shook a moment later.  We’d buried enough gunpowder outside to level a house – in fact, I’d been worried the enemy entrenchments would either uncover the gunpowder or, worse, set it off before we were ready.  But it hadn’t … a second explosion billowed out, followed by a third.  If the enemy troops were in disarray before, now … now, they wouldn’t know which way to jump.

“Open the gates,” Horst bellowed.

The gatehouse team set to work with a will, opening the gates and allowing us to gaze upon a scene from hell.  The enemy positions had been shattered, reduced to burning embers.  Men lay everywhere, bodies torn and broken.  I had hoped their commanders would try to help them and I feared, I knew, they wouldn’t.  Dead men lay beside them, unmoving and uncaring.  Three smouldering craters lay on each side of the gates, the remnants of the blasts glowing brightly as they cooled.  I could see enemy reinforcements rushing around, heading to the breakout I knew was a feint.  They hadn’t noticed us yet.

Horst dug in his spurs and led the gallop forward.  The men followed, charging across the broken landscape and out into the countryside.  I put my head down and followed, my mount picking up speed frantically.  I saw flashes and impressions – dead bodies, wounded men, enemy troops – as we headed into the darkness, heard shouts from behind us as the enemy tried to rally their men.  Shots rang out – I felt more than heard a musket ball pass overhead – and then died away as the people I’d left on the battlements opened fire themselves.  The enemy had to be having problems deciding which way to jump, which problem to tackle first.  If they thought the gate was still open …

A final explosion shook the air, then silence fell like a thunderclap.  I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding as we galloped, pushing the horses to the limit.  The enemy had held back at least two-thirds of their army, positioning them near the earthworks rather than manning them, and those troops would have moved forward to pick up the slack and keep the defenders from breaking out.  It was hard to be sure they knew we’d broken out, although I dared not assume they didn’t.  In the confusion, who knew what they knew? 

My lips twisted.  The enemy had settled down for a long siege … and we’d rattled them.  We had to have given them one hell of a shock.  My most pessimistic estimates suggested we’d killed at least a thousand men, probably a hell of a lot more.  The wounded would die too, unless the enemy provided decent medical care.  I didn’t expect it.  The majority of the footmen were peasants, the kind of people – I suspected – whose masters didn’t want them going home with military experience.  It could be so easily turned against their masters – and really, who could blame them?  I wondered, numbly, how they’d react.  Rupert and I had gamed out a handful of scenarios, but …

No battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy, I reminded myself, sternly.  The enemy, that dirty dog, has plans of his own.

I put the thought aside as we continued to move south, looking for all the world like a gaggle of superior officers running for their lives, while leaving their subordinates in the shit.  I’d seen it happen, in Iraq and Afghanistan and here, and it galled me to look like a coward myself, even though it was part of the plan.  The darkness enveloped us, hid us … we slowed, checked to make sure we weren’t being followed, then turned east.  We’d keep moving northeast as quickly as possible, first to the supply dump and then to our target.  If everything went according to plan …

Horst pulled his horse alongside mine.  “Won’t they notice you’re gone?”

I shook my head.  The council had insisted on Rupert being the overall commander.  They would sooner deal with him than me.  I had gone along with it for diplomatic reasons.  A magician would wear my face, showing himself to convince any watchers that I was still in the city.  The deception wouldn’t last forever, but it didn’t have to.  As long as it lasted a week, I’d be happy.

“It should be fine,” I said.  We slowed to a canter, then a trot.  “You?”

“We’re ready,” Horst said.  “I hope …”

We kept moving until the first glimmers of dawn appeared over the distant horizon, then slowed and found somewhere to camp for the day.  The landscape appeared to be largely empty – we’d passed a number of abandoned farmhouses and hamlets – but I knew it to be an illusion.  There were watching eyes in the undergrowth, farmers and their families who regarded us with as much suspicion as the warlord’s soldiers.  I didn’t blame them for being paranoid.  Despite my best efforts, and I’d done a lot over the last year, soldiers still had a terrible reputation.  There was no way they’d trust us not to rape, kill and burn our way through the countryside.

“I cast a pair of spells to help conceal us,” Fallon said, once the campsite was set up.  We didn’t bother with tents.  We could sleep on the ground for a few hours.  “They shouldn’t see us coming.”

“Good,” I said.  I’d spent much of the last few months on horseback, but my body still felt as if I’d gone three rounds with a prize-fighter.  I hoped the mounted infantry felt better.  Some of them were aristos – mainly born on the wrong side of the blanket – but the remainder were commoners, most of whom had only been in the saddle for a few months at most.  They’d ridden hard since then, yet …  “Get some rest.  You need it.”

Fallon held up a chat parchment.  “Rupert says the enemy fought an imaginary army as they took back their earthworks,” she said.  “What were they doing?”

I smirked.  Rupert had had strict orders not to risk a sally, whatever happened.  Unless he’d ignored his orders, and I doubted it, his men had stayed firmly behind the city walls and contented themselves with sniping at prospective targets.  But in the confusion, the enemy had no way to be sure.  They wouldn’t have realised what had actually happened until dawn …

“I think they were shooting at each other,” I said.  It made a certain kind of sense.  The warlord’s troops weren’t very well coordinated, save for his elite, and if one unit had assumed another to be enemy troops … it had happened during Operation Iraqi Freedom and we’d been so much better trained and equipped than the warlord’s troops that the gap was completely beyond their comprehension.  We’d been damn’ lucky no one had died.  “But we may never know for sure.”

I met her eyes.  “Get some rest.  Seriously.”

Fallon held my hand as she lay next to me, resting her head on her pack.  I felt another pang of guilt, then forced myself to close my eyes and think of nothing.  Four days hard riding should bring us to our target and then … I hoped, prayed, it worked as planned.  If it didn’t …

She snuggled up to me.  I held her for a moment, breathing in her scent, then let go.  She’d hate me for it, if she noticed, but I dared not let anyone think I was taking advantage of my position to bring my girlfriend.  Many of the mounted infantry had lovers of their own – the cavalry had never had any trouble attracting female attention – and they’d had to leave them behind.  She shifted, but didn’t wake.  I sighed and closed my eyes again.  It felt odd to sleep during the day.

I slept.  I must have, although I couldn’t have sworn to it when I jerked awake at dusk.  We ate hardtack and drank water, then resumed the ride.  The landscape shifted rapidly as we circumvented the edge of Aldred’s former territory, avoiding fortified towns as much as possible, before heading further north.  Some of the farms were burnt out, evidence of atrocities scattered for everyone to see.  Others just looked abandoned.  I gritted my teeth, telling myself there would be justice even though I feared I would be unable to keep that promise.  There were no investigators here who could – or would – find evidence that would lead to the culprits, let alone take them to court.  God knew, a great many crimes had gone unpunished back home because of a lack of evidence …

“We’re nearly there,” Horst said, three days later.  We’d paused long enough to let the horses rest and gather themselves.  Bred for the military or not, there were limits to how far they could be pushed.  “Do we proceed?”

I nodded.  The news from Damansara hadn’t improved.  The warlord was still laying siege to the walls.  Worse, he’d started shooting cannonballs at the walls, trying to find weak spots.  I was surprised he wasn’t mounting a major bombardment … I hoped, reading between the lines, that we’d taken out his gunpowder stores.  He’d need to bring in more before starting a major offensive …

“We have no choice,” I said.  We didn’t, not really.  Doing nothing would mean we were accepting our eventual defeat.  “Let’s move.”

Chapter Fourteen

I’d expected a relatively modern mining complex.  I was wrong.

The scene before me, half-shrouded in darkness, was an ecological nightmare.  A giant pit, reaching down into the bowels of the world; a series of entrances to deeper tunnels, all looking as if one good explosion would collapse the openings and doom whoever was below to a slow and painful death.  Slaves, their feet shackled, moved back and forth, carried ore from the mines to the buildings near us.  They looked surprisingly healthy, for men who had to be breathing in dust and God alone knew what else.  I guessed they’d been taken from nearby settlements and towns – perhaps convicted of some crime, perhaps snatched off the streets – and sent to die.  A handful of men looked much older, staggering along as though they were on their last legs.  I feared they wouldn’t live to see next week.

“Fuck,” Horst breathed.

I swept my gaze over the mining complex.  A handful of buildings looked surprisingly new; others looked old, as if they’d been on the verge of being abandoned before the miners found new seams of gold.  Houdon had talked down the gold mine as much as possible, while quietly developing the seams in hopes of buying their independence; Cuthbert, damn the man, hadn’t bothered with a pretence of legality when he’d swept in and taken the mine for himself.  It was possible a sudden influx of gold would ruin him, in the long term, but I doubted it would happen in my lifetime.  It had taken several decades for Spain to discover the downsides of vast wealth from the Americas – indeed, I wasn’t sure they’d ever realised it at all.  And Cuthbert’s new wealth wasn’t anywhere near such a scale.

“Not many defences,” I noted.  There were a handful of guards on duty – they looked more like thugs than elite soldiers – and I guessed there were more hiding out of sight, but the defences were curiously weak.  Or perhaps not.  There were enough men in view to keep the slaves under control and drive off bandits and raiders, just not enough to stand off a full-scale assault.  If I’d been in charge, I’d have built far tougher defences.  “I wonder why.”

“We are quite some distance from Damansara,” Horst pointed out.  “The only troops that would normally come so far are cavalry and the typical cavalry unit couldn’t break through the defences.  Anything bigger would be easy to spot well before it reached the mine.”

“And they’d risk destroying the mine,” Fallon added.  “Right?”

I shrugged.  There was no way we could destroy the seams of gold, but it would be easy enough to tear down the buildings, collapse the tunnels and a handful of other things that would delay any attempts to reopen the mine.  Give us a week or two and we could have the entire complex booby-trapped, perhaps even poisoned to the point they’d give it up as a bad job … no, that wasn’t going to happen.  The gold called to them like shit called to flies.  I didn’t care that much about the mine – it made very little difference, in the short term, who held it – but both Cuthbert and Houdon did.  They’d reclaim the mine as soon as possible.  I knew it.

In fact, I was counting on it.

“They’ve got a gunpowder mill too,” Horst added.  “We’ll have to be careful.”

I felt a flicker of guilt, although it hadn’t been me who’d introduced gunpowder.  That had been the mysterious Emily.  Gunpowder wasn’t the best mining explosive in the world, but it was so much better than picks and shovels … everyone was delighted, apart from the slaves, and who gave a damn about them?  I did.  My ancestors demanded I free the slaves and I intended to do just that, then give them the tools they needed to keep their freedom.  And then …

“Deploy your men,” I ordered.  The defenders thought they could stand off a cavalry unit.  No cavalry commander in his right mind would try to charge the walls – and his horses would balk if he did.  But the defenders weren’t ready for mounted infantry, with rifles and grenades and mortars and a bunch of other surprises.  “You know what to do.”

Horst nodded.  “You stay here, sir,” he said.  “We can handle it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then sighed inwardly and closed it.  I’d promised Horst I’d make a soldier out of him and it looked like I’d succeeded, to the point he was willing to tell me to stay behind instead of risking my neck.  It was galling to think I couldn’t go into battle now, even though I’d proved myself time and time again.  But Horst was right.  Losing him would be bad.  Losing me would be disastrous.  I’d done what I could to build up an officer cadre, men who considered war a profession rather than the sport of kings and warlords, but I had no illusions.  The army was in its infancy.  It would be all too easy to revert to bad habits if it lost me. 

Fallon touched my arm.  “He’ll be fine,” she said.  “He knows what he’s doing.”

I nodded and forced myself to watch as the infantry dismounted, drew their weapons and advanced in rough order, their movements displaying the squeamish determination of largely untried men.   Some had fought before, in skirmishes and patrols and even as part of the counter-coup, but far too many were untried.  We’d done what we could to prepare them – and we’d worked hard to develop their reputation – but this was their first major test as an offensive unit.  I hoped the enemy hadn’t worked out what the men were trained to do.  If they had …

My lips quirked.  Cavalry had been the unquestioned kings of the mobile battlefield, but they couldn’t take cities or even – as much as they might wish to deny it – win battles on their own.  Infantry could and did take cities, but they marched so slowly by local standards that any sort of blitzkrieg was unthinkable.  The warlord would have had to be blind – and all his supporters would have to be blind too – to miss me marching an army towards the mine.  Figuring out my target would be as easy as drawing a line on the map.  But the mounted infantry moved so fast I could get inside the enemy decision loop and strike the target before it was too late.

Horst led his men from the front, his riflemen raking the makeshift walls with bullets – most missed, I was sure, although it didn’t matter as long as the enemy were forced to keep their heads down – while his sappers hit the wall itself.  The explosion punched a hole large enough to take two or three tanks – the cynical side of my mind noted that if I’d had a real tank I could just have driven right through the walls – and the men flowed forward, cheering as they plunged into the compound.  The mortars opened fire a moment later, dropping shells on the enemy barracks.  I snorted in cold amusement.  They really shouldn’t have made it so easy to tell the difference between the military barracks and the slave compounds.

I raised my gaze.  Most of the visible slaves, thankfully, had hit the deck.  A handful were attacking their overseers, even though they were unarmed.  The overseers themselves were either trying to retreat or throwing down their weapons, begging for mercy as my men secured the pit.  They didn’t seem to be having much luck.  The former slaves were tearing them apart.  I couldn’t blame them.  If I’d been trapped in a slave camp and forced to work until I dropped dead, I’d have wanted a little revenge too.

The shooting died away.  The handful of surviving overseers were taken into custody, save for two who managed to get over the far wall and vanish into the darkness.  I hoped they had the sense to flee straight to the city, rather than wandering aimlessly through the countryside.  The locals would kill the bastards, the moment they realised who and what they were.  But then, who knew how Cuthbert would treat them?  Shooting the bearer of bad news was a terrible idea, yet there were aristocrats who thought it was a very good idea instead.

Horst returned, looking pleased with himself.  “Sir, the mine is ours,” he said.  “We have the manager in custody.”

I nodded.  “Good work,” I said.  I’d make sure to praise all the mounted infantry as I passed and, when I got back home, have bards hired to write songs honouring their deeds.  It sounded absurd, to my American ear, but it worked.  “Did you take the paperwork too?”

“Yes, sir,” Horst said.  “They didn’t even try to destroy it.”

“They didn’t know we were coming,” I agreed.  “Let’s see what we have …”

The air seemed to grow thick with dust as we made our way through the gash in the walls and into the compound.  I found myself coughing and wheezing as the wind shifted, blowing dust into my eyes and a ghastly stench into my nostrils.  The prisoners, lying on the ground, stared at me fearfully; the slaves, the former slaves, looked as if they didn’t know if I were a liberator or just another slavemaster, coming to take them for my own.  They were a curious lot, part of my mind noted.  They didn’t look like common criminals who’d been sentenced to die.  I put the thought aside as we walked into the main building.  The air wasn’t much better indoors.

“Check the paperwork,” I told Fallon.  She had grown up a merchant’s daughter.  She’d probably be better at assessing the documents than anyone else.  “I’ll see you in a moment.”

“Right.”

I nodded as Horst showed me into the manager’s office.  The manager was tied to a chair, a nasty bruise clearly visible on one cheek.  I guessed he’d mouthed off to the soldiers and been put firmly in his place, something that would have been a court-martial offense back home but not here.  He looked surprisingly delicate, for someone who ran a slave camp, but … I snorted.  The odds were good he was an aristocrat born and bred.

“This is an outrage,” he protested, when he saw me.  “This is …”

“This mine is now in my hands,” I told him, bluntly.  “If you cooperate, you will be returned to your master.  If not, you will be put to work in the mines you used to run.”

I met his eyes.  “Who are the slaves?”

“Men from Houdon,” he said.  I couldn’t tell if he was trying to cooperate or if he was just too scared to think clearly.  “They’re here to keep them from causing trouble.”

I glanced at Horst.  “Get the slaves unshackled, then find the leader,” I ordered.  “I need to talk to him.”

The manager started to protest.  I cut him off again.  “Tell me about the mine,” I said.  “What do you do here?”

I kept a sharp eye on him as he stammered out a response.  The best question to ask, when you’re interrogating someone, is the one to which you already know the answer.  I knew enough about the mine, and I could fill in enough of the blanks, to be fairly sure I could pick out a falsehood, if he dared try to lie to me.  He didn’t seem anywhere near clear-thinking enough to come up with anything resembling a lie, not even an understatement … he babbled on and on, boasting about how much gold they’d taken from the ground and shipped north to the warlord’s city, enough money to fund a giant army.  I rolled my eyes as the babbling became a little more incoherent.  Cuthbert would be discovering the joys of inflation soon, if he wasn’t already.  An increase in his gold reserves would probably mean an increase in prices too.

“Right,” I said, finally.  The manager probably wasn't worth much as a hostage, but who knew?  I was reluctant to give men their parole and send them home to collect their ransom money – apparently, this was honoured more often than I would expect – but no one would think twice if I sent the manager home.  It didn’t matter, to me, if the ransom was paid or not.  All that mattered was that word of our presence would reach his master.  “How much do you think you’re worth?”

He paled, his lips working silently for a long moment.  I suspected that was a bad sign.  There was no proper currency in the kingdom, despite my best efforts, and … he might be the mine’s manager, but I doubted he was that important.  It wasn’t a post that could be given to someone with a power base of their own, no matter what oaths he swore; the gold would, I suspected, provide an irresistible temptation.  And yet, if the manager was a close relative of the warlord himself …

“He’ll pay for me,” the manager stammered, finally.  “He’ll pay … ten gold bars.”

I had to fight to keep the scorn and disbelief off my face.  Gold bars were the closest thing the kingdom had to a stable currency – the dimensions of the bars, and their content, was the one thing everyone agreed on – but ten gold bars for him?  That was a joke … it had to be.  Unless the manager was a very close relative of the warlord … no, that wasn’t likely.  If he was, he would have told me at once.  What better way to ensure he survived long enough to be used as a bargaining chip?

“Ten gold bars,” I said, doing my best impression of a stupid greenie lieutenant who’d just been sent off on a snipe hunt.  I was sure I hadn’t looked quite so gormless when I really had been a junior officer, but who knew?  I’d made my fair share of embarrassing mistakes.  “I think that sounds a reasonable price.”

He smiled, quickly.  I wondered, idly, which of us was fooling the other.  He was appealing to my greed – ten gold bars; I could retire on ten gold bars – and I was pretending to go along with it, but … did he think I was a complete idiot?  Or … did he think I thought the mine had produced enough gold, under his stewardship, for ten gold bars to seem a reasonable price?  I found it hard to care.  I was entirely sure he planned to renounce his parole, when he reached the city, and come up with some technicality that would justify it.  But it was all part of my plan.

“We’ll provide you with a horse,” I said, cheerfully.  It was nearly dawn.  “You will go straight to Houdon and start collecting your ransom.  We’ll expect it – or you – back here within two weeks, or you will be named and shamed as a coward and oathbreaker.”

The manager smiled, again.  He thought he had me.  Two weeks … more than enough time for the warlord to gather his troops and march on the mine.  He probably thought I was the most gullible idiot in the history of the world, although – I had to admit – mercenaries were greedy as hell and everyone thought I was a mercenary.  Or did he think I was being a little too obliging?  If someone gave me everything I wanted and needed on a silver platter, I would have been a little bit suspicious too.

“You can stay here until dawn,” I told him.  There was no point in letting him gallop off in the darkness and break his fool neck.  “Don’t leave the room” – a jest; I had no intention of untying him – “and wait for me to come see you off.”

He nodded.  “Yes, My Lord.”

And you can take your tongue off my ass now, I thought.  Flattery would have gotten him up the chain, if I was any judge.  It wasn’t enough for the aristocrats to be the lords and masters of creation.  They had to be flattered in a manner that made me cringe.  I’d seen it on Earth – Saddam had been flattered so much it was no wonder he thought himself a near-god – and I’d seen it here.  I won’t change my mind because you don’t kiss my boot a few hundred times.

Fallon was in the records room, studying the files.  “They brought out more gold than I expected,” she said, without looking up.  “There’s also a slight glitch in the numbers.  I think the manager was quietly skimming.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I said.  I was no accountant – I tried to have as little to do with the beancounters as possible – but even to my untrained eye the ledgers looked tailor-made to hide corruption.  The system was so inefficient it was possible they’d lose a ton of gold – or at least the records of its existence - quite by accident.  An investigator would have to go through each and every document just to be sure they’d accounted for everything.  “No wonder he put his ransom so high.”

“A gold bar?”

“Ten gold bars,” I said.  Fallon gaped at me.  “Either he’s a fool, or he thinks I’m one.”

“It’s him,” Fallon said.  She looked back at the documents, her eyes running down a dusty ledger.  “Although, if he’s the one skimming, he’s not as stupid as I thought.  Offering a huge ransom might just get him out and away before someone else looks at the paperwork, realises what he’s been doing, and has him arrested.”

“Probably,” I agreed.  I’d been told that an accountant insisting on being the sole person in charge of the paperwork was a huge red flag.  It was a warning sign that they were embezzling money from their employers.  “But as long as he tells his master what we’ve done, it really doesn’t matter.”

Chapter Fifteen

“I was a captain in the militia,” Captain Alonzo explained to me.  “And then the city was taken and I wound up here, along with many of my men.”

I gritted my teeth.  In Iraq, we had neither employed nor detained the former soldiers who’d fought – and lost – for Saddam.  Stripped of their salaries and positions, allowed to go home and simmer in resentment and frustration, the insurgents had had no trouble recruiting the former soldiers to their cause.  Warlord Cuthbert, it seemed, was smart enough not to make the same mistake as a bunch of overeducated and inexperienced men thousands of miles from the combat zone.  He’d taken the city, arrested the council and militiamen and effectively enslaved them.  Ruthless, but effective.  There’d be thousands of people who wanted to resist the occupation, and drive the warlord’s troops out of their city, yet there were limits to what they could do without trained and experienced leaders.

And they provide the manpower for his mine, I thought.  I’d sent the manager on his way before I’d spoken to any of the former slaves.  The bastard had ridden off like the hounds of hell were after him.  Cuthbert has managed to make war pay.

“I see,” I said, carefully.  “How many men do you have?”

Alonzo scowled.  “There were over a thousand, back before the occupation,” he said.  “Now … two hundred or so here, three hundred if we count others who were sent to the pit, and no more.  There may be entire underground circles back home, but …”

I nodded.  The warlord’s troops controlled the city.  He’d probably had a network of spies already and he’d inherited more when he’d crushed the council and suborned the aristocracy.  There might be hundreds of would-be resistance fighters but getting them organised was going to be a nightmare.  Given time, we could have done it.  I didn’t think we had time.

“Cards on the table,” I said, bluntly.  “We’re fighting a total war.  I intend to lure the enemy army into a trap, then destroy it in open battle.  To do that, I need to liberate Houdon and turn it into a base.  Are you prepared to help me?”

Alonzo blinked.  “Destroy his army?”

I nodded again.  I understood his surprise.  A year ago, castles and cities had been the centre of gravity, the targets that needed to be occupied – or reduced – to win the war.  Now, it was the enemy’s army that needed to be destroyed.  War was changing, for better or worse, and we needed to change with it.  If George McClellan had realised his target was the Confederacy’s army, rather than Richmond, the Civil War might have been a hell of a lot shorter.

“It can be done,” I said.  Set-piece battles were relatively rare, from what I’d heard.  That was going to change too.  “But are you going to help me?”

There was a long pause.  “And what do you intend to do with my city?”

“Her Majesty has confirmed the independence of Damansara,” I said.  “I have no doubt she’ll extend the same recognition to Houdon, once the warlords have been defeated.”

Alonzo looked as though he’d bitten into a lemon.  I could guess what he was thinking.  If the city was liberated, rather than liberating itself, the liberator would be in a very strong position to control, or at least influence, the city.  It would be harder to organise resistance if their independence was circumscribed, rather than crushed, and harder still to convince a distant monarch – whose armies really had liberated the city – that they should be granted their independence.  Damansara, thanks to me, was a tough target.  Houdon was much less capable of defending itself.

But if you refuse this offer, I asked silently, you run the risk of the city being liberated without you.

I sighed inwardly and waited.  I’d dealt with a great many local community leaders, some of whom had had genuine power and influence and some who’d been little more than con artists trying to dupe the ignorant Americans into giving them money and prestige.  They were always limited in what they could offer – if they made promises their people were unwilling to keep, they’d get their throats cut very quickly – and they were reluctant to commit themselves.  And yet, what choice did Alonzo have?  The only other option was to abandon his city and head south.

“I expect your oath that you’ll petition Her Majesty to uphold our independence,” Alonzo said, finally.  Despite his words, it was a surrender and we both knew it.  “What do you have in mind?”

I leaned forward.  “Tell me about the city,” I said.  Alonzo’s information would be a few weeks out of date, but it was a good place to start.  “And the occupation forces.”

Alonzo talked, slowly at first and then with increasing enthusiasm.  I listened carefully, making a handful of notes and asking questions whenever I needed more detail.  There were limits to how much could have changed, in the last few weeks, I hoped; there just hadn’t been time to reinforce the walls, or set up traps, or any of the other things we’d done to prepare Damansara for a siege.  But … Cuthbert had moved a shitload of supplies into the city.  If we did try to lay siege to it ourselves, it would take months – if not years – to force the city to surrender.  And storming the walls would lead to a bloody slaughter.

We have to take the city in a single blow, I thought.  Cuthbert was adapting better to the new world than I cared to admit.  If I laid siege to Houdon, it was at least possible he’d refuse to take the bait.  Barring bad luck or treachery, the city could hold for months.  And that means we need to be clever.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, contemplating my mental map.  The manager would reach the city in a day or so.  I’d had a pair of horsemen follow him, just to be sure, but it would be quite some time before they reported back.  Assuming Cuthbert reacted promptly, he could get his troops to the mine in three to four days … unless, of course, he’d raised a mounted infantry unit of his own.  It wasn’t impossible.

“Get your men organised,” I told him.  We’d captured some weapons and enough gunpowder to train the former slaves how to use them, as well as destroy as much as possible before we abandoned the mine.  If we won, it could be reopened; if we lost, it would be someone else’s problem.  “We’ll need to get them in place soon.”

Alonzo frowned.  “What do you have in mind?”

I hesitated.  What he didn’t know he couldn’t tell.  I had no reason to distrust him, and I doubted the manager had gone to the trouble of planting spies amongst the slaves, but I knew through grim experience that the more people who knew a secret, the greater the chance of someone letting it slip.  They might not mean to betray the secret, but … loose lips sink ships.

“Later,” I promised.  “You’ll be briefed when we’re on the march.”

Alonzo nodded – he didn’t look pleased – and left the room.  I watched him go, uncomfortably aware that he was a two-edged sword.  He could be very helpful, and he had every reason to be, but he could also turn in my hands very quickly.  His goals didn’t quite agree with mine, or Helen’s.  If he thought we were planning to betray him, he’d try to get his betrayal in first.

Fallon entered, looking tired.  “I got a message from the detached unit,” she said.  “They ran down and defeated a cavalry patrol.  They’re bringing their prisoners and the bodies back now.”

I nodded.  Cuthbert’s patrols were easy to spot.  They were capable of thrashing rebellious peasants, as long as they were careful not to let themselves get surrounded, but didn’t have anywhere near the firepower they needed to defeat my mounted infantry.  Picking them off, one by one, would only heighten the impression we were turning the mine into a base and sweeping the countryside, inflaming the peasants to the point they rose against their masters.  I didn’t care if it happened– my target was the city, not the countryside – but I had my hopes.  The uprising might just cause a number of vassals to rethink their positions.

“We need their equipment intact,” I said, more to myself than to her.  The militiamen needed the weapons.  We needed something else.  “Did we get the gold on the way?”

Fallon nodded.  “It’ll be buried as planned,” she said.  “What’ll happen to it afterwards?”

I shrugged.  It would be an interesting argument.  My men – and I – could claim it was ours, on the grounds we’d captured it; Alonzo’s men could claim it was theirs, on the grounds they’d been the ones who’d dug it out of the ground and passed it to the smelters.  I didn’t intend to worry about it, not now.  We’d share the wealth when the war was over, if we survived.  Any man who died in my service would have his money passed to his heirs.

“How are you feeling?”  I asked, instead.  “Are you well?”

“I’m pregnant, not unwell,” Fallon said, sharply.  “I have a bunch of spells protecting the baby too.  I’ll be fine.”

“The next trick will be a great deal harder,” I reminded her.  “If you want to head back …”

“You need me to do it,” Fallon said.  “Right?”

“We can do it without you,” I said, although I feared that wasn’t true.  There were too many things that could go wrong and, if they went wrong at just the right moment, the entire operation would be worse than useless.  “I just worry …”

“I’m pregnant, not unwell,” Fallon repeated.  “Women have been having babies since time out of mind.  Trust me to know what I’m doing.”

I bit down the urge to point out Fallon had been a virgin before I met her – and this was her first pregnancy.  She’d spent a great deal of time with her mother, when we’d returned to Damansara, and I was sure the older woman had told her daughter a lot about childbirth and childrearing, but … I still worried.  Cleo had had a rough pregnancy, the first time, and she’d had the advantage of modern medicine.  Here … I was no doctor, let alone a nurse or a midwife, yet I was far more qualified than the average chirurgeon.  It was a truly terrifying thought.  I knew just enough to be all too aware of my own ignorance.

She’ll have the very best mundane and magical care this world can offer, I thought, grimly.  She’ll be fine.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I said, putting my thoughts into words.  “But I do worry.”

“You just put your manhood in me and came,” Fallon teased.  “I’m the one who has to carry the child.  I should be worrying.”

“I’ll do the worrying,” I told her.  If that was all I could do, I’d do it.  “You concentrate on having the baby.”

She nodded and gave me a quick hug, then turned and left.  I sighed inwardly.  It still hurt to think of my young boys, lost forever … it struck me, suddenly, that I could barely remember their faces.  They’d been sweet kids, and … well, teenagers, but … I tried to recall Cleo’s face, then told myself not to be silly.  Cleo had cheated on me.  I didn’t owe her anything.  God knew, she was probably cursing me for vanishing … how long would it take, I wondered, for me to be declared officially dead?  She probably thought I’d driven off into the sunset, changed my name and left her with the kids.  And …

I swallowed.  My father had run out on his kids.  And I’d done the same.

Accidentally, I told myself.  It didn’t make it any better.  There were times when the motives simply didn’t matter.  This was one of them.  My kids will grow up thinking I abandoned them, that I was just another loser daddy who walked out ...

I gritted my teeth, then stood and forced myself to leave the building and walk through the compound.  The former slaves were training on the makeshift field outside, preparing for the coming battle.  A handful of administrators were chained to the fence, watched by my men … there was no point in ransoming them, I thought, so we’d leave them behind when we abandoned the mine.  Horst was directing a handful of volunteers as they moved gunpowder into the tunnels, ready to collapse the mines when we left.  I nodded to him, then stared down into the nightmarish pit.  I dreaded to think what would happen if it rained.  The mine would become a disaster zone very quickly.

They probably have some contingency plans to pump the shafts, I guessed.  The slaves couldn’t carry the water out fast enough to save the mines.

The day wore on.  I heard reports from the network of magicians, and scouts roaming the countryside, and waited – as the day turned to night – for news from the city.  It didn’t look as if Cuthbert knew what we’d done, at least not yet.  The army laying siege to Damansara didn’t appear to be preparing to pack up and leave … I allowed myself a tight smile.  The longer they waited, the harder it would be to stop me from putting my plan into action.  And yet …

“We captured two more patrols,” Horst said, the following morning.  Our sleep hadn’t been particularly good, partly because I was unable to share a bed with Fallon.  “How long will it take them to notice?”

I shrugged.  “Say … a day or two to realise the first patrol is overdue, then a couple more to realise they’re all overdue?”

Horst looked unconvinced.  “You’d think they’d notice quicker.”

“You’re thinking in terms of a city, and a relatively small battleground,” I said.  I was nervous too, but I was doing my best not to show it.  “Here … we have the great outdoors, where you can ride for hours without seeing a single town or hamlet.  They’ll be used to the concept of the troops being late by now, at least for a few days.  But when none of them come back …”

I grinned at him.  “The unit passed its first combat test,” I reminded him.  “I hope the men are pleased.”

“Relieved, more like,” Horst said.  He’d grown into a far more capable commanding officer than I’d would have expected when we’d first met.  He’d got the hang of taking care of his subordinates, but his way of doing it was a little … skewed.  I still cringed when he’d offered to take me to the brothel.  “There’s no way back now, is there?”

“To where?”  There really was no way back for me, but him?  “Do you want to go back to the City Guard?”

Horst shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “But … I do miss my family.”

“They could move to Roxanna,” I offered, although I knew it wouldn’t be easy.  The concept of the nuclear family just didn’t exist here.  You were part of an extended network of families or you were a man alone, alone and vulnerable.  “Or you could find someone in the city.”

Horst snorted.  “I’m a great nobleman now, am I?”

“You could be,” I said.  Helen had promised she’d knight anyone whose conduct, during the war, was above and beyond the call of duty.  Horst qualified, if anyone did.  I’d make damned sure he was mentioned in dispatches, talked up in the broadsheets and honoured in song by the minstrels.  “If you get knighted, you’ll have girls breaking down your door.”

“Hah.”  Horst snorted.  I might as well have promised him a billion dollars.  It was the sort of thing that just didn’t happen to commoners, not outside song and story.  But … I could make it happen.  “Do you think the plan is going to work?”

“I think so,” I said.  “If it looks like we’re going to fail, we can back off and vanish.”

Horst cocked his head.  “A little dishonourable, isn’t it?”

I shot him a surprised look.  “Do you care?”

He hesitated.  “It’ll bite us too, won’t it?”

“Perhaps,” I admitted.  Once they worked out what we’d done, they’d have no trouble at least trying it themselves.  “But we can handle it.”

My thoughts darkened.  There was little honour in war.  The kings and princes and warlords I’d met might view war as a game, but they cared nothing for the commoners who were maimed, raped or killed in the fighting.  I’d seen atrocities here that matched anything committed by Al Qaida or the Islamic State, atrocities that would be far worse if the locals had access to modern technology.  My world had avoided the use of nuclear weapons after World War Two, fearing the escalation their use represented.  Here …

If they had access to nukes, or chemical weapons, or biological, they’d use them, I thought, grimly.  It wasn’t that they were ruthless, although they were; it was that they simply didn’t care.  The lives of the peasants were about as important as the dust under their feet.  Their honour only covers themselves.

Fallon knocked.  “Elliot,” she said.  “We just got a note from the city.  The enemy army is marching out now.”

A few hours ago, I mentally corrected.  It didn’t matter.  It would take at least three days for the enemy to reach the mine.  We’d be on our way well before then.  It’s time.

I stood.  “Prepare the troops,” I ordered.  The plan looked good on paper.  Now, we were about to see how well it worked in practice.  “We march in two hours.”

Horst nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Sixteen

The march was as rough as I’d expected.

It wasn’t just that we needed to march fast, but that we had to take Captain Alonzo’s men with us.  Some were in great shape, some really should have been left behind … would have been, if I could’ve guaranteed their safety.  But there was no way I could.  The mine had been wrecked beyond easy repair, then abandoned save for a skeleton guard.  If an enemy patrol realised what we’d done and moved in to conquer the post, they’d take it. A handful of men had objected, but I’d overruled them.  Either we won the war, and retook the mine afterwards, or we lost.  If that happened … I hoped the warlord had problems fixing the mines.  We’d done enough damage to make certain the mine wouldn’t be back in production for months, if not years.

I smirked at the thought as we avoided the enemy troop – on their way to kick us out of the mining complex – and continued on our way to Houdon.  The enemy didn’t seem to realise what we’d done, to my relief.  No tactician worthy of the title could fail to grasp the simple fact we couldn’t keep the mine, not unless we wanted to be pinned down by some very motivated enemy troops, and the enemy CO might have figured I had something else in mind.  A pawn-queen swap … but which prize was the pawn and which the queen?  I knew which one I counted the greater prize, yet I had no idea what my enemy was thinking.  He might have worked out what I was doing and moved to counter my plan.

The scout galloped up to me.  “Sir, I counted at least a thousand infantry marching to the mine,” he said.  “They didn’t have a strong cavalry screen.”

“Good,” I said.  “Go get yourself something to eat, then rejoin the march.”

The scout nodded and hurried off.   I watched him go, hoping to hell the scout had counted the enemy forces accurately.  The old scouts, the ones I’d ruthlessly retrained, had been prone to guessing, providing estimates that were either ridiculously tiny or massively exaggerated to the point of absurdity.  A thousand men sounded reasonable, if one wanted to retake the mine as quickly as possible.  The missing cavalry was odd – cavalry had no business trying to hold down a city – but there might be a good explanation.  The warlord had good reason to want to sweep the countryside, if only to keep the peasants on their knees.  A major revolt in his rear would blow all his plans to hell.

“They took the bait,” Horst said, quietly.

“They had no choice,” I said.  The warlord would murder the idiot who left the mine in my hands, even though – objectively speaking – there was no point in hurrying. We’d already taken everything that could be stolen, then destroyed everything that could be wrecked.  “It’s time to move.”

We marched on, pushing our men to the limit as night started to settle over the land, and only slowing as Houdon itself came into view.  The city was darker than Damansara, few lights visible in the gathering darkness.  I wouldn’t have known it was a city if the wind hadn’t shifted, blowing the stench into my face.  Houdon smelled worse than Damansara … I guessed the warlord hadn’t allowed the city fathers to start cleaning the streets, pushing basic sanitation and everything else that might save the city from becoming a cesspit.  Or the city fathers simply didn’t care.  Either was possible.

“Get the men into their outfits,” I ordered, quietly.  “It’s time.”

Horst nodded.  “You too, sir,” he said.  “If you’re really bent on coming …”

I shot him a sharp look – I would be damned if I sent men to do something I wasn’t willing to do myself – and pulled the cloak over my head.  The lead horses were already clad in stolen caparisons … horse clothes, I translated mentally.  The warlord had gone to some trouble to outfit his cavalry properly, giving them decent uniforms as well as light armour that might – might – save their lives if they ran into something they couldn’t outrun.  I felt an odd twinge of discomfort as we changed, then unfurled a stolen banner.  The enemy wouldn’t see a threat when we approached.  They’d see a cavalry unit wearing their master’s livery.

They’ll realise what we did, I told myself, as my eyes swept up and down the mounted infantry.  They didn’t look right, to the experienced eye, but I was counting on the gloom to cover any mistakes.  Their weapons were hardly typical … I snapped orders at a couple of men, telling them to sling their rifles.  The enemy might notice if the troop looked like they were riding to war.  But even when they know what we did, they’ll have problems dealing with it.

I grinned.  I’d given strict orders that security precautions were to be followed to the letter and made it clear – though a series of unannounced drills – that anyone who followed them would be backed to the hilt.  An aristocratic commander would throw a fit and order a guard whipped, if that guard dared to demand his papers; I’d proven, several times, that I’d promote any guard who stood his ground, no matter who tried to bully his way through the checkpoint.  The warlords couldn’t do the same, not unless they wished to undermine their prestige.  And that would send morale straight into the crapper.

“We’re heading home for the night, at least until the shit hits the fan,” I reminded them.  It was unlikely, to say the least, that any of the guards would recognise the cavalrymen, but there was no point in taking chances.  “Remember, as far as they’re concerned, we’re friendly.  Don’t give them any reason to think otherwise until it is too late.”

I glanced at Captain Alonzo.  “Ready?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Forward,” I snapped.

The mounted infantry flowed forward, down the road.  We made no attempt to hide our approach.  It was vitally important the enemy believed us to be friendly and that meant we had to act as if we had nothing to fear, even though we did.  I frowned as I studied the city’s defences, cursing the warlord under my breath.  The walls would have been practically invulnerable, once upon a time, but now they were useless.  Worse than useless.  Their mere presence would make the city fathers feel safe, until the enemy brought up massed cannons and battered the walls into powder.  And then they would sack the city.

I glanced at our banners, rippling in the wind, then back at the gatehouse.  It was a small castle in its own right, solid enough to give cannonballs trouble and carefully designed to ensure that any conventional assault would be very difficult.  My blood ran cold as I spotted the murder holes, designed to let archers rain death on an advancing enemy, and half-concealed slits intended to release boiling oil if the attackers got close enough to scale the walls.  The city had never been completely invulnerable, but taking it would have been incredibly costly.  But now … a modern army could take the city almost without effort.

The gates opened as we approached.  We didn’t slow, though we were cantering into a killing zone, a trap designed to pin us down until we were wiped out.  We’d gone through a handful of contingency plans, if the enemy played it smart and let us inside the killing zone before opening fire, but escape was going to be difficult, if not impossible.  If we were caught …

We galloped through the inner gates and into the courtyard.  The guards were already pulling open the gates leading into the city itself without even bothering to check our identities.  I suspected they didn’t want to piss off the warlord’s cavalry.  They were almost always aristos – or at least wealthy enough to keep up with the blue-bloods – and could cause real trouble for a hapless guardsman.  Or worse … Cuthbert would have marched his front-line troops to Damansara, leaving reserve formations to keep Houdon under control.  The few deployable forces the enemy CO had under his command were on their way to recapture the mine.

I glanced around rapidly, then put the whistle to my lips and blew.  The men reacted splendidly, leaping off their horses and rushing to overwhelm the defenders before they could react.  They gaped in shock, rather than trying to raise the alarm … they barely had a moment to grab for their weapons before they were shot or knocked down or otherwise put out of commission.  My men darted past them, heading up and into the gatehouse itself.  The enemy couldn’t be allowed any time to think, not when they still had cards to play.  If they dropped the portcullis and locked it in place, they might trap us.  It was what I would have done, if I’d been in their shoes.  The operation could still fail spectacularly …

Someone shouted outside.  I heard trumpets blaring and cursed under my breath as I pulled the makeshift firework from my belt, placed it on the ground and lit the fuse.  Someone had reacted quickly, inside the city.  The trumpets would bring the enemy’s entire force down on our heads quickly, if I gave them the chance.  The firework whooshed into the air and exploded, a flash that could be seen for miles around.  The remainder of my forces, lurking outside the city, would throw caution to the winds and gallop to the gates.  And once they arrived …

“Sir,” a scout snapped.  “The gatehouse is in our hands!”

“Lock the gates open,” I ordered.  I had no intention of losing, but cutting my line of retreat was asking for trouble.  The rest of the gatehouses would be a great deal harder to capture, if we couldn’t force a surrender.  “Order the first and second units into the city; the third and fourth are to hold the gatehouse against all comers.”

The scout nodded and hurried off.  I ran to the inner walls myself and scrambled up to peer over the city, ignoring the handful of bodies on the battlements.  Houdon looked very much like Damansara – buildings packed too close together, slums and makeshift shelters clearly visible in the alleyways – but it was weirdly quiet, as if the people were too scared to go out after dark.  The enemy had probably enforced a curfew … I gritted my teeth as I stared towards the palace, taken over by the enemy and turned into a centre of operations.  My men were well-trained, but if the enemy had time to deploy …

Captain Alonzo joined me.  “If I go into the city now …”

“Go,” I said.  The shooting and trumpets would have been audible all over the city.  The population would know liberation was at hand … would they rise?  Or had they been so badly treated they were too scared to revolt?  “Hurry.”

I dropped back to the ground and snapped orders as my men flowed into the city, engaging and destroying an enemy patrol that either hadn’t known what was happening – unlikely – or hadn’t realised it was already too late to reinforce the gatehouse garrison.  Horst sent scouts further into the city as we secured the nearest district, telling the inhabitants to keep their heads down and out of the fight.  There would be too much confusion, in the darkness, to ensure the civilians attacked only the enemy.  I wanted them to rise in enemy-controlled territory, but not in mine.  They might accidentally defeat their own liberators.

The scout returned.  “Sir, enemy units are forming up near the palace.”

“Good,” I said.  I hadn’t wanted a long-drawn out siege.  The enemy might not know it – we were certainly doing everything in our power to hide it – but they had superior numbers.  They still held the other gatehouses … not that it mattered.  I didn’t have any reinforcements on the way.  If the enemy realised they still had the edge, they’d throw everything they had at me.  “Prepare to engage.”

“Yes, sir.”

I waited, my men rushing past to secure their positions.  We didn’t know enough about the enemy CO to guess what he’d do, if he thought the city was on the verge of falling into my hands.  The laws of war were clear – the city should surrender, once the enemy troops were over the walls and inside the city itself – but would he follow the rules?  I’d made it clear to my troops that raping, looting and killing would not be tolerated and, ironically, it might have come back to bite me.  If I couldn’t threaten to storm the city, my legal right if the city refused to surrender, the enemy CO might feel he could get away with defying me.  It wasn’t his city.  The nasty part of my mind noted that would probably make it easier for him to decide to destroy it. 

And if they draw us into an urban fight, we’re fucked, I thought.  Unless the enemy CO was a complete halfwit, he’d already dispatched messengers to the warlord himself.  The bastard would dispatch troops and force-march them back to Houdon, trying to catch me between two fires.  I doubted they could manage the coordination they’d need to make it work, but it wouldn’t matter.  If I took heavy causalities, there was no way I could put the second half of the plan into action.  We need to act fast …

“Hold the line,” I ordered.  My mortar teams were opening fire, lobbing shells into enemy positions.  Their accuracy was shit – we didn’t have anything like the kind of weapons the insurgents had used in Iraq – but they’d be playing merry hell with enemy morale.  “Let them come to us, so we can break them.”

I left Horst with the main force and stepped into an apartment block, hurrying up the stairs and out onto the rooftop.  The palace was brightly lit – I could see men running around like headless chickens, their officers and sergeants trying to get them into formation - and an enemy force was already on its way, pushing through the streets as if the devil himself was after them.  I felt a stab of sympathy, even though the men were on the other side.  Their CO was a cold-blooded monster, sending them to charge our positions and soak up our bullets.  It might work.  We didn’t have any supplies on the way, just what we’d brought with us.  If we ran out of ammunition …

The opposing force seemed to stall.  I stared, unable to see what was happening.  A mutiny?  Or … my eyes narrowed as I spotted dark figures on the rooftops, throwing slates and stones on the enemy forces.  A dull roar echoed over the city as more people charged onto the streets, laying down their lives just for a chance to get at the enemy soldiers.  The city was rising … I hoped, prayed, most of the rebels would live to see the dawn.  Cuthbert’s soldiers weren’t very well trained and most of them wouldn’t have any qualms about hurting, or killing, civilians.  All hell was about to break loose.

My lips twisted as Cuthbert’s force shattered.  It had been caught by surprise, assembled at tearing speed and marched into battle against a force that had already, as far as they knew, broken into the city itself.  And now … I gritted my teeth as I saw men scattering in all directions, some tearing at their armour as they tried to flee.  I doubted many would make it.  The locals knew their city like the back of their hand, knew their fellows … it was unlikely any soldier or mercenary would manage to go to ground long enough to escape the city before it was too late.  The latter were in real trouble.  The citizens would slaughter them like bugs. 

I hurried back downstairs and took command, directing my troops to secure the palace and enemy warehouses before someone bright spark had the idea of setting fire to them.  Reports were incredibly confused; one scout insisted the gatehouse garrisons were trying to surrender, another reported the garrisons had abandoned their posts and were fleeing into the countryside.  I suspected the latter was more likely to be accurate.  The citizens were in no mood to take prisoners.

“Sir,” Horst said.  He was grinning from ear to ear.  “You have a visitor.”

I looked up, then smiled as a middle-aged man in a fancy uniform – I couldn’t help thinking he looked like a military officer from a particularly unstable Third World country on Earth – was shoved into my presence.  He looked incredibly shaken.  His escort – ten men in light armour – had already been disarmed.  The man stared at me, mouth working soundlessly. I resisted the urge to say something cutting.  I’d seen too many enemy commanders who’d sent their men to their deaths, then tried to surrender.

“I …”  The man stopped and started again.   “My Lord, I …”

“No terms.”  I cut him off without a second thought.  “Unconditional surrender.”

He stared at me in shock.  I stared back, coldly.  I had no intention of treating him as a guest, rather than a prisoner; I certainly had no intention of ransoming him or anything else that would set him above the common herd.  The aristos regarded war as a sport because they rarely suffered the consequences – if they were captured, they were ransomed; if they were injured, they were healed – and if that didn’t change …

He swallowed.  “My Lord, I …”

“Tell your men to surrender, or I’ll hand you over to the cityfolk,” I said, bluntly.  I had no idea if he could surrender his men – I doubted he’d had any control even before he’d run to my troops – but it was worth a try.  “What do you choose?”

He bowed his head.  I grinned.  The city was mine.

Chapter Seventeen

“It is good that war is so terrible,” I muttered.  “Or else we might get too fond of it.”

I scowled, inwardly.  General Lee had been a traitor – he’d fought for a bad cause, although I gave him credit for accepting that the cause was lost and surrendering to the inevitable – but he’d known how to turn a phrase.  Lee had seen the devastation of the first total war.  He’d marched beside his men, starved with them … if the warlord and his aristocratic officers had felt the pain of war, the suffering inflicted on the common folk, they might have thought better of starting a fight.  But then, it was rare for them to suffer.  I intended to make sure that changed.

My mood darkened as I surveyed the inner city.  The uprising had turned into an outright rebellion, with enemy officers and collaborators dragged out of their hidey-holes and savagely torn to pieces by the crowd.  Their womenfolk had suffered worse.  They’d been beaten bloody, then bent over and raped repeatedly until I’d managed to get my men into position to stop it.  Stores had been looted, drunken rioters had tried to set fire to hundreds of buildings … I suspected, although I had no way to prove it, that a number of personal scores had been settled in the chaos.  Morning had brought a certain degree of calm, but I could feel the tension in the air.  The city was angry.  It still wanted revenge.

I scowled as I watched the enemy prisoners, shackled together, picking up bodies and piling them up in the streets.  Other teams were already outside the city, digging a mass grave for the bodies that couldn’t or wouldn’t be identified.  The looters had been through the bodies already – they’d stolen everything the poor bastards had been carrying when they’d been killed – and I feared most of them would never be identified, let alone returned to their families for burial.  I doubted the warlord would care.  If he’d given a damn about his men, he wouldn’t have put them in such a trap.

We won, I thought, darkly.  The Battle of Houdon would go down in history as a great victory.  A small force had invaded the city, sparked an uprising and defeated an enemy garrison that had enjoyed, at least on paper, superior numbers.  So why does it feel like a defeat?

“My Lord,” Captain Alonzo said, hurrying over to join me.  He was the closest thing to a leader the city had, after half the city fathers had been murdered by the occupation force and the other half executed for collaborating with the enemy.  I privately suspected he’d make himself into a dictator, if he didn’t set up a new council quickly, but it didn’t matter.  “I want Lord Sourpuss.”

“Lord Sothern,” I corrected.  I supposed the enemy CO did look a bit of a sourpuss – he’d started complaining the moment I’d put him in a cell, purely for his own safety, and as far as I knew he’d kept complaining – but insulting one’s enemy after he’d been imprisoned was just immature.  “Why do you want him?”

“He ruled this city from when it was occupied until now,” Alonzo pointed out, sharply.  “He led the troops and mercenaries that raped the city … that stole and raped and murdered their way across the city!  He needs to pay!”

I couldn’t disagree.  It had only been a few hours, but I’d already seen plenty of evidence of how the occupying force had mistreated the civilians.  Men killed for daring to protect their pretty daughters; the daughters flinching away from all men … if they’d been lucky enough to be allowed to go home; older women forced to cook and clean for the troops; merchants robbed and beaten when they’d complained … the list went on and on, a liturgy of horror that would have broken the city completely, if we hadn’t attacked and liberated the people.  I had no qualms about handing Lord Sothern over to face justice, but …

On one hand, we need to make it clear atrocities will not go unpunished, I thought.  On the other, we don’t want to discourage later surrenders.

I sighed, inwardly.  On paper, there was a clear procedure for surrendering a city to an invading force.  In practice … the enemy troops hadn’t had a chance to line up and march out of the city, nor had the enemy officers had a chance to convince their captors they were worth more alive than dead.  Lord Sothern had told me there’d been over fifty officers who might bring in a good ransom, if they were taken alive, but only two had been captured.  The remainder were either missing or dead.  One had been killed by his harem, who’d been very inventive.  I didn’t want to think about what they’d done to him.  It would make me limp forever.

Poor bitches, I thought, tiredly.  The girls hadn’t asked to become part of his harem … but their lives were still at risk.  They’d be lucky if they merely had their heads shaved.  But at least they got their revenge on their tormentors.

“We’ll hold a trial,” I said, finally.  “But we also need to prepare for the coming battle.”

Alonzo made a face.  “Are you sure Cuthbert is going to come here?”

“Yes,” I said.  “He has no choice.  And if we’re not ready for him …”

I paused, letting my words sink in.  Alonzo wasn’t a fool, but – like so many other cityfolk – his awareness of the greater world was very limited.  The occupation should have shaken him out of his complacency, but … I understood the urge to pretend everything was back to normal and there was no need to prepare for another fight.  I understood … but could not share that attitude.  We’d won a battle, not the war.

My thoughts darkened.  Cuthbert had turned Houdon into a giant supply depot.  The warehouses were crammed with everything his army needed to advance and fight, from guns and ammunition to food, drink, and medical supplies.  The buildings were tiny compared to some of the giant storage units I’d seen back home – the logistics bases in Kuwait had been staggeringly huge – but by local standards it was pretty impressive.  They’d brought along a shitload of luxury goods for the aristos – fine wine, finer food, the kind of bedding one would expect to find in a luxury hotel – yet they hadn’t skimped on anything else.  I had to give Cuthbert credit.  He’d done a bang-up job of preparing his logistics for the big push …

… And now it was mine, all mine.

I smiled as I contemplated his reaction.  Yesterday, he’d been patiently waiting for Damansara to starve to death – or surrender.  Today … he was now cut off from his supplies, his army suddenly threatened with starvation and collapse.  I doubted he’d be able to maintain discipline, once it dawned on his men that there’d be no more food on the way, and I doubted he’d be able to survive by pillaging the countryside.  I’d warned the locals to hide or destroy their food supplies, but even if they hadn’t there were limits to how much the army could take and use.  They’d starve to death, beaten without a fight.  Unless …

He has two choices, I reminded myself.  He can attack Damansara, which would be incredibly risky, or he can try to retake Houdon.

I knew what I’d do, if I was in his shoes.  If he tried and failed to take Damansara, he’d be fucked.  His lords would desert him.  It would be all over but the shouting.  A successful attack on the city would be a little less catastrophic, at least at first, but the city supplies wouldn’t last indefinitely.  I’d given orders to make sure all military supplies were destroyed before they could be captured.  He might win the battle and ravage the city, then lose the war anyway.  No, his only realistic choice was to lift the siege and head back to Houdon before I dug in and prepared to fight to the death.  He’d certainly left me enough supplies to keep up the fight for weeks.

Alonzo nodded, curtly.  “You’ll have my full support,” he said.  “But we do insist on putting Sourpuss on trial.”

“We start work first,” I said.  “We can hold the trial once the digging is underway.”

I had to give Alonzo credit too.  He was a great organiser.  He had entire battalions of young men and women marching out within the hour, digging trenches and piling up earthworks and siting defences and everything else we needed to do to make the city a far harder target for a modern army.  His guardsmen – what was left of them – ran up and down, helping to keep the streets under control while my men assisted in training the newborn army.  A year ago, there would have been no way to prepare the city in time; now, it only took a few hours of training to teach someone how to load, fire and maintain a flintlock or rifle.  I wasn’t blind to the simple fact he was putting his loyalists in key positions, but I wasn’t too concerned.  There was no way he could switch sides, at least not in the short term, and in the long term … I smiled.  There were so many weapons on the streets now that any attempt to create a dictatorship would end badly.  I wondered if he’d realised it. 

Fallon joined me as I watched the proceedings.  “I just got a messenger from the city,” she said.  It took me a moment to realise she meant Damansara.  “The enemy army is preparing to withdraw.”

“Good,” I said.  I’d known Cuthbert had only one logical course of action, but he might not.  It was impossible to be sure what he knew – and what conclusions he might draw from what he knew.  He might think I’d raided Houdon and then abandoned it, rather than trying to turn the city into a fortress.  Did he know I’d hit the mine?  It was quite possible he didn’t.  His local CO might have forgotten to inform him while dispatching troops in hopes of recovering the mine before his boss found out.  “They’ll be here soon.”

Fallon gave me an odd look.  “How can you be sure?”

I winked as we walked back to the makeshift command post.  “The trick to winning a battle is to put your enemy in a place where they have to fight the battle you want to fight,” I said, recalling my early studies.  Rommel might have been a better tactician than Monty, but Monty had forced Rommel to fight a battle that played to the British army’s strengths and took ruthless advantage of the German army’s weaknesses.  “Cuthbert’s only good choice is to come here, right now, and dislodge me before I get too strong or his army comes apart.  And that is what he will do.”

I sounded more confident than I felt.  There was one other possibility.  Cuthbert could march his forces around Houdon and head back to his core lands, leaving us untouched.  It would be an admission of defeat, and it would give me all the time I needed organised and march after him, but it was possible.  I doubted it, though.  Cuthbert knew better than to let himself look weak.  If he did, his supporters would turn perception into reality.

The thought bothered me as the day turned to night and then to day again.  I’d half-hoped Alonzo would give up on the idea of putting Lord Sothern on trial, but … he insisted.  I wished the man had been killed during the fighting, if only to avoid a dilemma.  If Lord Sothern was hanged, his peers would refuse to surrender; if he wasn’t, our allies would be outraged – and rightly so – and there’d be nothing deterring the enemy aristos from carrying out more atrocities.  I didn’t blame Alonzo for insisting Lord Sothern be tried and punished.  But I had to admit it was going to cause problems …

I put the thought aside as we stepped into the makeshift courtroom.  Alonzo had organised the trial with his usual efficiency, bringing in witnesses to testify to Lord Sothern’s crimes and broadsheet reporters – just as scrummy as their counterparts back home, but in different ways – to make sure the trial was reported to the mob.  I’d arranged for Fallon to cast a truth spell – there were no magicians left in the city, we’d been told – and for my men to stand on guard, to deter both the mob and anyone who might try to save the prisoner.  It wasn’t a particularly fair trial – no one had volunteered to defend Lord Sothern – but it was better than the alternative.

Alonzo stood as Lord Sothern was marched into the courtroom – in chains – and pushed into a chair.  “Lord Sourpuss … Lord Sothern,” he said.  I tried to hide my irritation.  “You were the commanding officer of the garrison occupying the city.  You bear ultimate responsibility for the crimes of your men.  How do you plead?”

Lord Sothern looked as if he were on the verge of falling over, but his voice was steady enough.  “This trial is illegal, under the laws of war,” he said, flatly.  “I do not recognise the authority of this court.”

“This court has the authority to try you,” Alonzo said, equally flatly.  “You bear responsibility for the crimes your men committed.”

That was true enough, I reflected, as Alonzo recited a long list of crimes from the unpleasant to the horrific.  It was a point of local law that “I was only following orders” was a perfectly valid defence, if the orders came from one’s superior officer.  The excuse excused practically everything, as long as one could stretch the orders to cover whatever one had done.  I suspected it wasn’t going to work.  Someone with a legal bent had put together a counterargument that noted Queen Helen had flatly forbidden atrocities and, as the warlords claimed to be fighting in her name, the orders were technically illegal.  I had to admit it was a cunning argument, even though I thought it wouldn’t get very far.  The warlords would probably ignore it, rather than risk opening a debate into their authority. 

I forced myself to listen as the witnesses spoke, one by one, recounting stories of looting, rape and murder.  It went on and on, an endless series of crimes that could not be reasonably justified under any law, save the rule of force.  The city had surrendered without a fight and was due, according to the conventions, a degree of good treatment.  Lord Sothern and his men hadn’t bothered to come up with a legalistic argument to justify themselves.  They’d just done it.

Alonzo summed up the case.  “Your men abused the population of this city,” he said.  “Your claim you did not know about their crimes is flatly untrue: you not only knew, you benefited.  You had stolen goods piled up for shipment back to your estates, your guests were feasted on food and drink taken from the city’s merchants, your bed was warmed by maidens taken from their homes … you knew.  You encouraged it.”

He paused.  “Do you have anything you wish to say in your defence before we pass sentence?”

I studied Lord Sothern thoughtfully.  The man’s composure was almost completely gone.  He had nothing left, save the offer of a ransom … I wondered, sourly, if anyone would volunteer to pay.  I’d met some officers I wouldn’t have paid a cent to recover, if they’d fallen into enemy hands.  I’d have paid the enemy to keep them.

“My family is wealthy,” Lord Sothern stammered, finally.  “I … they … will pay for my safe return.”

Alonzo stood.  “Can your family bring the dead back to life?  Can your family restore the stolen maidenheads?  Can your family return the looted goods and rebuild the destroyed shops and careers and everything else?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.  “Take Sourpuss outside and hang him,” he snapped.  “And be glad we’re only hanging you.”

I sighed inwardly as Lord Sothern was dragged out of the courtroom.  Alonzo probably thought he was offering Lord Sothern mercy … the hell of it, I reflected sourly, was that Alonzo was probably right.  The punishment for treason was death by slow torture, prolonged by magical healing; the punishment for so many other crimes, I’d learnt in the last year, was truly excessive.  Alonzo was doing Lord Sothern a favour …

Not that it will do him any good, I reflected.  The interrogation hadn’t revealed anything of value, saving the location of Lord Sothern’s collection of stolen goods.  Cuthbert had trusted Lord Sothern to rule the city, but not to know much – if anything – about his master’s future plans.  There’s no way Cuthbert will let this pass.

I stood and left the courtroom.  I had no intention of bearing witness to Lord Sothern’s death.  The lawyers would pretty the verdict up nicely, proving that Lord Sothern deserved to die, but it wouldn’t matter.  Everything hinged on the coming battle.  The men cheering Lord Sothern’s death would cheer for Cuthbert, if the warlord retook the city.  Of course they would.  Anyone who didn’t show enough enthusiasm would be in deep – deep – shit. 

They’ll be in deep shit anyway, I noted.  If Houdon is taken a second time, she’ll be stormed.

“Sir,” Horst said, when I reached the command post.  “The pickets reported a brief sighting of enemy scouts, who took one look and ran.”

“They’re not going to charge the city walls on their own,” I said.  I had two cavalry troops covering the diggers.  If the enemy risked an attack, there’d be a very quick slaughter and then we’d resume the digging.  “They’ll fall back and wait for orders.”

Horst smirked.  “You think the warlord can get here in time to stop us?”

“Fuck, no,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t feel.  “I think we’ll have more than enough time to prepare a very hot welcome indeed.”

Chapter Eighteen

I would have sold my soul for satellite reconnaissance.

Or drones.  Or modern communications.  Or any one of a hundred technological miracles I’d taken for granted until I’d wound up in a world that didn’t have any of them.  The closest thing I had to radio was magic parchments, the closest thing I had to air power was a single hot air balloon and orbital reconnaissance … forget it.  It simply didn’t exist. There were spells that allowed magicians to spy on their enemies, but  they weren’t as effective as the movies suggested. It was incredibly frustrating. I knew the enemy army was on the way, but where was it? How long did I have to prepare?

I didn’t let the grass grow under my feet – and neither did Alonzo. We both knew – we all knew – that Houdon would be sacked, if Cuthbert retook the city. There was no way in hell the warlord would let the city remain intact. I feared it would be devastated, perhaps even burnt to the ground and the ashes strewn with salt. The warlord’s army would know it was in deep shit, would know what we’d done. I doubted Cuthbert would be able to keep his forces under control when they stormed the city, not when their blood was up and any officers trying to keep order would be put to the sword. They’d kill the men, rape the women and children, loot everything they could and leave a ruined city behind. Cuthbert might even benefit from the massacre. If the atrocity convinced the rest of the cities to bend the knee to him, it would be worth losing control for a few days.

As long as he manages to secure the supply dumps, I thought. It would be ironic if the sack destroyed the supplies Cuthbert needed to maintain his army, although once Houdon was out of the way he could fall back on his core lands and dare my successor to come after him. He’ll send parties to grab the supplies, then let the men work out their rage on the city folk.

We worked hard. Half the male population were hastily armed and trained – not for the first time, I gave thanks it was so easy to teach a man to use a firearm – while the other half, and many of the women, dug trenches, piled up earthworks and prepared for the coming onslaught. Homes were prepped for an urban defence, roof tiles were stockpiled, simple – very basic – grenades were mass-produced from the warlord’s stockpile of gunpowder … he’d prepared so much, we discovered, that his storage protocols left a great deal to be desired. A spark in the wrong place would have blown a large chunk of the city to kingdom come. I’d made sure the office and bedroom of the safety officer, back in Roxana, had been carefully sited on top of the stockpile, to keep his mind on the job. Cuthbert, it seemed, hadn’t bothered to install a safety officer, let alone keep his nose to the grindstone. I supposed it had worked in my favour. If someone had blown up the stockpile when we liberated the city, we’d have inherited a giant smoking crater and little else.

“The defences are going well,” Alonzo said. He’d proven himself an effective organiser over the last few days. “But won’t they try to lay siege to us?”

I shook my head. Cuthbert needed those supplies. Worse, because we held the supplies, we could hold out for quite some time until they finally ran out. My calculations were pessimistic – I’d erred on the side of extreme caution – but even in the worst-case scenario we should be able to hold out for at least a month, maybe two. The rationing system was crude and barely functional, and we’d already hanged a couple of people for trying to game the system, yet it would work as long as morale held out. Cuthbert simply couldn’t tie his army down long enough for a proper siege. My army was right behind him.

I lifted my gaze and let it wander across the defences. Hundreds of older men and women were working on the lines, their younger male counterparts drilling mercilessly behind them. Young girls ran back and forth, carrying messages from the lines to the city and my makeshift HQ … my lips twitched. There’d been some resistance to letting women join the militia, even as messengers, but what choice did they have? The girls would be at risk if they were carrying messages or hiding in the bunkers, praying to be delivered from evil. I suspected the city elders were going to find it harder to put that particular genie back in the bottle, after the battle was fought and won. Houdon might find itself having to give women the vote.

Moscow might have looked like this, back when the Germans were nearing the lines, I thought, as I turned away. The entire city preparing itself for a fight to the death.

A series of bangs shook the air as the men practiced with their grenades. I tried not to wince. Any halfway competent Range Safety Officer would have gone ballistic if he’d seen the grenades or the way they were being handled; he’d have been court-martialled for dereliction of duty and sheer bloody stupidity if he hadn’t. The grenades were dangerous to their users as well as their targets, but … what choice did we have? I gritted my teeth and turned away, heading back into the camp. Captain Eddo was waiting.

“We harassed the army here, sir,” he said, pointing to the map. I hoped the pinpointed location was close to wherever it had actually been, although there was no way to be sure. The map had everything in the right place, more or less, which made it one of the more accurate maps we had, but … “And we dropped off the prisoners as per instructions.”

I ignored the disapproval in his voice. Letting some of the POWs go to the army – with messages from me to the warlord’s allies – was a calculated risk. Cuthbert had fucked up and his allies, if I was any judge, were already considering how to jump ship. Richard III had been betrayed at Bosworth Field, or so the story ran, and I had no qualms about trying to undermine Cuthbert in the same way. If one of his clients switched sides … my lips quirked at the thought. Some of the messengers would fall into his hands and be interrogated, fuelling his paranoia. Who knew? He might launch a purge, triggering a civil war. We might win without firing a shot.

Don’t get too hopeful, I told myself. You don’t know the messengers even passed on their messages.

They weren’t the only messengers. A handful of volunteers – I’d dubbed them influencers – had slipped into the enemy camp, telling the conscripted soldiers they could surrender rather than fight to the death. Others had gone to the mercenaries, telling them they’d be executed if they were captured in battle. It was another calculated risk, but I thought the gamble was worth taking. Mercenaries wanted to live long enough to spend their money, perhaps even to switch sides. If the coming battle went badly, the mercenaries might abandon their master and run before it was too late.

The days wore on. I cursed the lack of actionable intelligence and waited, encouraging the men and laying traps for the enemy army. Doubts assailed me, every night, as I lay with Fallon, barely able to sleep despite knowing the enemy army must be getting nearer. What if I’d misjudged the warlord? His title wasn’t an empty one. What if he’d skirted the city and headed back to his core lands, abandoning his army to its fate? Or … what if his army was already breaking up? It would save the city, but not us. I wanted to smash that army so completely the warlord, and his subordinates, would never recover.

I was half-asleep when there was a knock on the door. I reached under my pillow for the flintlock, just in case, and sat up. “Come!”

A young servant girl entered, averting her eyes. “My Lord, the pickets have galloped back to the city,” she said. I glanced at the clock. It was an hour before dawn. “The enemy army is approaching.”

“Good,” I said. The waiting was over, at least. Sort of. If the army had been spotted by the outer pickets, it would be at least two hours before it got into attack position and challenged the defences. “Please bring us some breakfast” – I needed to make a show of calm, even though my insides were churning – “and inform the war council I want to see them in my tent, one hour from now.”

The girl bobbed a curtsey, then hurried away. I smiled after her. She would carry out my orders, then tell everyone – I hoped – that I was calmly ordering breakfast rather than an immediate attack. Or something. Right now, we’d have to wait to be attacked. It wouldn’t be long. The basic equations hadn’t changed. No matter how badly we’d harassed the warlord’s army, it was still intact and dangerous.

Score one for Cuthbert, I suppose, I thought coldly. He kept his army together.

The girl returned with a very basic breakfast, looking as if she was trying desperately not to flinch as she presented it to me. I felt a moment’s pity for the serving girl. Any normal aristocrat would have thrown a fit at being offered such fare, although it was what the common soldiers were eating in the trenches, and he’d either take it out on the girl himself or ensure her boss did it instead. She’d probably get the blame … I thanked her politely, then dismissed her. It was just another reminder of how screwed up this society was. She wasn’t the cook, but she’d still be blamed …

And now she’s going to tell everyone I eat army fare, I reminded myself. A year ago, the officers had eaten fine foods, while their men had struggled to survive on hardtack. Who could blame them for their resentment? I’d changed that as soon as I’d assumed command, making sure everyone ate the same basic rations. It will do wonders for my reputation amongst the troops.

Fallon sat up. “It’s time?”

“They’re coming,” I confirmed. I gave her a quick kiss, feeling a pang of guilt as I looked at her abdomen. She was starting to show. “We have to move.”

I ate quickly, donned my tunic and walked to the command tent. It was important not to show any hint of panic, not when the entire city was watching. The streets were already alive with troops rushing to their positions and civilians, those who had no military duties, making their way to the bunkers. I hoped the safety they promised wasn’t an illusion … it would be, if the city was stormed. The civilians would be dragged out of hiding and put to the sword.

“We all know what we have to do,” I said, as I stepped into the tent and checked the updated map. “There’s no need to go over it again.”

The war council looked relieved. I hid my amusement with an effort. Repeating the same thing over and over could be calming, but not here. I smiled coldly as I let my eyes wander from face to face. I didn’t have to fear betrayal, not from my council. No one believed the city could surrender, and no one believed Cuthbert could control his men even if he accepted our offer to bend the knee. Hell, he might not even try. Houdon had risen against his men and letting the city get away with it would set a terrible precedent.

“We’re going to kick his ass,” I told them. It wasn’t as dramatic as some pre-battle speeches I’d heard, but … frankly, I’d never liked senior officers trying to sound like movie stars. We were soldiers, not football stars or cheerleaders … I tried not to smile at the thought. The men would probably have appreciated a few cheerleaders. Were they a thing here? I didn’t know. “To your stations.”

Alonzo joined me as I made my way to the ramparts. It had been rebuilt extensively to give me a view of the coming battlefield, although I was painfully aware I couldn’t see everything. My officers and men knew what to do, if the enemy swept around the city and tried to take us in the rear, but … I looked up as the hot air balloon rose into the sky, two observers already scanning the ground for enemy threats and a magician standing ready to transmit their findings to the HQ. It wasn’t much, but it was all we had.

“Shit,” Alonzo muttered.

I put a pair of charmed spectacles on my eyes and followed his gaze. The enemy army was flying a bright red flag, promising no quarter. Back home, it was a black flag, but the intent was the same. No surrenders would be accepted, no mercy would be shown … oddly, I felt a twinge of relief. The warlord had ensured my troops – and the city – would fight to the last man.

“No messenger,” a councillor muttered.

“There wouldn’t be,” I told him. “It’s a fight to the death.”

I kept my voice even. Cuthbert didn’t need to send a herald to tell us anything. The red flag was all the message he needed. His army taken down the pennants and flags they’d normally fly, just to make sure we got the message. I smiled in cold amusement. The aristocrats had to have realised, by now, that wearing fancy uniforms and flying their banners made them targets, but they couldn’t take them down without appearing cowardly. They had to be pleased to have orders to take them down. They could make a show of moaning and groaning about following their master’s commands, all the while being secretly relieved …

Just like a gang of street toughs, I thought, wryly. I’d known too many to have any illusions about their lack of maturity, or about how easy it was to goad them into making a fatal mistake. The fear of being thought a coward is worse than the fear of death or imprisonment.

The enemy army deployed in a ragged formation; cavalry sweeping around the city defences in hopes of finding an easy way into the city itself; infantry and artillery preparing themselves for the coming assault. Cuthbert had fewer pieces of artillery than I’d expected, from the reports … I hoped that meant he’d had to abandon his guns when he’d lifted the siege of Damansara and raced to Houdon. If he had … had he spiked them? My officers knew to sweep the battlefield for anything the enemy had left behind, even ruined guns. They could always be melted down and recycled if they couldn’t be repaired.

I tried not to roll my eyes as the cavalry returned. If Cuthbert genuinely thought I’d only fortified one side of the city, he was a bigger fool than I’d thought. Houdon’s walls would be worse than useless if they didn’t run around the entire city and my defences were no better, although they were a little thicker around the gates. I suspected he was buying time, time to get his men organised before the charge. His guns were swinging into position …

They opened fire.

Alonzo gasped as the cannons rained shells on our trenches. I wasn’t so impressed. The guns might be far superior to anything the locals had possessed, a few years ago, but compared to modern artillery they were crap. An Multiple Launch Rocket System could do more damage to the city in one shot than the primitive guns could do in days … probably. I frowned as I saw the cannonballs strike down, some exploding and others producing dense black smoke. Explosive shells … I had teams working on putting them into production, but there’d been too many problems unsolved when my army had set out. I kicked myself, mentally. I’d fallen into the habit of assuming the warlords couldn’t innovate, not really. I’d been wrong.

The Nazis were monsters and the Communists were no better, but they still made a hell of a lot of technological innovations, I reminded myself grimly. And they had no qualms about stealing ideas from us and putting them into practice.

“The smoke has to be magic,” Alonzo said. He sounded a little unnerved. I shot him a sidelong look. Magic was part of this world. He should be more used to it than me. “What is it doing?”

“Obscuring our vision,” I said. The black smoke – I had feared it might be Black Smoke – didn’t seem to be poisonous, thankfully, but it was making it harder to see. The land around the city had been relatively clear, even before the war, and I’d cleared what remained to ensure my men had clear fields of fire in all directions. Cuthbert had clearly given the assault more thought than I’d expected. “You” – I waved to a messenger girl – “tell the magicians to get rid of that shit.”

The girl nodded – I’d threatened beatings to anyone who showed any overt respect to an officer in the middle of a fight – and hurried off. I cursed under my breath as the bombardment grew louder. We didn’t have many guns and what few we had were being held in reserve. I would have killed for a sniper with a modern rifle … hell, I would have settled for a modern rifle. If there was a magician on the far side, directing the smoke …

Another messenger ran into the room. “Sir, signal from the balloon,” she said. “They’re coming!”

Chapter Nineteen

The first time the cavalry had met modern firearms, or what passed for modern firearms in this world, they'd come off worst.

I’d been there. I’d commanded the defence and had laid a trap and had known what was going to happen … and I had still been astonished when Clarence Aldred had led his men straight into the guns. It had been the most one-sided battle I’d ever fought and I’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan in the early years, when our enemies had yet to learn how to fight us effectively. Warlord Cuthbert, I had to admit, had learnt a few things from the early disasters too. His cavalry was using the smoke for cover, jinking back and forth as they neared the outer trenches; his gunners were laying down covering fire, forcing my men to keep their heads down. It was pretty much the first combined-arms operation I’d seen since finding myself in a whole new world.

“Launch the flare,” I ordered. “And signal the catapults to open fire.”

Cuthbert had done a good job, I admitted sourly. My trenches offered excellent protection against cannonballs – his accuracy was as shitty as ours – but the combination of explosive shells and charging cavalry made it harder for my men to get up and open fire. Their accuracy wasn’t great at the best of times and it was going to be worse, now that they couldn’t even see their targets. I lifted my gaze and saw dust rising from the enemy lines. Diggers? They couldn’t charge our lines without getting mown down, but they could easily dig their own trenches and tunnel towards our lines. The only upside was that it would be very difficult for them to get into – or under - the city itself.

I cursed under my breath as the cavalry charged out of the smoke and into the trenches. They had never seemed very effective, but I’d never seen them at their best. They were practically tanks, crashing through defensive lines and plunging on rather than staying to stand and fight. I saw one of my men beheaded by a passing cavalryman – using swords wasn’t as stupid as it looked, I conceded; the cavalrymen certainly had no time to reload as they charged on – and another was trampled into the ground by a passing horse. The enemy didn’t have it all their own way - I saw some cavalry being gunned down, bodies falling from the saddle even as their beasts panicked and ran – but they were alarmingly effective. I had never expected to hold the outer trench – I’d assumed it would fall sooner or later – yet it was going to fall quicker than I had thought. Too many of my troops were untried. I could tell panic was starting to set in. The cavalry was taking full advantage.

“Signal Trench One, order them to fall back to Trench Two,” I said. Events were moving faster than I had expected, but we were far from beaten. “Trench Two is to provide covering fire, as planned.”

“Yes, sir.”

I nodded, curtly, and resumed my watch. A retreat could easily become a rout if the enemy gave chase, and the cavalry were trained to do just that. My men had been carefully briefed – they needed to crawl from trench to trench, as bullets zipped over their heads – but I was afraid they were panicking too much to remember what they had to do. The smoke was starting to clear, thankfully, yet … I saw a man running from the trench, stumbling and then falling to the ashy ground. Poor bastard. I feared he’d been killed by friendly fire.

The shooting grew louder. The enemy cavalry staggered and started to fall back, a handful tossing grenades as they retreated. A line of enemy infantry ran forward, trying to get into the outer trench; they hit the ground as my men targeted them, crawling onwards with surprising speed. I wondered, numbly, if they were the warlord’s best men, or – more likely – if they were more scared of their superiors than the men in front of them. It was quite possible. Russian troops, back in World War Two, had kept mounting futile attacks even when it was clear they were pointless, driven by officers too scared of their superiors to say no. It was horrible, and yet it had worked for them. I told myself it wouldn’t work for my enemies.

“There’re digging their own trenches,” Alonzo said. “Why …?”

I nodded. I’d already seen it. “They’re taking cover,” I said, repeating my earlier thoughts. “And digging their way towards us.”

The fighting raged on. The enemy cavalry swept around the city, shooting towards our trenches … seemingly at random. Our men held their fire. The cavalry was keeping their distance, to the point we’d be lucky if we hit one of them. Their guns just didn’t have the power to strike the trenches, let alone the city itself. I wondered if they were looking for weak spots, although there were none. It might make sense later, when I had to move men to replace the dead, but not now. Perhaps Cuthbert was just trying to keep them busy. The cavalrymen were almost all aristocrats, the fools. They’d be the most likely to challenge their master openly if they thought he was fucking up.

My lips twisted in disgust. It made a certain kind of sense – horses were expensive, and having officers who could feed the beasts themselves was economical – but it was stupid. The care and feeding of horses was bad enough … the social life was worse. What sort of idiot designed a system in which cavalry officers had to be rich, just to meet their social obligations? I’d thought military wives were bad – I’d met a general’s wife who thought she shared his rank – but this was absurd …

That will change, as they become more and more vulnerable, I thought. The Brits had lost the flower of their aristocracy in World War One. It won’t be long before the locals have the same problem.

“Make sure you get relief forces out to the trenches,” I said, quietly. It wasn’t wise to leave men fighting indefinitely – and, for once, I had the reinforcements to ensure they didn’t have to. “And make sure they get something to eat too.”

“Yes, sir.”

I nodded, accepted a flask of water and kept my eye on the battleground. The enemy trenches were getting closer, despite our best efforts. I’d run a pair of makeshift mortars into the trenches, in a bid to shell their diggers, but it hadn’t been enough to slow them down. Cuthbert was already funnelling more men forward, trying to feed men into the attacking trenches and flank the city. I frowned as I noticed his cavalry massing on our flank. There was no smoke this time, but …

That’s one of the weaker points, I thought. The trench network was still formidable, but … from the outside, that point might look vulnerable. Does he think he can get in?

My mind raced. He was bringing his trenches closer and closer to the front lines. If he launched a flanking attack at the same time … it might not work, if I had troops in place to meet it, but it might be worth the risk. If it worked, he could roll up a lot of my trenches, perhaps even get to the wall and start knocking it down. Or …

Or maybe he’s trying to distract me from the main attack, I noted. It might work.

“Get the caltrops into place,” I ordered, tapping the map. “And then order the men to retreat as soon as the cavalry get into range.”

“Yes, sir.”

I gritted my teeth and waited. Was I outthinking him? Or was he outthinking me? It was hard to tell. The lack of smoke shells bothered me. Sending his cavalry into the teeth of my guns was certain death, unless he had something up his sleeve. The bombardment was growing stronger … I cursed as an explosive shell, by sheer bad luck, came down in a trench and exploded. The men had no chance to escape. Two had survived, but not for long. We didn’t have enough medics to save their lives.

The cavalry charged. I blinked in surprise. Was he mad? Or was it an illusion …? The gunners opened fire and the cavalry kept coming, seemingly untouched. Perhaps it was an illusion … but it looked so real. I could see the ground shaking under their hooves … I bit my lip, recalling my earlier thoughts about Alonzo and magic. Magic was dangerously unpredictable. For all I knew, my mind was filling in the blanks, ensuring I saw what I expected to see. My men retreated, abandoning the outer trench. The cavalry kept coming …

… And ran straight into the caltrops.

I heard a horse neighing in pain and felt a stab of guilt as the poor beast crashed into the ground. Caltrops were almost fiendishly simple, pieces of twisted metal scattered on the ground to await a horse’s hooves. Horses were surprisingly good at avoiding danger on the ground, but there was no way they could avoid all the caltrops. The cavalry charge came to an abrupt halt as the horses threw their riders and fled or fell to the ground. I doubted they’d ever recover. The local vets were better than the local doctors, but they couldn’t work miracles. If the riders didn’t hire a magical healer to save their beasts …

“Get a team out there,” I ordered, quietly. Some of the cavalrymen were lying on the ground, clearly wounded. The unwounded were crawling away as fast as they could. “I want prisoners.”

Alonzo gave me a sharp look. “Sir?”

“They’re aristos,” I pointed out. There was no point in appealing to the laws of war. The red flag had made it clear the enemy wasn’t going to follow them – and most of the defenders would happily return the favour, no matter what I ordered. I appealed to his head instead. “They know things we need to know.”

He nodded and hurried off. I hoped his men would follow orders. I hadn’t lied – I did want to find out what they knew – but I didn’t want to preside over an atrocity either. It wasn’t going to be easy to prevent one, not here. My soldiers had been lectured, time and time again, on following the rules, but they were grossly outnumbered by the city militia. And it was the militia who wanted to avenge their city’s treatment …

An explosion shook the air. I turned to see the enemy’s trenches intersecting with ours, their infantry hurling makeshift grenades ahead of them as they charged. My men returned the favour, throwing grenades of their own as the organised struggle broke down into confused hand-to-hand fighting. I gritted my teeth as the fighting grew worse, reminding myself I’d chosen to focus on firearms and semi-modern military hardware rather than swords, shields and other medieval weapons. In hindsight, perhaps that had been a mistake. Cuthbert’s troops had more training in close-quarter combat than mine.

Something to fix later, I told myself. The militia knew how to fire their muskets, but it took longer to learn how to fight with a sword. If we survive …

Alonzo returned, looking grim. “They know nothing,” he said, curtly. “The army has orders to press the attack until we fall.”

“Or they do,” I added, dryly.

I wasn’t too surprised. There was little else the warlord could do, certainly nothing that would keep his army together. I wondered, darkly, if he was counting on us wiping out hundreds of his men. I couldn’t recall any general ever sacrificing his men so ruthlessly – Bonnie Prince Charlie had been accused of leaving men to die, although I thought that was a smear rather than literal truth – but few generals had ever been caught in such a trap. Even Hitler, when he’d issued stand-and-fight orders …

He did tell Rommel to stand and fight, staking his men out for the kill, I reminded myself. But he didn’t order the troops to charge headlong into enemy defences.

“Tell them we’re sending them back to their lines,” I said. The longer we kept the aristocrats prisoner, the greater the chance someone would kill them. “Give them their parole and caution them of what will happen if we catch them again. And tell them that if they bring anyone over to our side, they will be richly rewarded.”

“They’ll be killed on sight,” Alonzo predicted.

I shrugged.  “Keep two back and pump them for info,” I added. “Troop numbers, morale, weapons and supplies … political disputes, everything we need to know. Tell the ones you send back that we’re keeping them for ransom, as guarantees that the others will keep their parole.”

Alonso nodded and hurried off. I doubted either gamble would work, but … it would cost us nothing and possibly give us a decisive edge. The aristocrats would pay no heed to grumbling amongst the rank and file, yet I’d bet half my estates the aristos were grumbling too. Their willingness to serve their master, and follow his orders without question, had to be falling along with their morale.

The battle raged on and on. If the enemy had low morale, it was impossible to tell. They pressed their attack savagely, throwing more and more men into the line as my trenches started to break. My men counterattacked with equal savagery, tossing the invaders back out again … I thought a patch of ground little bigger than my old house had changed hands a dozen times in less than an hour. It reminded me of Fallujah, only worse. And we were getting slowly pushed back to the walls.

“Order the guns to open fire,” I said, reluctantly. Cuthbert had moved the red flag closer to the lines. I hoped he was standing near the flagpole, although I doubted it. “Try and slow them down …”

The ground heaved, violently. I found myself on the ground with no clear memory of how I’d gotten there. I grabbed for my pistol, half-convinced the post was under attack, then scrambled to my feet. An enormous cloud of smoke was rising from the nearest trenchline, billowing into the air. They’d dug a mine … I swore, savagely, as I realised the warlord had blown away some of his own men, as well as mine. It was not going to end well.

I glanced at the map, then cursed. Time was running out.

“Pull the troops back to the wall,” I ordered. Cuthbert, damn the man, had prepared for the moment carefully. His troops were already charging into the crater … I recalled the Battle of the Crater and changed my mind. The men should have circumvented the crater, not tried to run through it. “Belay that. Get the gunners to pour fire into the crater.”

“Yes, sir.”

I snapped further orders as the gunners opened fire, shooting the enemy troops like fish in a barrel. I had no idea if the enemy CO was drunk - General Ledlie should have been shot, not dismissed – but it didn’t matter. The enemy artillery returned fire, targeting my men as the enemy infantry resumed the offensive. I had to admire their spirit, or their desperation. If their leader hadn’t flown the red flag, they might have been able to break off or even surrender. As it was …

We’ll hang Cuthbert, if we take him alive, I thought. I could see a wounded man waving for help, as he bled to death. There was no hope of rescue, not now. It won’t make up for everything, but at least he’ll pay for his crimes.

“Get the forward elements back to the wall,” I ordered. The enemy guns had done too much damage to my guns. “We may have to fall back into the city itself.”

Alonzo nodded, curtly. The trenches were collapsing. There was no point in trying to hold the rest of the line, now that the enemy had made a breach. Technically, we were supposed to offer to surrender at this point, but … the fight wasn’t over yet. We could still hold out long enough for my plan to work. And besides, there was the bright red flag, still flapping in the air. Cuthbert had to be kicking himself, I hoped. If there had been a hope of a peaceful surrender without a sack, the defenders might have taken it.

The shelling tapered off, somewhat to my surprise. Cuthbert shouldn’t have had any qualms about bombarding the city, unless he was worried about setting off the gunpowder … perhaps he was. Did he even know how it had been stored? Or perhaps … I shook my head and watched as he recognised his lines, funnelling more and more men into the breach. It was just a matter of time before he punched a hole in the wall and …

“Sir,” a messenger called. He was so frantic he had to gasp for breath before speaking again. “The balloon signalled.  They’re here!”

I sucked in my breath. The plan had worked! And that meant …

“Draw in the rest of the lines, into the gates,” I ordered. Opening the gatehouse was another calculated risk, but … the enemy shouldn’t have time to capitalise on their victory, if they captured the gate, before the other shoe dropped. If I was lucky, the mere prospect of capturing a gate would hypnotise them. I couldn’t blame them, either. Taking a gate would let them send troops right into the city itself. “And hurry!”

Trumpets blared. Cuthbert had seen the trap. Finally.

But it was too late, now, for him to escape.

I smirked. Got you, you bastard!

Chapter Twenty

The plan had been very simple.

I had left much of my army buttoned up in Damansara. It was the closest thing to a modern professional army on the surface of this new world, so they’d had no trouble holding the city, a problem made easier by Cuthbert’s reluctance to risk massive casualties taking the walls and forcing the city to surrender. When Cuthbert had lifted the siege, they’d given him all the time he needed to get moving, then deployed and followed him at a safe distance. I doubted that Cuthbert had realised he was being shadowed. My troops knew how to hide. They also knew how to pick their moment.

“Hold the line,” I snapped. We were the anvil – my army was the hammer. “Let them break against us.”

The enemy line started to come apart as their commanders realised they'd put themselves in a killing ground. They were too close to the wall to break contact and too far away to take the city before the trap closed … really, it was too late.  Chaos and confusion reigned supreme. I saw a trumpeter sound the retreat, then get cut down by an aristocrat desperately trying to rally the lines. The dumb bastard hadn’t realised – not yet – that the trap had already closed. It hadn’t come off perfectly – I’d hoped to trap the enemy army in a cauldron and force them to surrender – but it had come off well enough. Their discipline shattered as the aristos galloped away, surrounded by their bodyguards, leaving the common soldiers to their fate. The mercenaries retreated in somewhat better order. I didn’t blame them. They knew what would happen to them if they fell into my hands.

I couldn’t stop the troops from lynching them, even if I wanted to, I reminded myself. It went against the grain to let my men slaughter helpless prisoners, but …  If they have any sense, they’ll keep running until they cross the border and never come back.

“They’re breaking,” Alonzo observed. He spat. “Cuthbert didn’t stay to surrender?”

I shook my head. The warlord knew better. There was no way Helen would leave him with any power and influence, even if she let him keep his life. A lesser aristo might be ransomed, or traded, but not a warlord. Helen wanted Cuthbert dead and I couldn’t blame her. But that meant we’d have to track him down and bring him to justice.

Unless he flees too, I thought. It wasn’t impossible, but it struck me as unlikely. Cuthbert was going to lose his lands, his troops, and just about everything else that had made him a threat to his monarch. He didn’t even have a bloodline that would make him a suitable puppet king for one of our neighbours. If he’s smart, he’ll pack up as much loot as he can carry and run for his life. If …

I glanced at Horst. “When there’s a gap in the line, deploy a company of mobile infantry to harry the retreat,” I ordered. “Take prisoners, if possible, but keep them on the run.”

Horst nodded, curtly. “Aye, sir.”

Alonzo coughed.  “You think he can recover from this?”

“I don’t want to give him the chance,” I said. Personally, I suspected Cuthbert was thoroughly screwed. His vassals were quite likely to turn on him in the hope Helen would leave them with something if they grovelled at her feet. It would take time to raise another army – if he could – and I had no intention of letting him have the time. “Better to put an end to it now, rather than let him come back again.”

My thoughts darkened as the last of the fighting died away. It had been foolish, to say the least, not to convince the Germans they’d been defeated on the battlefield in the First World War. Or to let Saddam survive in 1991. Or any other campaign that had been called off before it could secure a lasting victory, failing to win the peace after winning the war. If Reconstruction hadn’t failed so badly … I was grimly determined that mistake wasn’t going to be repeated. By the time I was done, the local aristocracy’s power base would be minimal and the commoners would be in control. They’d be loyal to their queen, not to their feudal master.

“Get the prisoners sorted out,” I ordered. “Separate the aristos from the commoners; get the wounded to the medics … ah, the chirurgeons. Remind the men not to loot – we’ll recover anything obviously stolen and try to get it back to its rightful owners, but otherwise the common soldiers are to keep their property.”

Alonzo gave me an odd look. “Don’t you think they’ll try to bribe their way out?”

“We won’t be keeping the commoners very long,” I said. We didn’t have the supplies to keep them as prisoners, and I wasn’t going to cut their throats to keep from having to feed them. “They can go back to their homes, after swearing an oath never to take up arms against us again. The aristos, on the other hand … we’ll send them to the capital. The queen will deal with them.”

And any captured mercenaries will die, I thought coldly. They won’t live long enough to beg for mercy.

I put the thought out of my head as I walked down to the battlefield to visit the wounded. It was a gruesome sight – magical healers could work wonders; chirurgeons were little better than sawbones from the Civil War– but I had no choice. Soldiers needed to see that their commanding officers cared about them or morale would fall straight into the crapper. We’d won a great victory, true, but what did that matter to a man who’d lost his leg and was all too aware he was going to wind up a helpless cripple, begging on the streets? I had taken the first steps towards creating jobs and careers for wounded men, rather than abandoning them to their fates, yet … it wasn’t going to be enough. We really needed more magical healers.

And the money to pay them, my thoughts added darkly. Magicians were far from cheap. Even a simple painkilling potion was expensive … I wished, not for the first time, I knew how to make morphine from scratch. Hell, if I’d known I’d be coming here, I’d have spent years swotting up on everything from basic machinery to primitive medicine. If I had a modern doctor with me …

I chose not to dwell on the prospects as we moved from wounded man to wounded men. The chirurgeons were already triaging, trying to save the men who could be saved while leaving the fatally wounded to die. The local womenfolk were flooding into the makeshift tent and doing what they could to assist, but there were just too many wounded. A chirurgeon hurried up to me to give a report; I dismissed him before he had a chance to open his mouth. I’d get the figures later, when the crisis had died down. Right now, it was more important to save those who could be healed.

It was hard not to feel sick, as I spoke to a handful of wounded men to offer what little comfort I could. The medical tent was a nightmare. It was worse than anything I’d ever seen back home, where there were doctors who knew what they were doing … I swallowed hard as I saw a chirurgeon perform a hasty amputation, then looked away as I realised a young man had been unmanned. His screams grew louder and louder until a chirurgeon gave him a sleeping potion. I doubted the poor bastard would feel any better in the morning.

“We’ll do what we can for your wounded,” Alonzo said. I heard what he didn’t say and smiled bitterly. “But what about the rest of your men?”

I forced myself to think as we stepped out of the tent and headed back into the city. Alonzo and his people would be grateful, of course, but they wouldn’t be sorry to see us go. We weren’t an occupying army, yet we could easily become one at the drop of a hat. Hell, our mere presence would drain food stockpiles and provide fertile ground for incidents once the thankfulness wore off. We had won the battle only an hour or two ago and we had already outstayed our welcome.

“We’ll resupply, then get on the march tomorrow,” I said. I would sooner have been underway before nightfall, but my men needed a rest and a chance to be feted as heroes. They wouldn’t be paying for their drinks tonight. I just hoped there wouldn’t be any clashes between them and the locals. I’d made it clear, time and time again, that I expected them to treat the civilians well, but alcohol and horny young men was a very bad combination. “Make sure you rebuild your defences. We could still lose.”

Alonzo gave me an odd look, then shrugged. I wondered what he was thinking. Houdon had been independent, technically, but that independence hadn’t lasted long once Cuthbert decided he wanted the city. Defeating the warlords would make the monarchy stronger, strong enough to impose its will on the free cities. Letting Houdon rebuild its defences would go a long way towards building trust between crown and people, although there were limits. Cuthbert had been desperate. A royal commander with a secure supply line and more time could have taken the city after starving the population into surrender.

Fallon joined us, looking tired. “We got a message from First Company,” she said. “The warlord and his lifeguards” – bodyguards, I mentally translated – “collected men and horses from a village garrison, then continued to flee.”

I frowned. “How many men?”

“The scouts spotted at least twenty,” Fallon said. “The CO reported the runaways also swapped horses. He couldn’t find any new steeds himself.”

“Ouch,” I said, mildly. There were limits to how far – and how fast – horses could gallop before they had to rest.  Cuthbert was going to draw ahead of my men, and stay ahead, unless he got very unlucky. My men couldn’t keep up the pursuit indefinitely. “As long as he stays on the run …”

Alonzo chucked, harshly. “Was he planning for his own defeat?”

“All possibilities must be prepared for,” I said, mildly.

It was possible … it was also possible he’d set up a messenger station in the town, rather than planning for a hasty retreat. The horses he’d stationed there to ensure couriers could keep galloping for hours, swapping steeds every few miles or so, could easily be used for a flight from danger. Not that it mattered. My propaganda would make it clear Cuthbert had ran, abandoning his troops to bring his wife and family the news of his own defeat … by the time the news, and mocking songs, reached his lands, the story would have grown in the telling. People would believe he’d fled from his bed, as naked as he was born, to save himself from capture.  I’d make sure of it.

We kept walking, inspecting the damaged walls and trench works before making our way towards the makeshift POW camp. The common soldiers – the unwounded, at least – had already been pressed into service, helping to clear the bodies from the trenches and dig mass graves while my troops kept a careful eye on them. I felt a bit guilty as I saw the bodies stacked up, ready to be dumped into the pit. They should be carried home, so their families could properly say goodbye, but there was no way we could keep the bodies from rotting before it was too late. We just didn’t have the magic to spare. The locals, at least, could be given to their families, although some bodies were too badly mutilated to be recognisable.

“We could always keep the men as labourers,” Alonzo mused.

I shook my head. “You’d have to let them inside the walls for that.”

My mood darkened again as we entered the stockade. The makeshift POW camp was insecure – I could have busted out easily – although the guards had made it clear they had precisely zero respect for the aristocrats and would happily break bones to keep them from escaping. The aristocratic prisoners started babbling the minute they saw me, requesting private interviews or insisting – loudly – that their families would pay whatever ransom I demanded, as long as I let them keep their heads on their shoulders. I wasn't too surprised. The brave aristos were already dead and the smart ones had fled … the ones left behind were the dregs. I doubted Cuthbert would waste time bothering to rescue them, even if he could. Their families might even refuse to pay the ransom.

“Sir,” Captain Grimes said. He was a short stubby man, an aristocrat born on the wrong side of the blanket, who’d served Helen’s father before she’d taken the throne. He had a fancy and long-winded title that, somewhat to my amusement, boiled down to gaoler. He was also loyal … I’d been assured. I suspected he wasn’t above a little corruption, but I could let that pass as long as he behaved himself otherwise. “We have fifty-seven men of rank in the stockade. What do you want to do with them?”

“We’ll leave them here, for the moment, then take them back to face the queen when we’re done,” I said, curtly. I doubted we’d captured anyone really important – Grimes would have told me if we had – but it was worth checking. “Anyone interesting?”

“Not really.” Grimes looked as if he had bitten into something foul. “They were troop leaders, not …”

I nodded in understanding. “We’ll let Her Majesty decide their fate,” I said. “Put together a complete list of prisoners, then make sure they remain in custody until we return home.”

Alonzo nudged me. “You don’t want to let them pay the ransoms?”

“No.” I shook my head. In theory, I could grant their parole and send them home to collect the money … in practice, I suspected their families would send them right back again. Or they’d break their parole. It was supposed to be unthinkable, but I knew from experience that far too many aristos thought promises to commoners had no validity. “We don’t need the headaches it’ll cause.”

Grimes cleared his throat.  “There is another problem, sir,” he said. “We captured thirty mercenaries. What do we do with them?”

I blinked in surprise. “How did they get captured?”

“The leader did some fast talking when they were cornered, and offered a massive bribe,” Grimes said. “Their captors took everything they had, then marched the prisoners to the stockade.”

“I want a few words with their captors,” I said, darkly. I had expected any captured mercenaries to be finished off, rather than taken prisoner. “The bribes can go in the common fund.”

“Yes, sir,” Grimes said. He led us to an isolated part of the stockade, letting us see the prisoners. “What do you want done with them?”

I said nothing as I studied the captives. They’d been placed in cangues, to humiliate them as much as to ensure they remained captive. They hadn’t been roughed up too badly, somewhat to my surprise, but … I cursed under my breath. They were nothing more than thugs, wearing outfits that would have made them look silly – on the battlefield – if I hadn’t known what they symbolised. Mercenaries fought for money, not for their monarch or a cause or anything remotely worthwhile. And they were the most hated people in the world. A lone mercenary who fell into commoner hands would be lucky if he was only tortured to death.

They’ll try to escape, I thought, coldly. Most monarchs would hesitate to execute mercenaries – they might need their services themselves, one day – but not Helen. She knew better than to trust anyone who fought for money. They know what we intend to do to any captured mercenaries.

“Interesting,” I said. “Did they say why they tried to surrender?”

“They were surrounded,” Grimes said. “They had no choice.”

I shrugged. “Execute them.”

Grimes blinked, then nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

Alonzo looked satisfied. “They deserve no less.”

I nodded, curtly. I had no intention of slaughtering commoner prisoners, or even aristocrats, but mercenaries …? They had already been condemned to death. Even if I had tried to spare them, or ship them back to the capital, they would likely be lynched when my men worked out what the prisoners actually were. And besides, we had to make it clear we hadn’t been bluffing, when we’d outlawed mercenaries. If we let this bunch go, the warlords would have no trouble recruiting more.

It was hard not to feel a little guilty, even though I knew better. Mercenary companies had a great deal in common with street gangs – or terrorists. Their recruits were forced to cross the line – to rape or kill – before they were trusted completely, just to make sure there was no way back. By now, the men in front of me had probably committed hundreds of small atrocities, even war crimes. To them, the rules of war had been a joke. They certainly couldn’t claim their protection.

If we’d hanged people who broke the rules back home, there’d be fewer people willing to break them, I told myself. The rules of war meant nothing if they weren’t enforced. Instead, we have people breaking them willy-nilly because they know we won’t hang them.

“We won,” I said, as we turned and walked back into the city. Parties were already breaking out … I saw a local girl kissing a couple of my men and hoped it wouldn’t lead to problems later on, for any of them. Back home, there had been condoms and the pill and everything else.  Here … “Tomorrow, we march.”

Alonzo smiled. I knew he was relieved.

Chapter Twenty-One

We marched out of Houdon the following morning, two hours after dawn.

It was a rather shambolic march. Too many of my men were nursing hangovers, despite stern warnings not to get too drunk and forget themselves. The grumbling was louder than normal, unsurprisingly, but I ignored it. I would have been more worried if there wasn’t any. It would have suggested trouble was brewing, real trouble. I didn’t want to have to deal with it.

Horst galloped up to me and dropped to the ground. My lips twitched in amusement. It was important the men saw me marching, as well as the rest of their officers. My mounted infantry wasn’t precisely cavalry – horses no longer ruled the battlefield – and I had no intention of letting them develop the sort of pretensions that would blight their effectiveness or convince the infantry to leave them in the lurch when they ran into trouble. I had studied some historical battles, on this world, and several had been lost – I suspected, reading between the lines – because the infantry hadn’t supported the cavalry. It might have been bad timing, or deliberate malice. I rather feared it was the latter.

“Sir, the enemy has vacated most of his garrisons,” Horst said. “The towns are welcoming us.”

They’d have welcomed Cuthbert too if he’d returned in glory, I thought, coldly. The warlord could have reached the heart of his power by now, well ahead of the news of his defeat. Was he preparing a last stand or ... grabbing as much treasure as he could before making a run for it? We can’t trust anyone here, not completely.

“Tell the local headmen to keep their people under control, and to give us some space,” I ordered. There’d be revolts soon, if there weren’t already, and I didn’t want to have to waste time dealing with a succession of petty chiefs and rebel leaders. “And make sure the troops stay out of the towns and villages as much as possible.”

I glanced back at my baggage train, cursing under my breath. We were travelling light – I would have killed for a few hundred trucks, or even a magical portal – and I really didn’t want to piss off the locals. There was nothing to be gained and much to lose if they decided we were no better than their old master. They might not be able to meet us in the field, but we could wind up in real trouble if they attacked our supply lines. We’d have to live off the land and that would win us precisely no friends. At all.

“Yes, sir,” Horst said. “Was there any response from the messengers?”

“It’s too early to hear back,” I reminded him. I’d sent a bunch of couriers to various vassals, pointing out that their warlord had been defeated and it was time to reconsider their positions, but most wouldn’t have gotten the message. Not from us, at least. Cuthbert had taken or slaughtered every horse he could, on his retreat, but I would be astonished if word wasn’t already spreading. “We’ll see if they want to switch sides shortly.”

We pressed on, passing near dozens of towns and villages … most thoroughly locked down or abandoned. I didn’t blame the residents. My troops had a better reputation than most – everyone knew I’d hanged men for rape and looting – but it would be a long time before we enjoyed the prestige of the USMC. Or even the Red Army. I gave orders to leave the habitations strictly alone, as half my troops rested while the other half forged ahead. Better to sleep in the open, in camps hastily thrown together, than risk alienating the locals.

Fallon caught my eye, during a brief rest period. “Why isn’t he trying to stop us?”

“He’s trading space for time,” I said. It made sense, as a tactic. I suspected it was the only option Cuthbert had, unless he wanted to abandon his lands and flee. “He’ll avoid battle until he can meet us on favourable terrain, if it even exists …”

My lips twisted as I studied the makeshift map. Cuthbert didn’t seem to have worried that much about invasion, certainly not from the south. He’d dotted the land with small castles, designed more for keeping the peasants under control than harassing invaders and forcing them to either reduce the fortresses or leave troops tied down laying siege to the castles. I was surprised he’d trusted his peers not to invade, under the circumstances. A pair of strong castles in the right place could have slowed us down considerably, perhaps even long enough for Cuthbert to raise the forces to take the offensive again.

We can wipe out the tiny castle garrisons as we pass, I thought. Unless there was something special about their design, they couldn’t hope to withstand an assault by trained and experienced soldiers. And the locals can take care of any stragglers.

The thought haunted me as we kept marching, heading deeper and deeper into Cuthbert’s territories. A handful of messengers arrived from various vassals – and others from rebels who had overthrown their masters and now wanted recognition of their rights to the land they’d taken – but others remained ominously quiet. I kept my pickets out, watching and waiting for the first sign of a counteroffensive, half-expecting to encounter an enemy army at any moment. Cuthbert had shot his bolt, I thought, but I could be wrong. If he had more troops than I thought …

Horst shared my apprehensions. “Where are they?”

“Good question,” I said. I had an inkling, suddenly, of how the Germans must have felt when they’d invaded Russia. Cuthbert’s lands were far smaller, but my men were on foot or horseback. But the Germans had been under constant attack and I … was starting to wonder when the other shoe was going to drop. “Push out more pickets. I want the bridges secured before we head straight into his seat.”

My eyes kept returning to the map as we marched onwards, meeting very little resistance beyond a handful of scouts who fled the moment they saw our pickets. The local peasantry kept their distance, without making any attempt to help or hinder us. My nerves started to fray – and my officers spent too much time breaking up fights in the ranks – before we crested the hill and headed towards Cuthbert Castle. I could practically feel the dismay spreading through the ranks. The castle was going to be an utter nightmare to storm.

“Cuthbert didn’t report his improvements to the king,” I quipped. Technically, the warlords had been supposed to clear any construction works with the king before they started; practically, they hadn’t bothered to pay even lip service to a decree from a powerless monarch. “Naughty Cuthbert.”

Chuckles, some harsher than others, ran down the line as I deployed my men. Cuthbert Castle really was going to be a bitch to take. It rested on a rocky hill overlooking the city – it reminded me of Edinburgh Castle – and there was no way we could tunnel under the walls or even get close without being spotted and sniped. He hadn’t rested on his laurels either. He’d evacuated most of the city – he’d called it after himself, naturally – and started digging trenches at the bottom of the mountain. I wished for a bomber, with a heavy bunker-buster or two. A lone bomber could have turned a near-impregnable castle into a death trap.

“Sir,” Horst said. “We have movement.”

I lifted my charmed spectacles as a small party left the castle and made their way down the road towards us. There were four men in the party, carrying a large white flag. My eyes narrowed as they grew closer. They didn’t look like vassals. They looked more like mercenaries.

Horst had the same thought. “Mercenaries?”

“It looks that way,” I said. It was unlikely it was someone’s idea of a disguise. They’d be safer walking through Tel Aviv in a Nazi uniform. “Did he run out of proper messengers?”

“It could be a subtle insult,” Fallon pointed out. “If he’s refusing to send a messenger of proper rank …”

“Or to goad us into attacking the castle without thinking,” I agreed. I’d put Cuthbert in a trap, forcing him to attack my lines or risk losing everything. He might be trying to return the favour. “Hold position. Let them come to us.”

The group moved closer, hands open to reveal they were unarmed. I didn’t take it for granted – they could have any number of weapons in their outfits, if they didn’t have magic – but I relaxed slightly. Very slightly. It looked as if they wanted to parley.  But why not send a more suitable representative?

“Greetings,” the leader said. He had a rough voice that suggested he was from a very long way away indeed. “I am Bravo, of the Free Blade Company.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. I’d never heard of the Free Blade Company. “Where is your master?”

“In prison,” Bravo said. “We want to trade.”

I blinked. Behind me, I heard Horst gasp. Mercenaries were loyal only as long as they were paid – surprise, surprise – but it was very rare for them to turn on their masters instead of simply abandoning them. There weren’t many rules concerning their behaviour, as far as I knew, yet the few that existed were harshly enforced. The mercenary guilds would blacklist any company that betrayed its master, making it impossible for them to find new employers. Not that they could, in any case. Turning one’s coat tended to be habit-forming.

“We hold the castle,” Bravo pointed out. “We can hold it against you for quite some time.”

“Not for long,” I countered. “I could simply sit here and wait for you to starve.” I met his eyes. “Get to the point. What do you want?”

Bravo looked back at me, evenly. “We will turn the castle and our prisoners over to you,” he said. “We will even turn over the loot we took during our … service. You can win the war without firing another shot.”

“And in exchange,” I finished, “you want safe passage out of here.”

“Yes,” Bravo said. “We’re not that far from the border. We get out and swear never to return.”

My eyes narrowed. “And what if we refuse?”

“Then we hold the castle as long as it takes,” Bravo said. “How long can you keep your army this far from your mistress?”

He placed a nasty little slant on that word, but I ignored him. The hell of it was that he had a point. Laying siege to the castle was easy enough, on the surface, but the devil was in the details. I couldn’t afford to tie my men down for long, not without real problems. The prospect of getting the castle, and the prisoners, without a fight was incredibly tempting. And yet … I looked at Bravo, wondering how many men he’d killed, or how many women he’d raped, or towns he’d burnt, or … how many atrocities, I asked myself, had he committed in the name of his paymaster?

And Helen sentenced all mercenaries within her kingdom to death, I reminded myself. Is the castle worth the risk of angering her? And many of my supporters?

“I can keep the army together long enough,” I told him. “This isn’t a warlord’s rabble.”

“No,” Bravo agreed. “You have a truly professional army.”

I ignored the compliment. “Here are my terms. You and your men will leave the castle, wearing nothing beyond loincloths. You will be placed in chains and marched to the border, where you will be shoved over. Your camp followers will be given the choice between accompanying you and making a new life for themselves here – if they choose to stay with you, we’ll send them over the border too. Your names will be noted and if we catch you within our country, again, you will be executed on the spot. Do I make myself clear?”

Another mercenary gasped. “What about our loot? And weapons?”

“Spoils of war,” I said, bluntly. The camp followers would be considered property too, probably. I didn’t care. They were going to be freed and offered a choice … if they wanted to accompany their former owners, that was their problem. The rest of the loot would be returned to its rightful owners or added to the military funds. “Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”

Bravo glared at me. I wondered just what he’d expected. His master had managed to get him and his company caught in a trap, with no escape route, facing an enemy quite willing to hang mercenaries without bothering with a trial. If there had been a way out, the mercenaries would have taken it and left Cuthbert to his fate … really, I wondered why they hadn’t. They could have left yesterday and been halfway home before my army reached the castle.

“You leave us with very little,” he said, bitterly.

“I leave you with your lives,” I said, sharply. I didn’t want to prolong the debate. “What’s it to be? An undignified surrender or a siege that ends with your deaths?”

The mercenaries muttered amongst themselves for a long moment, then conceded. I wasn’t surprised. They were brave, but hardly stupid. There was nothing to be gained from a futile defence, not now. As long as they were careful, they could get across the border and find a guardpost before the local commoners caught them. I sent Bravo back to arrange the surrender, then sat back and watched as the mercenaries evacuated the castle. They honoured the agreement, save for one man who put a gemstone somewhere the sun didn’t shine. We let him keep it.

Cuthbert was brought to me, after my men searched the castle from top to bottom and sorted out the prisoners. He looked surprisingly short and weedy, for a man who’d wreaked so much havoc, but intelligence and wealth counted for more than brute strength. He’d come quite close to winning, I reflected, and might have won if the timing had worked out a little better …

“This isn’t over,” he snarled. I was surprised he wasn’t pleading for mercy, although it was quite possible he was saving his tears for Helen. He’d be wasting his time if he was – Helen hated the warlords and would quite happily send them all to the block. “I am a warlord and …”

“No, you’re not,” I told him. Bravo had done us one favour, at least. He’d made sure the warlord’s entire family fell into our hands. “By order of Her Majesty, you and your entire family are stripped of your lands and titles and will be taken back to Roxanna, where you will face her judgement.”

Cuthbert looked oddly relieved, just for a second. I eyed him warily. I’d just pronounced a de facto death sentence. Even if Helen spared his life, he’d be powerless without lands and titles and everything else he’d used to menace the king into compliance. He had so many enemies I’d be surprised if he lasted the year, when they started coming for him. And yet …

I told his guards to take him away – he and his family would remain in chains until they were taken back home – and joined the parties searching the castle and city. Cuthbert had done better than I’d expected, I noted; his factories were primitive, compared to the ones I’d funded, but there were an awful lot of them. If he’d had a year or two longer, he might have posed a more serious challenge. And yet … I was missing something.

“Get the scribes in here,” I ordered. Cuthbert had kept records, very detailed ones. Land deeds, title deeds, every letter he’d sent or received … I suspected it wasn’t a coincidence his secretaries had had their throats cut before the surrender. Bravo and his mates had probably destroyed everything relating to their employment, but they might have left something behind. “I want his correspondence assessed as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Horst said. He paused, clearly unsure if he should say anything more. “Was it wise to let the mercenaries go?”

I snorted.  “They’re practically naked, in a country that hates them,” I said. If they stayed together, they’d probably be fine … but there was no need to discuss it. They had a chance of survival and little else. “And we got the castle in exchange.”

My smile widened as we walked back to the gates. Cuthbert Castle would make a fine fortress, and the city below would help kick-start the industrial revolution into higher gear, once it was clear the workers would be paid a living wage. The rest of the warlord’s lands should be already in revolt, if the uprising hadn’t already succeeded. I’d destroy the title deeds and replace them with newer ones, making sure everyone knew they had me – and Helen – to thank. They’d have a future …

So would I. Fallon and I would get married, and have our child, and … who knew where we’d go? I wouldn’t be an absentee dad, not this time. I’d make sure to spend time with my son – or daughter, if the child was a girl – and bring them up properly. They wouldn’t become brats, like aristo kids. I’d make sure they knew how to handle themselves, and how to treat others – no matter how high or how low – with respect. And I would be happy.

Fallon ran in, her eyes wide.  “We … we just got a message from home!”

I felt a sudden chill.  “What happened?”

“The other warlords attacked,” Fallon said, gasping for breath. I put out a hand to steady her. “And Roxanna is under siege.”

I swore. The other shoe had finally dropped.

And I realised, as the implications dawned on me, that I’d been tricked.

Chapter Twenty-Two

An hour later, I addressed the war council.

“I fucked up,” I admitted, honestly. There was no point in trying to hide it. “I underestimated the other warlords.”

In hindsight, the mistake was obvious. Cuthbert had threatened Damansara in a bid to force me to bring my army north. It worked out in his favour, no matter what I did. If I came to defend the city, he’d have a chance to wipe me out; if I abandoned the city, it would force the city fathers to surrender and prove to everyone else that Helen’s security guarantees were worthless. Damansara would become another occupied city, like Houdon, and her factories would fall into enemy hands. If I hadn’t taken the offensive so quickly, it might have worked out for him. As it was, it had given the other warlords a chance to take the offensive themselves.

We didn’t think they could move so quickly, I thought. Or that their alliance would actually hold together long enough to let them mount a joint offensive.

I cursed under my breath. The warlords didn’t like each other very much – and how could they? They were all fighting for the crown, for the divine right of monarchy as well as the brute force of their armies. If a warlord took possession of Helen, in all senses of the word, his peers would see him as a lethal threat to their positions and gang up on him. I wondered, idly, how they planned to solve the problem this time. Whatever they did, I doubted it would last very long. But I might not live long enough to see it fall apart.

“We have a major problem,” I said. “We are up north, hundreds of miles from the capital, while they are moving their armies into position to either storm the ramparts or simply lay siege to the castle long enough to force the defenders to surrender. We are badly, very badly, out of position. Worse, we are cut off from our supply lines.”

I watched despair and despondency run through the room and cursed again. Many of my officers weren’t aristos, but commoners … commoners whose families were now under threat. The aristos might assume their families would be held for ransom, if they were captured; the commoners had no such assurance. If the city was stormed, the streets would run red with blood. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past the warlords to make damned sure much of the population was slaughtered. They’d had too many ideas, over the past few months, about the proper relationship between the government and the governed. They wouldn’t do as they were told any longer.

“We have to act fast,” I added. It was true in any case, but I needed them working rather than thinking. It wouldn’t be long before someone decided to betray me in hopes of saving his family. The more they worked, the harder it would be to organise a conspiracy. “We are going to march back to Roxanna and lift the siege.”

Captain Withal leaned forward. “Sir, if we perform a forced march all the way back to the city the men will be in no state to fight when we get there.”

I allowed myself a wry smile. Captain Withal had been an arrogant aristo when I’d taken command of the army and set about reforming it into something that could actually fight. He’d changed, a lot more than he – perhaps – realised. He was already on my mental list for promotion, and I bumped him up a couple of slots. There weren’t many aristos who’d acknowledge that their men had limitations …

“No,” I agreed. I tapped the map on the table. “Luckily, we have two advantages. First, we have the supplies we moved to Damansara. The railway line might have been cut – if it hasn’t, I’ll be astonished – but we are not short of supplies. Second, we have supplies at the forward base here. The warlords have not – yet – captured or destroyed it.”

We didn’t know we were going to have the base, until we secured the castle and railway bridge, I thought. It hadn’t been part of my original plans. But will it remain untouched long enough for us to get there first?

“There are other possibilities, if that changes before we get there,” I continued. I let my voice rise gradually, building the atmosphere. “Regardless, I intend to force march to the city, lift the siege and bring the warlords to battle. They may have the numbers, this time, but we are fighting for our homes, our families, and our right to be free. We have beaten every warlord we have faced, because we are fighting for our people, not for a warlord’s right to bully everyone within reach. We are experienced fighters; they bully people who can’t fight back.

“We will march to the city, challenge them to a fight and kick their asses so hard they’ll never recover!”

I lowered my voice. “Assemble the troops,” I ordered. It was lucky we’d moved so lightly. “We march in an hour. Dismissed.”

The council stood and left the tent. I watched them go, feeling chilled. I’d done my best to project confidence – and in a straight fight, I would have bet on my men – but it was clear I had made a mistake. We were dangerously exposed, particularly if the city fell before we returned home. Or we lost our supplies … the country wasn’t hostile, not yet, but it was a grim rule of conflict that no one liked a loser. There hadn’t been time to mop up all of Cuthbert’s vassals, let alone ensure that the local commoners and peasants had enough firepower and confidence to keep them from coming back. I had the nasty feeling we’d be coming back soon enough. Too many people would sit on the fence, when the news spread, to keep our gains under control.

And someone might betray me, I thought, again. Horst and Fallows were reliable, although they both had wives back home. They were too lowly for a warlord to notice, normally, but now … who knew? If their wives were threatened, what would they do? The other commanders had relatives in danger too … Who’s it going to be?

I grimaced, despite myself. Back home, I’d had the chain of command backing me up. My authority had been legal, as well as personal. Here … it was just personal. I wasn’t even a member of the local aristocracy. If my officers lost faith in me, or thought their families were at risk, they might turn against me. I’d seen it happen, back home, to insurgent leaders who lost the confidence of their followers. The outcome was rarely pretty.

My eyes lingered on the map. There was no way to avoid the simple fact I’d been outsmarted. My rival – I wondered, idly, which warlord had managed to think outside the box – had put me in a position that forced me to dance to his tune, pretty much the same thing I’d done to Cuthbert. He might even be quietly gloating about Cuthbert’s defeat … if he knew. My army had force-marched north at astonishing speed, moving into a military vacuum. For all I knew, he thought Cuthbert was still tying me down.

We’ll have to try and ensure he keeps thinking that, I told myself. If he doesn’t expect us to return so quickly …

My mind raced. A year ago, Roxanna had been practically defenceless. The Royal Guard couldn’t have held the lines, such as they were, and the civilian population would have been helpless.  Now, the city had proper walls – and other defences – and the civilians had something to lose. Any warlord who tried to take the city in a hurry would risk losing his army, losing so many men his rivals would put a knife in his back and finish him off … hell, even if they did take the city, they’d be left with the problem of securing the peace. What would they do? Keep Helen as a puppet? Force her to marry one of them? Or … or what?

“They won’t risk taking the city unless they think they have no choice,” I muttered. “The trick is to avoid driving them to desperate measures until it is too late.”

I frowned. In theory, Helen could order me to stand down and surrender. In practice, I was pretty sure she’d never willingly give such an order. She’d have no hope of anything, certainly not freedom, if the warlords won. The best she could hope for was being locked up in some isolated tower and that wasn't going to happen, not as long as she could be married off to someone who’d keep her under control … I snorted in dark amusement. Helen was tough. She’d make her would-be husband pay for daring to lay a hand on her.

Fallon cleared her throat. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “Can we get back in time?”

I looked at the map again, silently calculating the odds. The map wasn’t very good, to say the least, but I had marched back and forth so many times, over the landscape, that I had a very good feel for the terrain. It was going to be painful, no doubt about it … no, it was going to be an utter nightmare. I would have killed for a few hundred trucks … hell, while I was wishing, I’d kill for a few hundred tanks. Or even a dozen. The locals were a long way from producing anything resembling a tank themselves …

… Or were they?

I put that thought aside for later consideration and met her eyes.  “It’ll be tight,” I admitted. I wasn’t going to lie to my future wife and the mother of my child. “We can do it, if we push hard.”

Fallon made a face but nodded. “How can I help?”

I smiled, tiredly. “Can you and the other magicians open a portal back home?”

“No.” Fallon shook her head. “We don’t have anyone skilled enough to open a portal, even for a few seconds. If we hired more powerful magicians …”

“If they agreed to take our money,” I said. It had never been easy for kings to hire the really powerful magicians. Most seemed to think serving monarchs was beneath them, or that conflicts between mundanes – I supposed it was slightly less insulting than muggles – had nothing to do with the magical world. “Could we trust them if they did?”

Fallon shrugged. “Probably not,” she said. “But the warlords will have the same problem.”

I nodded curtly. We were a long way from the Blighted Lands, and it was hard to tell which stories were reasonably accurate and which were nothing more than utter nonsense, but everyone seemed to agree that an army had stepped through a set of portals and into a necromancer’s backyard. I liked the idea of being able to take an army into the enemy’s rear myself, but … it was just another thing I didn’t have.  Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

They can’t do it to us either, I told myself. One thing was clear. The invading army hadn’t needed to set up portal crystals at both sides. Unless they’d sneaked through the Blighted Lands … for all I knew, it was possible that was exactly what they’d done, but I had to assume the worst. If the technique becomes common knowledge …

“I need to talk to Cuthbert,” I said. “Go back to the other magicians, tell them they are not to send any messages back to the city, not without my authorisation.”

Fallon blinked. “Why …?”

I grinned. “We’re going to convince the warlords we’re still laying siege to the castle.”

My eyes returned to the map. The warlords hadn’t used chat parchments to coordinate their forces … as far as I knew. I’d be surprised if Cuthbert didn’t have a parchment to chat with his peers, although … he didn’t have magic. The chat parchment would have needed a magician to operate it, to write the messages … my lips quirked. We had taken a bunch of prisoners and if the magician was amongst them …

“The courier network is fucked,” I said. There’d be horses in Houdon and Damansara, of course, but the locals wouldn’t trade with a warlord’s courier. “Assuming a message was sent the moment the castle fell, on horseback, it would take several days – at best – for it to reach the other warlords.”

“Unless they have a magician stationed somewhere nearby,” Fallon pointed out.

I nodded, although I doubted it. The vassals back home had been reluctant to let magicians, even magicians with so little magic they could barely use the chat parchments, into their estates. I didn’t blame them, not really. They didn’t want to be micromanaged by a monarch who lived hundreds of miles away and didn’t have any real sense of how the estate really worked. I’d found micromanaging absolutely maddening myself, back home, and I’d done what I could to make sure my subordinates had enough freedom to do what needed to be done, without me looking over their shoulder. Cuthbert’s vassals would be even more reluctant to sign up to a chat parchment network, and he’d had far less power to compel them. The last thing he needed was one of his vassals reaching out to Helen, to see if he could switch sides.

“It’s worth a try,” I said. It was quite possible the warlords hadn’t realised we already knew they were on the move, let alone laying siege to the city. It was difficult to account for instant communication, if you had no real experience with it. God knew, the insurgents back home hadn’t realised just how much our satellites and drones could see … not until it was too late. “If we can convince them we’re sitting here, fat and happy and waiting for Cuthbert to concede …”

The thought haunted me as I made my way to the makeshift stockade. Cuthbert had been given a space of his own, a consideration that owed more to his ability to cause trouble rather than respect for his rank. I suspected he was already planning his official complaints. Men of his rank were rarely imprisoned, and if they were they were treated with kid gloves. The prison was more like a glorified hotel room, with room service and everything else a guest could want … save for freedom. Here … he had nothing to complain about, as far as I was concerned.  He’d shown far less considerations for his victims.

His eyes narrowed as I entered. “You heard, then?”

“I had wondered why you were so insistent that the castle hold out,” I said. I kept my distance. Cuthbert didn’t look intimidating, not compared to me, but the most dangerous man I’d ever met had looked completely harmless. “A shame you didn’t tell Bravo, right?”

Cuthbert scowled. “That traitorous asshole …”

“A mercenary and a traitorous asshole?” I smirked. “How’ll he ever get a job with a record like that?”

My smile grew wider. Cuthbert had been playing for time … what a shame, I reflected, that he hadn’t bothered to share his plans with Bravo. The mercenaries had assumed they were heading for a futile last stand, or perhaps an undignified death by starvation, and acted accordingly. But Cuthbert could hardly have risked telling them anything. They might have betrayed him, if they’d still surrendered …

Not that the timing would have worked out any better, I thought, tiredly. But it very nearly worked.

I studied him for a long, cold moment. Helen was unlikely to show Cuthbert any mercy. He had committed treason … and lost. His army was broken and scattered, his treasury was in my hands, his vassals were abandoning him and his serfs were rising in revolt … even if we lost the coming battle, Cuthbert was thoroughly screwed. His peers wouldn’t put him back in his place. They’d kill him, then divide his lands between them.

“I have an offer,” I said. “Assist us and your life – and your family – will be spared.”

Cuthbert glowered. “Your mistress will let us live?”

“I’ll give you enough gold to live, then an escort to the nearest border,” I said. “What you do after that is up to you, as long as you never return to Johor. If you do …”

I drew a finger across my throat. “Interested?”

“Maybe,” Cuthbert said. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You don’t,” I said, bluntly. “But you’ve already lost everything that made you a threat.”

Cuthbert reddened. I hid my amusement with an effort. Cuthbert didn’t have a royal bloodline or anything else he could use to garner support from other kingdoms. Sending him into exile was a calculated risk, but I suspected he’d be unable to return to reclaim what he thought was his. His former vassals would be the first to put him to death, fearing the revenge he’d wreak for betraying him. Helen might not even know he’d returned until long after he was quietly murdered.

“If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll be executed no matter who wins the war,” I reminded him, dryly. “If you cooperate, your life and your family’s lives will be spared.”

He made a face. I suspected I knew what he was thinking. He was no physical coward – I couldn’t blame him for fleeing Houdon – but the thought of losing his children unmanned him. They were all he had now, and they’d be murdered if he refused to cooperate. Helen wouldn’t let them live, not after everything their father had done …

“Fine,” Cuthbert said. His shoulders slumped. It looked genuine, but I intended to keep a very close eye on him anyway. It was unlikely he was loyal to the warlords’ cause – insofar as they had one – yet better safe than sorry. “What do you want me to do?”

I grinned and told him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Is getting him to help a good idea?”

I reminded myself, sharply, that subordinates asking questions wasn’t a bad thing. Horst had known me long enough – he’d been my superior, when we’d first met – to have no qualms about calling me on it if he thought I was doing something stupid. But it didn’t help, this time, that I had doubts. Cuthbert had good reason not to betray us, true, yet there was no guarantee he wouldn’t. Some men could only be pushed so far before they fought back, even if it cost them everything. They didn’t care if it killed them, as long as they died with their hands around their enemy’s throat.

“It’s a calculated risk,” I said. The warlords must have met in person – and, according to Cuthbert, used chat parchments to coordinate their operations. They knew each other well enough, I feared, to spot a fake, even if they used magicians to relay their words. The slightest mistake could be disastrous. Using Cuthbert was galling, but better than the alternative. “We don’t want them knowing we’re marching south. Not yet.”

My mood darkened. “And besides, we have his family.”

Horst showed no visible reaction, not entirely to my surprise. The concept of using a man’s family as hostages, with a declared intention to kill them if he stepped out of line, was revolting to me … but just a fact of life on this world. Aristos exchanged hostages all the time, hiding the cold reality of their worlds behind a façade that everyone pretended was real. I wasn’t sure if I could bring myself to carry out my threat, if Cuthbert broke his side of the deal. It was one thing to kill men in combat, quite enough to kill women and children in cold blood. But as long as he believed I would, he wouldn’t test me.

“If you’re sure,” Horst said. “Did he tell you anything useful?”

“Yeah.” Cuthbert had been a gold mine of information, once he’d started talking. The warlords had planned their operations carefully, timing it as best they could. Cuthbert had haggled hard for his share of the booty, in exchange for luring us north, and his peers had promised him Warlord Aldred’s old territories, as well as Damansara. It had to be maddening to know he’d done everything he’d been asked, yet someone else would reap the rewards. “We’ll just have to see what use we can make of it.”

I frowned, inwardly. The warlords had divided the spoils – before even winning the war, something that was going to come back to haunt them – but they hadn’t exchanged hostages or anything else, beyond solemn oaths, to ensure they kept their word. Cuthbert had been vague on precisely what was going to happen to Helen … no matter what, only one of the warlords could marry her. I suspected they hadn’t thought that far ahead. It wasn’t an unreasonable mistake. If they’d given me five years to train and equip the army, I’d have kicked their collective behinds with one hand tied behind my back.

“They don’t trust each other,” I told him. “We can use that against them.”

The thought made me smile as we walked to join the army. It had assembled – with a great deal of grumbling, which I had quietly ignored – and confiscated every horse, wagon and manpowered cart we’d been able to find. It was going to look more than a little ramshackle, I thought, but it was unlikely we were going to face any real opposition until we neared Roxanna. Cuthbert’s men were too scattered and there wasn’t anyone else likely to stand in our way. That might change, if the city fell and everyone else started trying to make deals with the warlords, but for the moment we were reasonably safe. I’d ordered the pickets out anyway, just to be sure. If I was wrong, we might wind up in some trouble.

I kept my face under tight control as I faced the men. They were all volunteers, not unwilling conscripts from aristocratic estates or mercenaries. They were free men, or at least as free as anyone got in this world. Democracy might be a joke, in most places, but they had rights and they’d all chosen to sign up. They couldn’t be ordered around as if they were slaves and yet … I winced, inwardly. Back home, I’d been lucky. I hadn’t had to fear a war in my backyard. My family had never been in danger from the enemy … I wondered, numbly, what I would have done if the Chinese had invaded America, and I’d been forced to retreat with the army, leaving my family behind. I’d read a book with that premise, years ago. It had been absurd … here, it wasn’t. Far too many of my men had family under siege. I couldn’t blame the men for worrying about their safety.

“They think we’re stuck here, out on a limb,” I said. It would have been true, if Cuthbert had held out a few more days. “They think they have us beat, that they can take the city and reap the rewards. And they’re wrong!

“We are going to march back to the city, we’re going to kick their asses and we’re going to end this war once and for all,” I continued. “It is time to march!”

The army started to move, slowly. I turned and led the way, part of the lead group. Behind me, the section leaders were organising the remainder of the army, trying to keep the infantry in some kind of formation. The pickets were spreading out ahead of us, watching for possible threats. I’d sent messengers ahead, to Houdon and Damansara, ordering them to prepare supplies for the army. I hoped they’d both cooperate. Cuthbert had told me, more than once, that none of the independent cities would be allowed to keep any semblance of freedom, once the war was over. They’d been burnt too badly to risk it happening again.

It’s a shame we can’t share his correspondence with the world, I thought. We’d searched Cuthbert’s private files and removed everything, including letters he’d been cautioned to destroy. Not all were particularly interesting – apparently, he’d been writing erotic letters to a handful of young noblewomen – but some of the political messages were dynamite. We can make sure they are printed and distributed, once we no longer need to pretend he’s still under siege.

I glanced back at the castle, wondering if it would still be in our hands when the fighting was over. I’d left a small garrison to man the walls, and protect the wounded, but I couldn’t spare enough men to ensure that the castle remained nearly invulnerable. There’d been no time to do more, either. The locals had no interest in letting us dictate the shape of the post-war world and I had neither the time nor the inclination to force them to do as I wished. I just hoped they could hold out, if it all went to hell. Given time, I told myself, the spread of more modern firearms would make overt tyranny impossible.

A wagon rattled past, a handful of men riding topside. They’d swap places with the marching infantry soon enough, ensuring everyone had a chance to rest while still being on the march. I told myself I would keep marching as long as possible, to make it clear to the men that I wasn’t asking them for anything I was unwilling to do myself. I’d have to rest sooner or later, I knew, but … sweat beaded on my forehead as the temperature rose, forcing me to take a swig from my canteen. I hoped the men hadn’t ditched their supplies or eaten them ahead of time. I’d done the latter myself, as a young recruit, and paid for it.

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, I reminded myself. The trick to marching long distances was not to think about just how far you had to go, but to keep picking up your feet and putting them down again. If only we had modern transport …

A horseman cantered up to me. “Sir, the special convoy has split off,” he reported. “They’re on their way.”

“Good.” I was too tired to say anything more. “Resume the patrol.”

I gritted my teeth as I kept walking, trying to set a good example. The special convoy was taking the hostages to a place of relative safety, well away from the army – and Cuthbert. I didn’t think he’d risk doing anything stupid, not when keeping his side of the bargain was his only hope of getting himself and his family out of certain death, but … men couldn’t always be relied upon to do the rational thing. If the hostages were somewhere else, beyond his reach, there’d be no way for him to find and recover them. Probably.

The march went on and on. We stopped to make camp at nightfall – roll call revealed we’d lost surprisingly few men, most of whom trickled in after dark – and resumed the march in the morning. The days started to blur together, even as we stopped near Houdon for our supplies – I was careful to keep most of the army out of sight; I wasn’t convinced we’d winkled out everyone who’d collaborated with the occupiers – and headed onwards. We’d be back later, if we won the coming battle.

Without the warlords, it should be easy to lay down more railway lines, I told myself. Next year, we’ll be able to move troops to the nearest railhead, rather than marching from one end of the country to the other.

I kept the army at a safe distance – again – as we reached Damansara. The city was as loyal as we could wish, but I’d be surprised if there weren’t enemy spies within the ever-growing population. Cuthbert wasn’t the only warlord who had designs on the city. They wanted the factories, and the skilled craftsmen … or, perhaps, simply to steal their designs and pass them on. In hindsight, exchanging a cottage industry for a semi-modern assembly line system might not have been the best decision, although it had saved our bacon only a few short months ago. If nothing else, it had encouraged the locals to stand and fight for their newly gained wealth.

“We’ve heard little from Roxanna, just rumours,” Rupert Drache told me. We’d met at the garrison outside the city. I wasn’t prepared to risk going inside the walls, not now. “The railway line has very definitely been cut.”

“And no one is trying to fix it,” I muttered, darkly. The railway was primitive, by any reasonable standards, but it was designed to be easy to repair. A lone blacksmith could hammer out replacement components in a few hours, if he wished. “Do you have any idea where the break is?”

“No,” Rupert said. “If they wanted to slow you down, though, they’d take down one of the bridges.”

I nodded in agreement. Replacing a bridge would be tricky, if not impossible without an engineering crew. The Union had made the process an exact science, during the Civil War, but I hadn’t had time to do anything of the sort. And that meant …

“I’ll send scouts ahead, see if we can sniff out the breach,” I said. “What’s the word on the streets?”

“Right now, everyone is pleased you defeated Cuthbert,” Rupert said, in a tone that suggested quite a few people were displeased. Lord Gallery would probably be quite happy if Cuthbert had blown my brains out, even if it meant the city falling to another warlord. “But that might change if they work out what’s happening down south.”

“We’ll skip the party this time,” I said. The city fathers would be relieved, even though they wouldn’t show it openly. “We’ll be back after we win.”

Rupert smiled. “I’m not supposed to let you have any of the supplies,” he said. “So I’m going to sit in my office and whistle very loudly while you take them.”

I smiled back, then hurried to organise the transfer. The supplies belonged to us … mostly. I wrote a formal receipt for everything we’d taken that wasn’t, with a promise to pay in gold and silver. Damansara would hardly be starving or defenceless, in any case. There were so many firearms on the streets I suspected the city fathers were quite nervous, not without reason. Their rule relied on a monopoly of force and they no longer had it. It was just a matter of time before someone took his gun and shot an aristo in the streets.

And some would deserve it too, I reflected. Rupert was a good man, and Helen was at least trying to be a good monarch, but they had their limits. They wouldn’t do anything that involved giving up any of their power … and the others were worse. If some kindly soul assassinated Lord Gallery …

We resumed the march two hours later, after Rupert and I had agreed on a cover story. I hoped he wouldn’t get in too much trouble, when the city fathers found out what we’d done. They might throw the book at him, or they might be quietly relieved. If Helen won, she’d be grateful; if the warlords won, they’d blame everything on Rupert. I hoped he had the sense to run if the warlords did win … it wouldn’t save the city, but it might save him.  Or so I hoped.

The march got harder. The lands between Damansara and Roxanna had always been little more than scrubland, even with the new-fangled irrigation measures, and there were few places to stop for water. The sun beat down ever harder, a handful of men falling out of line with sunstroke or simple exhaustion … some were probably faking it, I thought, although their comrades were very good at sniffing it out and handling it themselves. I didn’t usually approve of barracks room justice, but in this case I was prepared to turn a blind eye. If too many infantry faked sunstroke, real victims would go untreated until it was far too late.

“The line is clear until the supply depot,” Horst reported. He was switching between riding and marching, along with the rest of us. “Where did they cut it?”

They might not have cut the line at all, I thought, coldly. If they just sealed off the city, they could keep any locomotive from leaving …

“Perhaps very close to the city,” I said. “They’ll want the railway for themselves, if they win.”

I felt cold, despite the heat. The modern world I’d come from had too many tools for population control … and far too many were dangerously understated, so subtle it was difficult to be sure they were being used. Shoving a gun in someone’s face had the advantage of being blatantly obvious; shadow-banning and deplatforming were often subtler forms of tyranny. Here … I wondered, suddenly, what would happen if the warlords won. They’d build up the railway network and use it to ship troops from trouble spot to trouble spot, crushing revolts before they could turn into rebellions. The world had been changing before my arrival – the mysterious Emily had laid the groundwork for massive social change, good and bad alike – but there was no guarantee of a happy ending. The bad guys might win instead.

Imagine a boot stamping on a human face, forever, I reminded myself. But even the KGB got tired of keeping the boot on indefinitely.

I shivered. Iran had still been going strong, when I’d been swept into a whole new world. Saudi Arabia was still a going concern, despite vast numbers of pundits predicting its collapse into chaos or theocracy … even more of a theocracy. Communist China, too, had been on the rise. We’d all assumed we’d be fighting the Chinese by now … and perhaps we would have, if 9/11 hadn’t started a very different war. I wondered just what was going on, back home, then shrugged and dismissed the thought. I’d spoken to a dozen magicians and none of them even knew about alternate worlds, let alone how to travel from one to the other. This world was going to be my home for the rest of my life.

And if the warlords win, I won’t slip into the darkness, I promised myself. I had caches of money in hidden places, enough to fight an insurgency if I had no other choice. I’ll take them on and make them pay.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the depot came into sight, unmolested by our enemies. There was no way to be sure they didn’t know we were coming, but … even if they did, they had to have overestimated how long it would take us to get home. Their men were unwilling slaves, prone to deserting the moment their superior’s back was turned; my men were volunteers who knew what was at stake. No matter the enemy’s numbers, I would always bet on free men to carry the day … particularly once we started the psychological warfare offensive.

“Order the men to fall out and rest,” I said, quietly. The section leaders would have to organise the supplies, and distribute them to the men, but the common soldiers could have a quick nap. “And then get the pickets out, sweeping the countryside. I want to know where they are before they realise we’re here.”

I looked at the depot and smiled. A single locomotive was sitting on the tracks, waiting for orders. I guessed the crew had joined the guards, rather than head onwards or risk returning to the city. Luckily, they hadn’t. If they’d been caught and interrogated, the enemy would have discovered and stolen – or destroyed – the supplies.

My lips quirked.  I had had an idea.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“They’re laying siege to the city,” the scout reported, as I studied the notations he’d made on the map. “So far, they don’t appear to have made any attempt to force the walls.”

I nodded, curtly. News of our arrival was spreading fast. The warlords would know we were coming shortly, if they didn’t already know. My army was too large to go unnoticed for long, even if we kept our distance from their siege lines and the local population – if they had any sense – had already gone inside the walls or fled into the distance. I didn’t think they’d advise the warlords in any case, but there was always someone – in my experience – who could be bullied or bribed into collaborating. There was no time for more than a brief rest as we gathered intelligence and laid our plans. If they got ready to meet us …

The map grew more detailed with every passing report. The warlords really didn’t trust each other. There wasn’t one large army surrounding the city, but three smaller armies: Warlord Eldred to the north, Warlord Hlaford to the west and Warlord Renweard to the east. Their lines were clearly delineated, the border between their troops patrolled as carefully as the no-man’s land between the city and the besiegers. They had brought a siege train, I noted, but they’d kept it at the rear … a sign, I was sure, that they didn’t want to risk storming the city if it could be avoided. If they weren’t afraid of being stabbed in the back – and planning to do it themselves – they could have attacked from three directions simultaneously and overwhelmed the defenders.

“They’ll be aware of us soon, if they’re not already,” Horst said, putting my earlier thoughts into words. “Which one do we attack first?”

I said nothing as my eyes lingered on the map. I’d never met any of the three remaining warlords in person, but I’d made it my duty to learn as much as I could about them. Eldred was old and frail, yet probably the smartest of the three and the closest they had to a proper leader. I suspected he was the one who’d come up with the original plan and convinced the others to put it into action. He’d certainly been the one who’d kept the previous monarch firmly in his place, although the sheer distance between his lands and Roxanna had given him a degree of plausible deniability. Hlaford was middle-aged, known for being a greedy and venal tyrant who squeezed everything he could from his vassals; rumour insisted he practised the droit du seigneur, although I suspected that was more likely to be black propaganda than anything else. I found it hard to believe someone hadn’t put a knife in him for that – even Al Qaida hadn’t managed to intimidate the Iraqi Sunnis into overlooking their treatment of their unwilling brides – but there might be some truth to the story. It was astonishing what some people would do for money, or later favours. Hlaford was also cold and practical, the type of person who would not be easily fooled or intimidated. Renweard …

He was young, only a year or two older than Fallon. His father had suffered a freak accident – probably something along the lines of accidentally cutting his head off while shaving – and his son had taken the reins so quickly anyone who might challenge his account of the accident had been forced to keep his mouth firmly shut or face execution. I doubted there wasn’t a single person alive who didn’t think the son had murdered the father, but it was rarely discussed. Renweard was hot-tempered and bore grudges well past the point of diminishing returns. If he hadn’t been so powerful, he would probably have been assassinated by now. And he could be provoked into making a serious mistake.

“Renweard,” I said, simply. “The geography favours us.”

It did, too. The map insisted the warlords had surrounded the city – and they had – but the river would make it difficult, if not impossible, for the other two to come to Renweard’s aid. If I took out the bridges, they’d face a far harder task … if I could trap Renweard against the city’s defences, I could repeat my earlier trick and destroy his army before he could get out of the trap. It didn’t matter, not to me, if we captured or killed him, or if he lived to see another day. Without his army, he would be as powerless as the average serf …

“Take two troops of mobile infantry and capture a few of their pickets,” I ordered. “Send the rest to the harbour east of the city, install a garrison and capture the ships.”

If they’re still there, my thoughts pointed out coldly. The river was a major trade route – there were normally ships going up and down constantly – but right now it was also a war zone. The smart skippers might have headed down to the sea, taking their ships and crews with them, to wait and see who won the war. Or simply head further away. If we can’t take the ships …

I continued to issue orders, from troop deployments to black propaganda of my own. It wouldn’t be too hard, I thought, to convince Renweard that Hlaford was plotting against his peers. The man was known to be greedy, greedy enough to take an offer of lands and gold from the queen in exchange for betraying his allies. I didn’t think Hlaford would take the risk – it would leave him isolated when Helen decided she wanted his head – but it didn’t matter as long as the other two believed it. Eldred might think twice about assuming the rumours were true. Renweard would accept them at face value.

And he probably doesn’t have a wise old man to point out the dangers, I thought. Eldred and Hlaford were old enough to understand the limits of power, manoeuvring to keep what they had rather than stake everything on one throw of the die, but Renweard was too young and inexperienced to accept any limits. He wasn’t the type of person, either, to keep his father’s advisors at his side. His closest confidents were men as young and hot-headed as himself. Will he let me lead him by the nose?

My mind raced as I finished dispatching troops, spies, influencers and messengers in all directions. If I were in sole command of the other side, I would fall back and prepare for battle. The city wasn’t going anywhere, and her defenders were far more dangerous behind the lines than on the field. Eldred, I suspected, would be urging a redeployment the moment he realised my army was closer than anyone had thought possible, but would the other two listen to him? Coalition warfare had been bad enough back home, with allied governments placing strict limits on what their troops were allowed to do; here, it was damn’ near impossible. If someone said the wrong thing, the alliance would be dead …

I had problems with foreign troops in the Sandbox, I recalled wryly, but I didn’t have to worry about them drawing their weapons and opening fire.

Fallon looked unconvinced as she studied the map. “Will they believe what you’re telling them?”

I shrugged. There was no way to be sure, but … the bastards would have to take the threat of betrayal seriously, unless they wanted a knife in the back. I could imagine a warlord thinking his rivals were plotting to kill him, marry Helen and win pretty much everything for himself. If only one warlord survived to take power, a new dynasty would be born.

“We’ll see,” I said. The plan would start to come apart, the moment we encountered the enemy, but I’d done everything I could to make it work. “If they’re keeping one eye open for threats behind them …”

The thought haunted me as the army resumed the march, preparing itself for combat. I walked from unit to unit, making a show of recognising soldiers and calling them by name, hoping and praying it would raise morale. It was lucky I’d insisted on harsh physical training, pushing the new recruits harder and harder until they could march distances they would have sworn impossible. Even so, I would have preferred to take a day or two to rest my men, rather than a few short hours. But there was no time to waste. My instincts insisted that we’d already been spotted.

It was a glorious sight, I reflected as I rejoined my HQ company, even though the warlords would have disagreed. My men looked scruffy, as if they couldn’t be bothered cleaning themselves up; my horsemen wore plain uniforms, designed to make them blend into the landscape rather than stand out on the battlefield. I wondered, idly, if the warlords would realise we were a genuine threat. The aristo fops I’d dismissed had put appearance ahead of functionality, or competence, but the warlords were effective fighters. They had to be.

And if they realise how far and how fast we marched, I reflected, they may assume we’re already tired and worn.

The landscape changed, growing more developed as we neared the city. There had been small towns and farming villages outside the walls, once, but now they were nothing more than ruins and scorched earth. There were no bodies … I hoped the locals had had time to run, before it was too late, but even if they had escaped they were ruined. I promised myself I’d do what I could to help them rebuild later, if there was a later. The morbid thought echoed through my head, then vanished as Renweard’s pickets spotted us. I had the impression they gaped in shock, before turning and galloping away. Idiots. My sharpshooters were hardly worthy of the name, but they could have shot the horsemen down before it was too late. I wondered if any of the pickets would realise they’d been allowed to flee.

I closed my eyes for a second and visualised the battlefield. I’d chosen to approach from an angle, rather than marching straight at the city. It looked a mistake, and my old instructors would have chewed me out, but there was a method to my madness. A person who looked at my approach on a map with a paranoid eye would see me trying to uproot Renweard and force him towards Hlaford’s lines. If I was lucky, Renweard would assume I was pushing him into a trap. If not … I was still threatening to turn his lines and push his men into the river. The locals didn’t have any real body armour – their leathers didn’t provide that much protection – but if they tried to swim without undressing first, they’d drown. It wouldn’t be a pleasant way to go.

We crested the hill and fell on Renweard’s baggage train. The camp was practically defenceless, protected only by a low palisade … idiots. His guards scattered and ran the moment they saw us … I guessed the pickets had galloped all the way to the siege lines, rather than take a moment to tell the guards they needed to pack up and run. Not that they could have grabbed more than a few essentials, not in time. I shook my head in disbelief as we marched through the camp, section leaders barking orders to keep the men in line. I’d seen enemy commanders living in luxury while their hapless men starved, but Renweard’s camp made Saddam’s officers look like models of taste and restraint. The tents were luxurious, their mistresses beautiful, the smell of food so tasty it made my stomach rumble. I snapped orders to a messenger, telling him to take the mistresses – and the rest of the camp followers – into custody, then collect as many of the enemy’s supplies as possible and destroy the rest. Renweard would know what was happening now, unless he was a complete idiot or his subordinates were unwilling to give him bad news. What would he do?

My lips twisted. The smart decision would be to stay where he was, stand his ground, and hope to hell we’d break against his lines. I doubted he’d make the smart choice. He was known for being hot-headed … and even if he had been as cold and calculating as Eldred, his subordinates and mercenaries would want to recover the baggage train and all the loot they’d left behind. Alexander the Great had once told his men, after he’d lost his baggage train, that they’d win the battle, take the enemy’s train and go home with both … he’d won the battle, but it hadn’t worked out so well for one of his successors when he’d tried the same trick. Would Renweard have the sense to try? And would his men let him?

That’s why I don’t let my men loot, I thought. I’d made damn’ sure the common soldiers were paid very well, in stark contrast to my rivals. My men didn’t need to take everything that wasn't nailed down. And that’s why I don’t have to leave any hostages to fortune behind me.

I smirked. Didn’t he think the other two might snatch his baggage train?

A messenger galloped up to me. “Sir, the enemy are leaving their lines!”

“Good,” I said. “Their cavalry?”

“Holding back,” the messenger reported.

“Pity,” I said. It would have been nice if the cavalry had charged my lines. I guessed the warlords had learnt a few lessons from what I’d done to Aldred after all. Instead, they were holding back and waiting for the infantry to open a gap in my lines. They were going to be waiting quite some time. “Inform Captain Spade that the word is given.”

“Yes, sir.”

The messenger galloped off.  I barked orders, halting the march and directing the men into combat formation, half taking up firing position and the other half digging basic entrenchments. The enemy had to know what we were doing, but they were too desperate to care. If they gave me time to pick the camp over, everything they’d looted would be looted in turn. Losing the baggage train wasn’t a military disaster – my scouts reported enemy camps further to the south, probably crammed with supplies – but it was a deeply personal one. It was unlikely they’d get any of their loot back, even if they kicked my ass, wiped out the entire army and recaptured the baggage train. The men who recovered the loot would consider themselves the rightful owners.

No honour amongst thieves, I reflected. I made a mental note to ensure the camp followers were given the chance to leave, if they wanted to go. Some would have followed the soldiers willingly, but others would have been press-ganged into service. At least they’ll have a chance at a better life.

The enemy troops came into view, advancing with a strange combination of experience and desperation. Someone had clearly spent a lot of time considering the impact of firearms and gone to some trouble to prepare their men to encounter modern weapons in battle, but the men were too desperate to follow their orders to the letter. One group advanced while the other held back, ready to lay down covering fire; two other groups looked as though they were planning to outflank me, although there was little space for any such manoeuvre. I kept a wary eye on it anyway. The enemy might be right, if they had time …

“Launch the flare,” I ordered.

My men opened fire. The mortars, hastily put together behind the lines, opened fire a second later, raining makeshift shells on the enemy. The advancing troops dropped to the ground quickly, not quickly enough to save themselves from shrapnel. I snapped orders, correcting fire; my gunners targeted the men trying to outflank me and blew them away. I saw one man jump into the river, only to be helplessly swept away. The river wasn’t that fast, but the enemy soldier might not know how to swim. It wasn’t common knowledge miles from the sea.

No swimming pools here, I reminded myself. And no public baths outside the big cities.

The shooting grew louder. The enemy troops wavered, caught between the need to recover their loot and the certainty of death if they pressed on. An officer started to take control, wearing a bright uniform that made him stand out a mile; my snipers saw him and opened fire, trying to put him down. It was going to be hard, afterwards, determining who’d earned the bonus for killing enemy officers. I suspected I’d wind up giving them all the bonus. Not that it mattered. The locals might insist that targeting officers was ungentlemanly, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to win.

Another messenger joined me. “Eldred’s troops are securing his baggage train, driving off our raiders,” he reported. “Hlaford’s men are taking up defensive positions along the river.”

I nodded. I hadn’t really expected the raid on Eldred’s camp to succeed. I’d armed the raiders with makeshift grenades, high-explosive and incendiary, and I was hopeful they’d done some damage, but the odds were against it. I just wanted the warlord fearing an attack on his rear too … I smirked as I realised what Hlaford had done. Intentionally or not, he’d done the one thing that might convince his peers he had been bribed. Combined with my troops, wearing his uniform, harassing their lines …

They might not believe it, I told myself. Hlaford would be stupid to sell out his allies. Helen would deal with him, after the others had been wiped out. But they dare not assume it isn’t true.

“Good,” I said. The important news was that neither warlord was in a position to aid their ally. They might even hope he got his ass kicked, before they kicked mine in turn. “Summon the reinforcements. It’s time to resume the advance.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

The enemy hadn’t expected their trenches to be attacked from the rear, I noted, but that hadn’t stopped them digging enough earthworks to defend themselves.

I frowned as I studied the lines, the remaining enemy troops scurrying back to take cover as my men resumed the advance. There was something depressingly permanent about them, even though they were no more than a few days old. I remembered the destroyed settlements and winced, realising that the buildings had been dismantled, their materials worked into the enemy lines to provide more cover for their men. The trenches were deeper, too, than I’d expected, at least five lines between my men and the city. Someone really had been thinking ahead. We might be on the verge of a smashing frontal attack on the enemy rear, but that didn’t mean we were going to break them. It was more likely a conventional attack would bog down before it got anywhere near the walls.

“Bring up the ironclad,” I ordered, as I swept my gaze over the riverbanks. Hlaford was still digging defences, his men working desperately to turn the mud into protection and gun emplacements. That was unfortunate – I’d hoped I could get ships up the river and into the city without being impeded – but I’d just have to go with it. “Get it into position.”

I waited, keeping my head low. The warlords might not like the idea of shooting officers, let alone their fellow aristos, but … I had no doubt they’d kill me if they got the chance. They might have won the war before it had even started, if they’d ordered their tame magician to kill me instead of taking me prisoner. Helen’s bloodline made her important and her gender made her vulnerable, although anyone who banked on that was in for a nasty surprise, but me …? I didn’t have any of those advantages. They gained nothing by keeping me around and risked much. They’d put me on trial after I was safely dead.

They think I’m a fraud, I thought. There wasn’t a single aristocrat who thought I’d legitimately earned my titles, let alone the power Helen had granted me. They’d be relieved if I suffered an accident that was nothing of the sort. Hell, if I die heroically, they can hold a state funeral and extol my virtues, now that I’m no longer around to upset them.

I turned as the wagon was dragged into view. It had been a nightmare preparing the special weapon for transport, if only because we lacked any sort of specialized transporter. We’d had to dismantle much of the weapon, then plan carefully to put it back together when we got near the enemy lines. I disliked waiting, even though my men were shelling and sniping the enemy lines, but there’d been no choice. No sane choice, at least. Charging the enemy lines would have been disastrous. We could have won the battle and lost the war.

The shooting grew louder. I glanced at the river and saw the first of the boats – primitive steamboats, about as reliable as a politician’s promise – bobble into view. They looked flimsy, no matter how many pieces of timber had been nailed into place to provide a little protection. I’d intended to devise genuine ironclads, but the tech wasn’t there yet. The makeshift timberclads, carrying guns bolted to the hulls, would have to do. Their shooting wasn’t very accurate, as they raked both sides of the river with bullets, but it was disconcerting as hell.

“Sir,” Captain Wells reported. “The special weapon is ready.”

“The ironclad,” I corrected. There was no point in keeping the secret any longer. “The crew?”

“Armed and ready to go,” Wells told me. “They’re just waiting on your command.”

I studied the ironclad for a long moment. The locomotive had been designed, in theory, for off-track operations, but it wasn’t a proper steam tractor. I doubted she’d last very long, even if her armour held out against enemy fire. There’d be so much wear and tear on her wheels – and the rest of her – that she might fall apart before she even reached the enemy lines. And if she did … I shook my head.  I’d have killed for a modern Abrams. I’d even have settled for a First World War tank, not something that looked as if it had driven out of a Steampunk Civil War. But it would have to do.

“Advance,” I ordered.

The ironclad whistled as she rumbled forwards, so slowly I had to bite my lip to keep from urging the drivers to hurry up. The vehicle lurched back and forth so badly I was sure it was going to topple over, forcing the drivers to flee for their lives, even before the enemy started shooting at it. We had built the boilers to be tough, and added extra armour when we’d converted the locomotive into a makeshift tank, but if a bullet got through the armour …

“They’re starting to panic,” Wells commented.

I shrugged. The downside of trapping the enemy against the walls was that the bastards had nowhere to run. The ironclad looked intimidating as hell – a Martian Tripod couldn’t have shocked them more – and even if they had been aware of the possibility, they hadn’t expected to encounter one so quickly. I rather wished I’d had more time … if I’d had a couple of years, I could have put together an entire troop of makeshift – and primitive – tanks that would change the face of warfare once and for all. But one ironclad was all we had.

The enemy officers bawled orders, trying to get the men organised as the ironclad crawled closer, firing as it came. My gunners opened fire too, hitting the trenches with everything they had. The enemy gunners tried to return fire, depressing their weapons to target the ironclad, but it wasn't good enough. I cursed under my breath as I spotted the enemy line starting to come apart, troops running for the river or back to the walls. A modern tank wouldn’t have been slowed by the trenches, but our ironclad might easily get trapped in the mud and grind to a halt.

I glanced at the messenger as the ironclad reached the first line and cleared it.  “Send in the infantry.”

The ironclad kept grinding on, wheels slipping and sliding as it made its way to the second trench and bogged down. I nodded grimly as it ground to a halt, the enemy gunners taking advantage of the pause to target the vehicle properly, raining shells on the ironclad until they scored a direct hit. A modern tank would have survived, but the ironclad had no chance. She exploded violently, taking her crew with her. I promised myself they’d be remembered, if any of us survived the day …

“Keep the pressure on,” I snapped. I had no idea what had happened to Renweard – he was no physical coward, by all reports, and he was hot-headed enough to stay in his post even when retreat became the only smart option – but it was clear he’d lost control of his troops. He might even be dead … I allowed myself to hope he was lying in a ditch, perhaps after being shot in the back, then reminded myself not to assume he was dead until I saw the body. There was no shortage of rumours about kings and princes vanishing into the forest, to wait until their time came again, even though most were untrue. “Don’t give them a moment to think!”

The enemy lines came apart, I saw hundreds of men throwing their weapons away and running for the river, despite the timberclads … and the uncertainty about whose side Hlaford was on. I’d have thought that theory had been debunked by my ships opening fire on his men, but the warlords considered their troops little more than expendable assets to be used and discarded at will. Shooting at an ally’s troops to maintain the deception they weren’t really allies was the sort of thing they’d do, if they thought they could get away with it. They probably could.

“We have a clear path to the walls,” Wells reported. “We can get inside …”

“We have to drive the others away first,” I snapped. We had cleared the way, true, but the other two warlords were already digging in. In some ways, I’d even outsmarted myself. If I attacked one warlord, the other would fall on my rear. I’d have to throw up defences of my own – I’d just proved the defences I’d captured were inadequate – before I could even consider resuming the offensive. “Did they take down all the bridges?”

“Yes, sir,” Wells said. “All of them.”

I nodded, curtly. They’d knocked down a handful of bridges when they’d laid siege to the city, but left the rest in place until now. I suspected they’d planned to demolish them if the shit hit the fan, perhaps even mined them … more against their rivals than my army. Good thinking on their part, whatever the reasoning behind it. My army would either have to pass through the city to attack them, which would weaken the lines, or pull back and cross the river some miles away.

I might have risked leaving a bridge in place and daring the enemy to attack across it, I mused as we finished clearing the trenches, but I know better than to risk a repeat of the Battle of Stirling Bridge …

My lips twisted. If the English had chosen the battlefield a little more carefully, they might have won.

The shooting slowly died away as both sides took stock of the situation. Renweard’s men were still running, back to the distant supply camps. I ordered the mounted infantry to give chase, harrying them all the way back to safety, and prepped two companies for an assault on the camps themselves.  They were quite some distance, and probably heavily defended, but if we could take them out we’d have an excellent chance of starving the remaining enemy armies and winning outright. I made a mental note to pick up and interrogate as many deserters as possible, to see how far my black propaganda had spread. It was quite possible Eldred and Hlaford were already at each other’s throats.

“Sir,” a messenger reported. “The other warlords are holding their lines.”

They don’t have much choice, I reflected. If they started a retreat, I’d catch them in the open … in terrain that gave me every advantage. Worse, perhaps, I’d be able to draw on the city’s defenders as well as the men I’d raised on my estates. We’re caught in a death match now.

I visualised the map, again. I’d need to send troops through the city. It would be difficult to pull it off, now the enemy was starting to bombard the city itself, but it was the best of a set of bad choices. But my men needed rest too, and resupply … it might have been easier if the warlords had risked everything and tried to storm the city, but they’d refused to take the chance. I supposed it made them smarter than Hitler. If he hadn’t ordered his armies to take Stalingrad city block by city block, he might have gotten his men out in time to escape the trap and prolong the war.

The thought nagged at me. “Take a message to Captain Jackson,” I ordered. “I want him to extend the picket lines as much as possible, then send scouts beyond the lines.”

“Aye, sir.”

I frowned as the messenger hurried off. I had no clear idea of just how many men the three warlords could raise, certainly when they didn’t have to worry about their lands being pillaged by their rivals when they took their troops north. My calculations were really nothing more than estimates, the exact figure relying on factors I knew to be difficult, if not impossible, to account for. How many of their vassals had they pressed into service? How many mercenaries had they hired? How many serfs had they forced into the ranks? Did they have enough men left, I asked myself, to trap me in my own trap?  I didn’t know.

My army needs to remain mobile, I thought. If they pin us down, it’s curtains.

The minutes ticked slowly by, each one feeling like an hour. My gunboats continued to trade fire with the shore batteries, although the enemy gunners were getting better at estimating where the boat was going to be and aiming their guns accordingly. One timberclad was hit hard enough to trigger an explosion, blowing the ship to hell; another was holed beneath the waterline and sank rapidly, so quickly her crew barely had a chance to escape.  Renweard’s men continued their flight, running as if the hounds of hell were after them. I hoped they’d keep running for hours, long enough to remove themselves from the equation completely. It wasn’t going to happen. Someone would take command, eventually, and get the men back into line. Unless Renweard really was dead …

Horst returned, his face tired but happy. “They beat us off the supply dumps,” he said. “They’re pretty heavily defended.”

“We’ll have to deal with them,” I said. My vague idea sharpened into something viable. We’d attack the dumps, forcing the warlords to decide between marching to defend them – and being caught in the open – or letting me steal their supplies. Either way, we’d come out ahead. “How are your men holding up?”

“Well enough, but tired.” Horst rubbed his forehead. “We’re not in any state to fight, really we’re not.”

He pressed on quickly, even though he knew I didn’t shoot the bearer of bad news.  “We could call on troops from the city …?”

“We might have to,” I agreed. All men had their breaking point, and mine had been pushed to the limit and beyond. There came a time – always – when they just couldn’t go on, no matter how much money you offered them. “But they’re not ready to take the field.”

I shook my head. “Get some rest, under cover,” I ordered. “The city troops can deal with clearing the trenches.”

Horst smiled, rather dryly. “What did those poor bastards ever do to you?”

“It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it,” I said. The air was cooler here, but the bodies would start to decompose very quickly anyway … then we’d have problems. Far too many sieges had been ended because of disease, not because the defenders held out long enough to be relieved or broke the enemy lines themselves. “And besides, I want them to look for Renweard’s body.”

“If he’s really dead,” Horst said. He didn’t sound any more convinced than I. “If.”

I nodded and dismissed him. Renweard had no children, as far as I knew, although it was quite possible he had a bastard or two hidden in the shadows. Noble boys were surrounded by girls who just couldn’t say no … hell, including girls who threw themselves at the boys in hopes of getting a pension if they got pregnant. It had always struck me as a dangerously insane tactic – most local noblewomen were no more welcoming to bastards than Catelyn Stark – but it seemed to work. Sometimes. A handful of bastards were even legitimised if there was no other heir.

Fallon joined me, ten minutes later, looking tired and beautiful. “The ditch-diggers are already hard at work,” she said. “They were surprisingly enthusiastic too.”

“They want to loot the corpses,” I reminded her. I wanted to take her to bed – and I knew, even as I had the thought, that I was too tired to perform. Perhaps it would be better to catch a quick nap, then return to the field. My subordinates could handle the army for a few hours. I sighed and put the thought aside. “That’s going to cause problems later.”

I shrugged. It was something for a later day.

“We also got a message from Helen,” Fallon added. “She wants the prisoners – and a conference.”

It was hard to keep my face blank. I’d grown used to being so far from Roxanna that my word was law, that even the strongest commands from such a distance were really nothing more than suggestions. Now … Helen was smart enough not to try to take command herself, as unfair as it was, but her courtiers would expect her to give me orders I’d have to obey. She was smarter than all of Official Washington combined – the bar wasn’t set very high – yet …

“The prisoners will have to be interrogated,” I said. Why did Helen want them? Most were common soldiers, not aristocrats or commanders. Cuthbert was the highest-ranked prisoner we had and I’d left him back at the depot. One way or the other, he’d outlived his usefulness. “And then …”

We were interrupted by Fallows, looking as tired as the rest of us. “Sir, a messenger just arrived,” he said. “From Eldred.”

I clenched my teeth as I made my way to the edge of the lines. The messenger hadn’t been blindfolded … someone was going to pay for that, even if they were too tired and worn to take even basic precautions. The white flag he carried was supposed to guarantee the messenger wasn’t a spy, but I had no doubt he was memorising everything he saw to relay to his superiors. Oddly, his clothes were surprisingly common. A mustang, a commoner knighted for service to his master? It happened. Sometimes.

You can talk, I reflected. What were you when you arrived here?

The messenger didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. “My master sends a message, on behalf of himself and his allies,” he said, without the flowery gibberish and flattery I’d come to expect from aristocratic messengers. The latter was so absurd I mentally cringed every time I heard it. Even Saddam hadn’t had his ass kissed so brazenly. “He wants to parley.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“It’s a delaying tactic,” I said, an hour later. The war council had met in a townhouse that had once belonged to a wealthy merchant, then hastily converted into a district HQ. “They’re stalling for time.”

Helen stared at her hands. “What are they offering?”

“We don’t know,” Lord Harris said. “They want to parley. It could be nothing more than a demand for our immediate surrender.”

“They’d send that with their guns,” I pointed out. “They’re stalling.”

“They may want to offer their submission, on terms,” Lord Jacob offered. “They may think they’ve lost the war, and want a way out that doesn’t involve losing everything.”

I glowered. “And you think we can just end the war, just like that, and leave them to rebuild and try again?”

Lord Jacob started to speak, but Helen spoke over him. “What do you mean?”

“A long time ago, there was a warlord who invaded his neighbour and had to be driven out by an alliance of his other neighbours,” I said. “That warlord remained in power, and remained a threat, and had to be dealt with later, under far less favourable conditions.”

I took a breath. “If you leave them in power, they’ll rebuild and challenge you again.”

“That may be true,” Sir Horace said. The Lord Mayor of Roxanna looked worried. “But we cannot afford to fight the war indefinitely.”

Helen’s face was impassive as the debate raged on. It wasn’t easy to tell what she was thinking. On one hand, the war was expensive and the siege had already inflicted serious damage; on the other, leaving the warlords in power was asking for trouble. If Bush had removed Saddam in 1991, with most of the world on his side, it would have been far easier to rebuild Iraq and fewer rogue states would have challenged us openly, secure in the belief we didn’t have the political will to give them a thrashing. And the Iraqis wouldn’t have been so sceptical of us when we finally did invade …

And if we had plunged into Germany in 1919, we might have convinced the Germans they really had been beaten on the battlefield, rather than letting them think their troops had been stabbed in the back, I reflected. Hitler wouldn’t have climbed to power so easily if it had been apparent Germany had genuinely lost the war.

Helen tapped the table. “Lord Elliot, if we continue the war, can we win?”

I took a breath. I had always believed that part of the reason George Bush and Tony Blair – particularly Blair – had invaded Iraq so enthusiastically was that they’d gotten bad advice from their senior military officers. High-ranking officers in the Pentagon and the Ministry of Defence had to be politicians as well as soldiers, and often tended to put politics and personal advancement ahead of military considerations. I could understand their point – no politician wanted to be told his dreams of an easy victory were about to turn into a nightmare, unless they took expensive steps that would blow a hole in the budget – but they had a moral responsibility to the troops in the field. I thought the system would work a lot better if the senior officers still led troops into battle. It was astonishing how the prospect of being killed focused the mind on what was really important.

My lips twisted. The worst thing that could happen to an officer back home who made the mistake of telling his superiors the unvarnished truth was a dishonourable discharge. Here … telling the truth could be fatal. Worse, perhaps … Helen was smart enough to listen to the truth in private, but telling her the truth in front of the entire council would put her in a very nasty place indeed. If they thought her refusal to behead me for telling her something she didn’t want to hear was a sign of weakness …

And you called the officers moral cowards, my thoughts mocked. Time to put your money where your mouth is.

“Right now, they have the numbers but we have the better army,” I said. It was true. “They have the disadvantage of not trusting each other completely, not without reason, but we also have the problem of being tired and worn. My men marched north and then south again, winning a major battle, without much of a break. I’m pulling reinforcements from the city’s defenders to fill the holes in my line, but frankly the men need some rest and relaxation before they collapse.”

I leaned forward. “It isn’t clear how many reinforcements they can call upon. I suspect they brought as many men as they could north, if only to try to intimidate you into surrendering without a fight. The news of their defeats, up here, will certainly dissuade their vassals and serfs from joining their armies or continuing the fight. However, they know it too. Their only real choice is to stake everything on a final battle, or accept – at best – permanent subordination.”

Helen looked as if she’d bitten into something sour. “They’ll attack us?”

“Probably,” I said. It was what I would do, if I were in their shoes. The warlords might beg for mercy, and Helen might let them keep some of their titles, but she was smart enough to make damn’ sure they never regained the military might to challenge her. “They wouldn’t trust you to accept their surrender, then leave them alone.”

“They could also go on chevauchee and devastate the countryside,” Lord Harris pointed out, grimly. “If they wiped out every farm and newly built industrial town, they could starve us to death – or force us into submission – without ever fighting a real battle.”

He had a point. It was harder than most people thought to devastate a farm permanently, but easy enough to slaughter the farmers, steal what they could from the fields and burn the rest. I’d stockpiled supplies within the walls, just in case, yet … feeding an entire city was an utter nightmare. If people weren’t already on the brink of starvation, I’d eat my hat. And if women and children started dying, their menfolk would demand peace at any price.

The debate raged around the table. I sat back and watched, trying to gauge opinions. Some wanted to continue the war, to the point of immediately attacking the enemy armies; some wanted a truce – a period of cheating between periods of fighting – and others wanted to see what the warlords were prepared to offer, on the grounds we had no obligations to accept an insulting or unsuitable offer. I suspected they were wrong about the latter. If it got out that we were considering peace, it would be harder to convince our men to fight.

“We’ll see what they have to offer,” Helen said, finally. “A truce will give the men time to rest, if nothing else.”

I felt a twinge of pride. Most aristos wouldn’t give a damn that the men needed to rest.  But …

“It could also be a trap,” I pointed out. In theory, during a parley, everyone involved had a guarantee of safe conduct, up to and including armed escorts back to their lines if the shit hit the fan. In practice … would the warlords honour their words? “We have to be careful.”

“There are procedures to ensure the safety of everyone involved,” Lord Jacob said. His condescending tone grated on me. “They won’t risk being seen as oathbreakers. No one would ever trust them again.”

“Hah,” I muttered.

“Lord Elliot, you will lead the delegation,” Helen said. A rustle ran around the table. I couldn’t tell if they’d wanted to lead it themselves, or if they thought I wouldn’t be inclined to listen to anything the warlords said. “Lady Fallon and Lord Jacob will accompany you.”

I opened my mouth to object, then closed it again. They weren’t bad choices. Fallon was a merchant’s daughter, used to dealing with people who couldn’t be trusted, and Lord Jacob was well aware that the aristocracy never lived up to their reputations. And we could be relied upon not to try to make a private deal for ourselves, or to go beyond the scope of our instructions. And yet …

There are people at this table who just want the war over and done with, I thought. And others who’ll think that crushing the warlords once and for all will set a deadly precedent.

Helen and I spoke quickly and privately as the messengers galloped back and forth. She hadn’t just chosen me because I was reliable, I realised wryly; she’d chosen me because it would be easy to disown me, if the peace talks proved unpopular or went spectacularly wrong. God alone knew how the commoners would react, if they knew their queen and her council were opening talks with the warlords. I wished Violet had attended the council. She’d always been much better at understanding public opinion than I was.

And the thought of a street rat sitting at the table would give half the councillors heart attacks, I thought darkly. Some of the more conservative members objected to the merchants … but at least the merchants were wealthy. It would be a great improvement.

My mood didn’t lighten as the final agreements were made – talks about talks, I reflected sourly – and we headed to the parley site. The warlords had been suspiciously reasonable. They’d pulled back their troops, far enough that any attack would be obvious well before it became dangerous, and agreed I could bring twenty mounted infantrymen as bodyguards. The only downside was that the warlords would not be attending in person, something that bothered me even though I knew it was perfectly reasonable. Helen wouldn’t be attending either.

And if all three of the bastards were in the same room, I could draw my pistol and shoot them before anyone could react, I thought. It would set a dreadful precedent, and the aristos would be outraged, but the enemy armies would collapse without their leaders. I guess they don’t trust us that much.

“They’re taking this seriously,” Lord Jacob noted, as we neared the camp. “Interesting.”

I eyed him thoughtfully – I supposed it was a good sign he’d accepted the assignment without demur – then turned my attention to the camp. It looked surprisingly bland; a table positioned out in the open, three chairs on either side, and two tents … one intended for us. The lack of open luxury surprised me, although I could hardly disapprove. It was hard to tell if it was a sign they really were taking the parley seriously, as Lord Jacob suggested, or it was a subtle insult to all three of us. A mercenary, a bastard and a merchant’s daughter? It was quite possible the warlords thought we weren’t taking the matter seriously.

The tent opened as we dismounted, revealing a woman in her thirties. I blinked in surprise. The warlords were as misogynistic as the rest of the aristos, rarely – if ever – trusting women with real power and responsibility. Women, as far as they were concerned, were only good for being married off to cement alliances and having children. And yet there was a woman in front of me …?

“Greetings,” she said. “I am Lady Faire, Daughter of Eldred.”

She bobbed a curtsey. My mind raced as I bowed in return. Perhaps it made a certain kind of sense – Faire could be disowned as easily as us, if her father disapproved of her work, and she was certainly no rival who might have her own agenda – but it bothered me. It was rare for misogynists to change their stripes, no matter how logical it was to do so. My lips twisted in dark humour. The Islamic State had had a doctor who wanted to use medical science to unleash a plague in Baghdad, but the doctor had been a woman and they’d dismissed everything she’d said …

“I speak on behalf of the alliance,” she continued. She indicated the table. “We have much to discuss.”

Lord Jacob cleared his throat. “Indeed we do, My Lady,” he said. I wondered if he was thrown by facing a female negotiator. It was quite possible, even though he served under a female monarch. “It is an honour to treat with you.”

I directed the infantrymen to search the tents – and Fallon to carry out a more subtle check for magic – before sitting at the table. Lord Jacob and Faire were exchanging polite compliments and meaningless chatter, something that would waste time at best and build a lopsided relationship at worst. It was quite possible that the warlords hoped to subvert Jacob, perhaps even offer him the crown and a marriage alliance. My paranoia deepened. Was that why they’d sent Faire? She was sweet and charming and, unless I missed my guess, a lot smarter than she acted. Fallon was bristling slightly, beside me. I didn’t need to exchange words to know she’d distrusted Faire on sight.

“This chatter is all very interesting,” I interrupted, “but we do have a deadline. I assume your father, and his allies, have a proposal they want you to put to us?”

Lord Jacob reddened. Faire took my rudeness – and by aristo standards I’d been incredibly rude – in her stride. I guessed that was another reason she’d been selected. Half the male aristos I’d met would be trying to challenge me for that and the other half would storm off and launch an attack the moment the truce expired. But then, she’d probably been forced to put up with rudeness that made my Drill Instructors look like indulgent parents.

“We will withdraw from the war and pledge our loyalty once again, offering homage to Her Majesty,” Faire said. “In return, we want our rights and ancient privileges, granted to us by His Majesty King James II, to be recognised and respected.”

“Out of the question,” I said, flatly. Local history was a confused mess – history wasn’t anything resembling a science, not yet – but King James had laid the groundwork for his grandson’s troubles by giving the warlords a free hand in their territories, allowing them to build the powerbase they’d turned against the throne. “That won’t be peace. It will be an armistice for twenty years.”

As Foch said, my thoughts added. And he was pretty much right.

“Her Majesty will not accept such an offer,” Lord Jacob agreed. Clearly, he hadn’t been as wowed by Faire as I’d feared. “There are no guarantees you could offer that would mitigate the risk.”

Faire smiled, sweetly. “We are prepared to discuss marriage alliances,” she said, calmly. “I myself would be married to you; my cousin would treat for the hand of the queen herself …”

“Also out of the question,” I said. I couldn’t imagine a local man accepting the role of Royal Consort. Being a powerless king would make him a laughingstock. It wasn’t fair – queens throughout history had often been legally powerless – but the local culture cared nothing for the double standard. “Her Majesty would not accept such an offer.”

I went on before Lord Jacob could let himself be tempted. He would be … nearly everyone in his shoes would be very tempted, even if common sense insisted the offer might well be a sham. A good – brilliant – match would make up for his unfortunate birth. And he’d resent it if Helen said no.

“We have a counteroffer,” I told her. “You father and his allies disband their armies and release their vassals, surrendering all their lands and territories save for their core estates. They are to abolish all forms of feudal service, including serfdom, and refrain from raising more than a handful of household guards. In exchange, Her Majesty will guarantee your lives and core estates, as long as you behave yourselves.”

Her face barely flickered. If I hadn’t been watching carefully, I wouldn’t have missed the brief flicker of … something. I doubted her father would be happy, if she took the offer to him, but … would he force himself to accept? It would mean giving up much of his power, and leaving his family at Helen’s mercy, yet … at least he would be left with something. I wondered if he’d notice the sting in the tail, the minor detail that would complete our victory and make any sort of recovery impossible. If all feudal service was abolished, his serfs would have to be treated well … or they’d simply pack up and leave. He’d no longer have the legal right or naked force to keep them tied to the land.

I wondered, grimly, how the situation looked to them. They had a brief, a very brief, window of opportunity to take the city or devastate the countryside.  But the balance of power was already shifting against them. If I had six months – less, perhaps – I’d gather the forces to crush them utterly, to tear their lands apart and impose my own order … Helen’s order. They had to know it, too. My estates alone would provide more volunteers, all willing to fight, than their territories could provide unwilling conscripts. And the fact they didn’t trust each other would make it easy to prise them apart.

Faire gave me a long look. “Does Her Majesty really expect us to abide by such insulting terms?”

I stared back at her. “Your father and his allies started a war and lost,” I told her, bluntly. It wasn't quite true, and no doubt it would be debated heavily in my planned war college, but it was true enough. “Be grateful Her Majesty is willing to leave you with something. If it was up to me, you would be sent into exile.”

“And if it was up to your serfs,” Fallon added, “you’d be torn limb from limb.”

“I will have to discuss this with my father,” Faire said, stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me …”

And then all hell broke loose.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Faire opened her mouth and screamed.

I barely heard her.  I’d spotted a faint shimmer in the air, behind her, but I hadn’t had a second to react before the first grenade was thrown. The enemy attack force seemed to come out of nowhere … invisibility spells? Obscurification charms? I didn’t know and I didn’t care – I grabbed Fallon, knocking her to the ground as the first grenades started to explode, and shoved Lord Jacob down too. Faire was still screaming, her eyes going wide with shock as a bullet cracked past her head. She was lucky she hadn’t been hit. A trained sniper with a modern weapon could take out the terrorist hiding behind a human shield with ease, but I wouldn’t have risked anything of the sort here. The shooter could have killed his master’s daughter as easily as one of us.

“Get down, you stupid bitch,” I yelled at her. It wasn’t polite, but what choice did I have? “Get down!”

She ducked under the table as I picked up the nearest chair and threw it at the attackers, then stuck my hands under the table and heaved it after the chair. It felt surprisingly light – someone must have put a lightening charm on it – but knocked over a handful of men before they could react. Two more came at me, swords glinting with unholy light. I grabbed Fallon’s hand and shouted for her to use her magic, but she was in shock. I kicked myself for agreeing to take a pregnant women into a dangerous situation … no one would have said a word if I’d said no, not when she was my wife-to-be and mother of my future child. Even Helen couldn’t have overridden my command …

My men deployed, firing back as the enemy troopers darted forward. They wore heavy leather uniforms that looked like something out of a steampunk movie, complete with belts loaded with grenades, firearms and devices I didn’t recognise. They didn’t seem to wear any livery, but they had to be serving the warlords. Renweard, perhaps. He was a hothead and the most inclined to risk everything on one throw of the die. I cursed under my breath as the enemy crashed into my troops, their faces fanatical and yet oddly slack … they were hopped up on something, I realised dully. I’d seen drugged-up insurgents in Iraq and they’d kept trying to fight, even when badly wounded, until it caught up with them. The poor bastards had overdosed so badly they’d been dead men walking even before we shot them.

A man landed in front of me and aimed a dagger at my heart. I stepped to one side – the first rule of knife-fighting is don’t, unless you really know what you’re doing – and kicked him in the crotch hard enough to ram his testicles into his stomach. He barely even flinched at a blow that would have put me down for the count. I gritted my teeth as he swung at me again – thankfully, his coordination wasn’t great – and kicked his knee with all the force I could muster. It snapped, sending him sprawling to the ground. I dodged around him, trying not to look at his face. It looked as if he was incredibly angry and feverish and ecstatic …

Faire was lying on the ground, shaking. I grabbed her roughly, yanked her to her feet and pushed her north. She seemed to be going into shock. I guessed her father hadn’t told her of the ambush plan, if he’d even known it was going to happen. Renweard might be gambling his ally wouldn’t care about his daughter’s fate – she was only a girl – if his daring stroke brought them victory. I hoped he was wrong about that, but right now it didn’t matter. We had to get out of the trap before the jaws snapped closed.

Lord Jacob joined me, holding a flintlock in one hand and his sword in the other. “Are they mad?”

“Later,” I snapped. Lord Jacob was holding up better than the other two, but still … “Cover me!”

I helped Fallon to her feet and half-carried her away from the devastated parley site. My men outnumbered the enemy, but they were losing … the enemy had closed too rapidly for the infantrymen to shoot them or simply remount their horses and outrun them. The second set of grenades had been thrown at the horses, leaving them injured or galloping away in fright …I sniffed something unpleasant in the air and realised the grenades hadn’t just been explosive. They’d used a chemical compound to make the beasts take flight … I cursed under my breath as I recalled the map. The enemy infantry might have trouble reaching the scene in time to catch us, but their cavalry would be halfway here by now. The irony mocked me. I’d spent months rolling my eyes at their pretensions, and their conviction they still ruled the battlefield, but now …

A man roared behind me. I turned and raised my sword, just in time for him to impale himself on my blade. It should have been a killing blow – it went right through his heart – but he held on and started pulling himself towards me, inch by inch. A flicker of pure horror ran through me. What was he? A zombie? I’d heard stories of the undead rising in search of brains – as well as dragons and other fantastical creatures – but they were all so distant from Johor that it wasn’t clear if anyone took them seriously. I gritted my teeth and twisted the blade, spilling his guts onto the ground. He staggered, stumbled towards me as I tugged the blade out of his body, and collapsed. For a moment, I was sure he was going to keep coming after me.

“We have to run,” I snapped. We were too far from the city and the rest of the army … I kicked myself, mentally, for not insisting the parley talks be held in the city. I’d had my reasons, but none of them were worth the carnage behind me. “Their troops won’t be far behind.”

Lord Jacob nodded, his face pale. “They can’t take us alive.”

I nodded, curtly, as he helped Faire run. The warlords – or one of them – had gambled everything on killing me. I’d wondered why they’d raised no objections to our delegation … clearly, they’d intended to kill me on the assumption my army would fall to pieces without its leader. It made a certain kind of sense, from their point of view. If their armies lost their leaders, there would be a power struggle at best and – at worst – the conscripts would desert and their vassals would go home. But my army was different. There was a clear chain of command … I didn’t like the idea of planning for my own death, but it was one of my duties.

And they think Helen can’t command her troops, I thought. Idiots.

We hurried across the devastated landscape, ruined by fighting and enemy occupation. I tried to calculate just how long we had before the enemy cavalry came into view, then gave it up as too depressing. Renweard’s camp wasn’t that far away, and he’d probably had his horsemen on alert … they could be nearing our position now. There was little room to conceal ourselves, either. I’d accepted the parley ground because we could see in all directions and spot an assault – or so I’d thought – before it could arrive. In hindsight, I’d fucked up.

Get Fallon and the others back to the city, and quickly, I told myself. I didn’t know if all the warlords had plotted the ambush, or just one of the bastards, but it didn’t matter any longer. They were all implicated. Any hope of being treated as honourable men had vanished the moment they’d tried to kill us. They’ll be mounting an attack as soon as possible, trying to destroy us before we can build up and do the same to them.

“My father wouldn’t …” Faire was mumbling to herself. “My father wouldn’t …”

“Be quiet,” I snapped. We were still too exposed for my peace of mind. I felt like a British Tommy climbing out of the trenches and making his way towards the enemy lines. The air was eerily silent. I couldn’t hear birds or small rodents or anything. “Your father just tried to have us killed.”

Faire looked as if she wanted to faint. I was tempted to let her, to leave her behind … the temptation lingered far too long, before I put it firmly out of my mind. The girl had been a dupe. She didn’t deserve to die because her father or one of his allies was a colossal asshole. And besides, if I left her on the field, who knew what’d happen to her? It was quite possible someone who wanted a warlord for a father-in-law would kidnap her, rape her, and force her father to acknowledge him as her husband … Cuthbert, damn the man, had tried to do it to Helen. If someone was willing to do that to the de facto heir to the throne, there was no reason why they wouldn’t do it to Faire.

And we could interrogate her, I thought. Women were neither seen nor heard, as far as the aristos were concerned. I’d bet good money Faire had learnt a great deal by just standing there, looking pretty, and keeping her mouth shut. God knew, the aristos rarely paid any attention to the servants, even in their most private moments. They were just part of the furniture. No wonder they made the most effective spies. She might be quite happy to tell us everything she knows …

Fallon pointed up. “Shit.”

I followed her gaze. Two birds hung in the sky, practically hovering over us … I shivered as I realised how unnatural they were, even though I couldn’t put my finger on it. I reached for my flintlock and took aim, but missed … the birds didn’t scatter at the sound, further proof they were unnatural. Fallon gritted her teeth, then muttered a single spell. One bird fell out of the sky. The other turned and flew away.

“They know we’re here,” I said. We’d been lucky we’d spotted the birds. Hawks had very sharp eyes. They could have remained so high we’d never spot them, all the while leading the enemy to us. They hadn’t known Fallon was a magician. If they had, they would probably have kept their distance. They’d certainly assumed I wouldn’t be able to shoot the birds out of the sky. “We need to move faster.”

“They won’t try to take us alive,” Lord Jacob agreed.

I nodded, trying to think. The quickest route back to the army was a straight line … but they’d have no trouble following us. They could bring dogs with them, if they had time, and track us by scent. Or their bird could fly higher, then come after us. But if we headed east instead … we’d get to the river. We couldn’t swim against the flow, certainly not for long, but we might be able to flag down a timberclad. Or …

A bugle call echoed behind us. I grimaced. “Hurry.”

My lips twitched as we tried to pick up speed. The enemy was ripping off The Most Dangerous Game … I supposed it made sense. They did hunt criminals for sport, as well as wild animals, although they were rarely as sporting as the insane hunter from the original book. It was an exercise in sadism, not anything remotely understandable. If they wanted plaudits for bravery, they could go after a wild boar. Those beasts were incredibly dangerous and even experienced hunters were careful when they went after them. Helen had once told me she’d come very close to being gored by a boar, when she’d been younger. I was surprised her father had allowed her anywhere near the hunting grounds.

“I can hit them with a fireball,” Fallon offered. “Or try to turn them into frogs …”

“If you can,” I said. We were lucky the really powerful magicians didn’t live anywhere nearby, although … it was hard to tell how many stories were true, or had at least some truth buried under the nonsense, and how many were nothing more than bullshit. “But let them get a little closer first.”

I tried, desperately, to think of a plan. I’d had a picket watching the scene from a safe distance, just in case, and if he’d done his job he should be back at the city by now, organising a flying column to rescue us. Or … my blood ran cold. The parley had clearly been planned as a decapitation strike, and they were never carried out in isolation. There was a very real possibility the city was already under attack, that no one could come to our aid because they were fighting desperately to hold the walls …

Fuck. My eyes flickered from side to side. There was nothing we could use for cover, nothing we could use to set an ambush … we had two swords, a little magic, and little else. Perhaps we could get to the river, grab a log as a floating aid, and let it carry us miles to the south. It would isolate us completely, but we’d have a chance to break contact, gather ourselves, and return to the city. It might just work.

The bugle blew again, nearer this time. The cavalry was coming into view, decked in livery so bright and glaring you’d think they were on parade. There were ten of them, too many for Jacob and me to kill on our own. A handful of plans ran through my mind, ruses that wouldn’t work on anyone who had the slightest idea of what they were doing, only to be dismissed a moment later. We had a flat choice between surrender and certain death and … no, surrender wasn’t an option. They wanted me dead. I didn’t think they’d show any mercy to Fallon either.

A morbid thought washed through my mind. Perhaps I should kill her to spare her an agonising death …

My heart clenched. She was my lover and she was carrying my child and … I couldn’t kill her and yet I knew what would happen to her, if she was taken alive. Jacob might be spared – and Faire would be kept alive, if not safe – but Fallon was a merchant’s daughter with magic, everything the warlords hated in a single package. Her death would be long and lingering and …

I looked at Fallon. “I’m sorry I got you into this …”

She gave me a grim smile, then looked past me and raised her arm. The air shimmered – a wave of heat brushed against my skin, as if I was standing too close to a furnace – and the cavalrymen caught fire, men and beasts alike screaming in pain as they burnt to death. The stench was overwhelming; I choked and gagged, stumbling away and covering my nose in a desperate attempt to block it out. Fallon’s eyes were glowing as her magic blazed on, her hair whipping around her as if she were standing in the heart of a storm …

I felt a rush of pure arousal. And terror.

Jacob fell backwards, landing on the ground in a manner that would be comical if it wasn’t deadly serious. I saw Faire clutch at her sleeve, her eyes fixed on Fallon’s glowing form. I wondered what she was thinking, if she wished she had magic herself or if she was too terrified to want anything of the sort. Perhaps both … who knew? Fallon staggered, the glow fading as she caught herself. I had a nasty feeling she’d lost control of the spell. Her targets had died the moment their bodies ignited, but she’d gone on and on, burning them so completely their bodies were now nothing more than oily ash.

Faire moved quickly, too quickly. I saw a glint of metal and realised, too late, that she’d had a knife in her sleeve, that she’d stabbed Fallon in the back. For a moment, I froze in utter disbelief. Fallon coughed and fell forward, blood trailing from the wound as Faire pulled out the knife. If she’d left it in the wound, Fallon might have survived …

I hit her as hard as I could, too late. Much too late. Fallon hit the ground, letting out a grunt of pain … I pressed my hands against the wound, all too aware it was pointless. A powerful magician might have been able to save her, but anyone else … it was impossible. Even a modern hospital, with doctors who knew what they were doing, wouldn’t be able to save her life. It had been too late the moment Faire withdrew the blade …

“I ...” Fallon was trying to speak, but she could barely form words.  “I …”

She convulsed once, then died. I held her tightly, feeling numb. My lover was dead. My unborn child was dead … I was barely aware of Lord Jacob watching me warily, his eyes darting between me and Faire’s body. Anger boiled through me as I realised what I’d lost, in the space of a few seconds. Fallon was – had been – my lover. No, she’d also been my advisor and my assistant and the mother of my child … all gone. I’d lost my first wife and children through cruel fate, but this … if I’d said no, when Fallon had been assigned to the parley team, she might have survived. If … guilt numbed me. If …

I forced myself to stand and check Faire’s body, just to make sure she was dead, then picked up Fallon and swung her corpse over my shoulder. I’d make sure she got a proper burial …

… And then I would make the warlords pay.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Go back to your sister,” I ordered, as we reached the army lines. “Tell her we’re taking the offensive. Now.”

Lord Jacob hesitated, noticeably. He’d kept his mouth shut as we walked home, somewhat to my surprise, although it was quite possible I’d intimidated him into silence. He’d just seen me kill a young woman with my bare hands, after she killed my future wife and the mother of my unborn child … my rage turned cold, dark and dangerous as I pointed him at the city walls and hurried to the command tent. He didn’t follow. I guessed he thought the whole affair was well above his pay grade.

Which makes a pleasant change, I reflected, sourly. God knew, I’d met far too many male officers who didn’t think their female superiors could be trusted with the details. They disobeyed orders and justified it to themselves by insisting they were only doing what she would have ordered done, if she were a man. But right now, I need him to stay out of my way.

I hadn’t taken the parley agreement entirely on trust. My men had rested, rearmed and remained on guard, weapons at the ready, as the ill-fated party headed south to the parley ground. Horst, Fallows and a bunch of other officers had strict orders to keep an eye on the enemy positions, watching for an attempt to rush the city’s defences or simply do unto us as we’d done unto Cuthbert. I didn’t think the three warlords – two really, unless Renweard had pulled his army back together quicker than I’d expected – could coordinate their armies well enough to pull it off, but I’d been surprised before. They still outnumbered us badly enough to give quantity a quality all its own.

As Stalin made clear to Hitler, I thought. The Germans had been better at war than the Russians, but there had been so many Russians … The Germans simply ran out of men and materiel.

Horst jumped to his feet as I strode into the tent, his eyes going wide as he saw my face. The rest of the war council – my senior officers – crashed to attention … I forced myself to calm down, just a little, at their expressions. I wasn’t the sort of officer who demanded everyone bow and scrape before me – in my experience, officers who demanded everyone kiss their ass were worthless – but they knew better than to push me too far. They didn’t know what had happened, not yet …

“They broke the parley,” I said, flatly. “Fallon is dead.”

The room seemed to chill, to grow colder despite the ever-present heat. Half my officers were cityfolk, all too aware the warlords were rather less trustworthy than Darth Vader; the other half were aristocrats, shocked at the mere suggestion of breaking a parley. They’d have been less shocked if someone had approached under a white flag, then opened fire the moment they got into range. Anger burned in my gut. The rules had been devised to minimise bloodshed – specifically, aristocratic blood – but rules were for equals. They’d no doubt justified themselves by arguing they had no obligation to keep their agreements with me.

Or Helen, I thought. No one will ever trust them again.

“We are going on the offensive,” I snapped.  I drew a line on the map. The one advantage of fighting so close to Roxanna was that our maps were, for once, surprisingly accurate. I knew enough about the local terrain to compensate for their deficiencies. “Sound the bugles. We march in twenty minutes.”

There was no argument. I could tell some wanted to argue, some wanted to disagree, but they didn’t quite dare. Others wanted revenge. Horst and Fallows had known Fallon when she’d joined the army, then followed me to Roxanna … they’d have sought revenge for her death even if she hadn’t been engaged to me. And none of them were prepared to let the warlords get away with breaking the parley. It would be a terrible precedent to let stand.

No one will ever trust them again, I reminded myself. But given time, I’m sure they’ll find some way to justify their crimes to themselves.

I outlined the plan, such as it was. The old army could never have pulled it off. I wouldn’t have dared try, not elsewhere, but here … we had a lot of supplies stockpiled inside the city walls. We could afford to take some risks … and besides, we needed to take revenge, to teach the warlords a lesson they would never forget. I wondered, numbly, if they’d realise just how far they’d stepped over the line. It wasn't the social inequality that got to people, not here and not back home; it was the freaking double standards, the lack of any certainty about the rules. There was only so many times you could change the rules, to make sure you stayed on top, before you discovered no one was following them.

“Dismissed,” I snapped. Outside, the bugles were already blaring, calling the men to arms. “We march in twenty minutes.”

Red rage threatened to overcome me as the council stood and left the tent. Fallon was dead … I was going to make her murderers pay. The warlords were going to regret the days they ever sought to rule the kingdom, to turn back the clock … I gritted my teeth, telling myself it didn’t matter even if I lost the coming battle. Gunpowder was on the loose now, gunpowder and firearms and steam engines and a hundred other innovations that would turn their world upside down, ensuring their eventual defeat. The warlords belonged to the past … I understood, intellectually, why they’d sought to turn back the clock, but I found it hard to have any sympathy. The bastards belonged in history’s trashcan.

I gathered myself with an effort, tamping down my feelings. My men needed me to be cool, collected and in command, even as we launched ourselves into a thunder run. I had to keep one eye on the greater picture, one eye on the …

The flap opened. A messenger stepped into the tent, decked out in royal livery. I felt a surge of sudden hatred, even though I knew it was probably misplaced. The messengers were almost all minor aristocracy, protected by their family names … this one looked more pompous than most, his carefully tailored uniform failing to hide his paunch. I glowered at him and he flinched. It wasn’t good news.

“My Lord,” the messenger said. His voice had a nasal twang that grated on my ears. “Her Majesty the Queen commands you to stand down and wait…”

I hit him instinctively, knocking him out before my conscious mind quite caught up with what he was saying. Helen had ordered me to stand down …? Or Sir Jacob?  It was quite possible he’d told the messenger Helen had issued the orders, or … my mind raced as the man hit the ground. The latest reports from my scouts suggested one of the warlords had acted alone, rather than in unison with the other two. They hadn’t shuffled their forces to prepare for an immediate attack, unless they were confident Helen wouldn’t take command herself. Perhaps they had thought she wouldn’t … it made a certain kind of sense. The warlords didn’t train officers to act independently, without orders, let alone take their place when they died. I had. My officers weren’t as seasoned as me, but they could take my place if necessary.

“Sleep well,” I muttered. Helen could blame everything on me if the plan failed, or Jacob if the plan succeeded. “Goodnight.”

I left, pulling the flap closed and tying it, then made my way down to the makeshift assembly ground. The men were already lining up, looking murderous. Word was already spreading, I guessed. The soldiers might not give a damn about aristocratic pretensions, but Fallon had been popular and I’d led them from victory to victory. They wanted to fight for us both … I walked forward, eyes flickering from side to side. The mounted infantry were moving into the lead spot, backed by loyalist cavalry; the infantry assembled behind them. They were already faster than any other marching infantry, and without the baggage train they would be faster still. Smaller units escorted the cannoneers and the archers, covering them from enemy attack.  I’d given them their orders earlier. The trick might not work, I reflected, as I stood on the podium to address the men, but it was worth a try.

“They came to this city to destroy everything we’ve built, to kill our fathers and brothers and rape our mothers and sisters, to leave the kingdom in ashes and destroy all hope of a better future,” I said. “We kicked their asses so badly they attacked us with treachery, meeting us in honourable parley and dishonourably trying to kill us! We are going to kick their asses again, so badly they will never recover. March!”

I turned and led the way out of the camp. The men followed, their formation rough and ready and yet far more adaptable than anything the warlords could produce. A handful of messengers circled me, taking orders to the city walls and other places … I didn’t know if Helen – or Jacob would manage to squash them in time, but it didn’t matter. They’d turned geography against us, when we’d tried to raise the siege; now, it worked against them. They could have real-time awareness of our movements – they certainly had something very close to it – but they’d still have to strike camp and give chase. They couldn’t do that in a hurry.

They erected earthworks to protect their flanks from me, I reflected as we marched. But now they have to come out if they don’t want me to wreak havoc in their rear.

My mood darkened, despite the prospect of action. The plan was relatively simple. The main body would make a beeline for Renweard’s camp, while smaller forces would target the other two camps. The warlords would have a flat choice between marching to stop me, and being caught in the open, or letting me isolate their troops from their bases and condemn them to death. They might risk an all-out attack on the city … I wondered, numbly, just how many of their vassals were already looking for a way out. We’d spread plenty of propaganda - sly suggestions a handful of vassals had taken bribes, others quietly opening up lines of communication with Helen – in hope of fuelling enemy paranoia …who knew? Richard III might have won at Bosworth, if some of his so-called supporters hadn’t sat on their hands at a crucial moment. And perhaps the Russian Civil War might have gone the other way, if the Whites hadn’t had more aristocrats and reactionaries than common soldiers. It wasn’t literally true, but there was a great deal of common sense to it.

And we have been inviting their infantry to desert, I thought. Very few of the enemy soldiers had wanted to be there, fighting for a warlord who couldn’t be bothered to give them something to fight for. I’d had agents slipping in and out of the enemy camps, spreading the word. Anyone who deserted and came to us would be welcome. Not trusted, not yet – it was just a matter of time before they started trying to slip infiltrators into the city – but they’d have a chance to rebuild their lives elsewhere. Give us a few weeks and their army will be all officers and no enlisted men.

My lips twisted in dark amusement. The officers will have to do their own dirty work.

A messenger galloped up to me. “My Lord, Lord Royce reports he’s on the verge of hitting Camp Two.”

“Good,” I said. Lord Royce was a loyalist cavalry officer … I hoped he could be trusted to carry out his orders, without any embellishments along the way. I’d have preferred to give the task to Horst, and the mounted infantry, but I needed Horst with me. “Inform him I need an accurate report as soon as the attack is completed.”

“Aye, sir.”

I put the thought out of my head as the enemy camp came into view. It was oddly disappointing. Renweard hadn’t bothered with any real earthworks, not until I’d kicked his ass and scattered his army, and it showed. He’d thrown up trenches and palisades in the last few hours, once he’d managed to regroup and preserve what he could, but it wasn’t even close to enough. His camp was … insane, by my standards. The fancy tents were clearly visible, the banners outside making it clear who was sleeping in them; I wished, not for the first time, that I had a modern sniper rifle and plenty of ammo. I could have wiped out their leadership so quickly their entire army came apart at the seams.

“They spent more effort building the stockade than providing space for the men,” Horst commented. “Bastards.”

“Yeah.” I shook my head in amused disbelief. It said something about Renweard’s priorities that he took better care of his prisoners than the men who fought and bled for him. There was no medical tent, as far as I could tell; there was no suggestion he even bothered to try to take care of the wounded. I shuddered in disgust. The chirurgeons might be worse than useless – in many cases – but at least they tried. “Deploy the archers.”

Horst shot me a surprised look. “You really want to …”

“Yes,” I growled. The enemy lines weren’t that tough, and I might have been tempted to risk a charge if there weren’t two armies behind me, but I wasn’t going to waste lives and resources on a pointless mission. We didn’t need to capture their supplies. “Do it.”

The enemy trumpets blared. Their troops hurried to their positions. I wondered, grimly, just how much they knew. Were they aware of what had happened? It was quite possible their superiors had told them the truth, or at least part of it, to make it clear surrender was no longer an option. Not for the commoners, at any rate. I’d bet good money the aristocrats were consoling themselves they were still worth a king’s ransom or two. Any normal army – local army – would think twice about slaughtering aristos, not out of anything resembling morality but because their men wanted ransoms. Me?

By the time I’m finished, the aristocracy will be broken beyond any hope of repair, I thought, coldly. There’ll be no one left to pay the ransoms.

Horst returned, looking grim. “Sir, the archers are ready.”

“Deploy the men, defensive formation,” I ordered. “And order the archers to open fire.”

I braced myself. It was quite possible the enemy would risk a charge, when they realised what we were doing.  If we caught them in the open, we’d wipe them out before they could reach our lines. The nasty part of my mind wondered if they’d be able to wrap their heads around what we were doing, even as it became blatantly obvious. It had been difficult to believe, at times, that the terrorists and insurgents back home were willing to do ghastly things, in the name of their cause. I understood the logic of using brutality to terrify people into submission, to keep them from realising they outnumbered the terrorists thousands to one, but it was still ghastly. It would be a cold day in hell before I let my men do anything of the sort.

They’re going to accuse you of using terrorist tactics, my thoughts pointed out, as the first arrows lanced overhead and plunged into the enemy camp. They left trails of fire behind them … fire arrows really were terror weapons, by local standards. And …

I gritted my teeth and watched as the flames spread rapidly, moving from tent to tent. The fires would be difficult to fight, even with magic … I suspected the mistresses, camp followers and REMFs were already running for their lives, if they realised what was about to happen. The flames washed over the supply dump …

The ground heaved. I found myself on my back, staring up at a mushroom cloud. The warlord had been wary of giving his troops too much gunpowder, perhaps aware he was about as popular as a kick to the groin, and he’d kept the barrels stored within the camp, under heavy guard, rather than spread them out a little. It wouldn’t have been that stupid, by local standards – enemy armies did want to capture supplies and steal baggage trains – but my supplies were only a few short miles to the north and my men were forbidden to loot. I had nothing to lose by burning the camp to the ground, setting off the gunpowder. The fact they’d never even considered the possibility was the icing on the cake.

They probably didn’t insist their safety officer slept next to the gunpowder, I reflected, as the sound died away. The fireball would have been visible for dozens – perhaps hundreds – of miles. If they had, the poor bastard would have been a little more careful.

“Their lines are gone,” Horst said. He sounded stunned. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d seen bigger explosions … and my world had produced bigger still. “They’re just …”

“Order the cavalry to look for survivors,” I said, curtly. I doubted the enemy would be in any state to put up a fight. The odds were good the aristos were already dead. “If you find any, do what you can for them.”

Another fireball erupted, several miles away. I smirked, coldly. The cavalry had done its job. Two camps nothing more than smoking craters … a third, either on the verge of being destroyed or neatly isolated from the armies it was supposed to support. And that meant …

“Prepare the men,” I ordered. I hadn’t heard anything from the scouts, but I knew. “The enemy is coming for one final battle.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

My men dug frantically, preparing themselves.

I forced myself to think as I barked orders, rearranging my lines.  The warlords were fucked. There was no way to take the city now, and no way to get past me without a pitched battle. Their forces would start coming apart the moment their vassals – and soldiers – realised how screwed they were … there was no way to surrender and no way, unlike Cuthbert, to abandon the army and flee. There was certainly no way they could rebuild before I regrouped, marched south, and crushed them. Their vassals would probably betray them well before I reached their border.

The smart thing to do would be to surrender, I thought. Or flee the country.

My lips twisted as the scouts reported back, proving my predictions correct. The warlords had neither loyalty nor legitimacy. There was no hope of setting up a government in exile, let alone returning home … I doubted any neighbouring kingdom would shelter them, not when they realised the most powerful army the world had yet seen was on their borders, daring them to do something stupid. No, exile wasn’t an option unless the warlords wanted to give up everything. Their only hope was to punch their way through my lines and hope they could do enough damage to buy time, enough time to rebuild and resume the offensive …

It wasn't going to happen.

A scout galloped up to me. “My Lord, the enemy army is advancing under all three banners!”

I hid my surprise with an effort. The locals didn’t let anyone mess with the symbols of power and legitimacy. A man who put his king’s crown on his head to save it from being lost in the river would be beheaded as a de facto usurper, even though he’d been trying to help his monarch. Had they abandoned that taboo, after the shock of losing two of their supply camps? Or were all three warlords marching towards me? I’d thought we’d killed Renweard, when we’d blown up his camp, but I might have been wrong. I really had, if it was his banner. Renweard had no heir, no one with the automatic right to fly the banner himself …

Don’t worry about it, I told myself, firmly. Either way, that army has to be destroyed.

More reports came in as the enemy armies merged and advanced. The enemy soldiers didn’t appear very enthusiastic. Their cavalry was spending a lot of time pushing the infantry back into formation, rather than scouting ahead. I’d heard stories about political commissioners shooting men for refusing to advance, and I’d seen terrorists and insurgents doing the same, but it was the first time I’d seen it here.  The infantry didn’t appear to be the only ones suffering from demoralisation, given how many banners appeared to be missing. They might have wised up, and hidden their banners to avoid drawing fire, but I suspected they’d deserted. Or headed north to reach our lines and surrender before it was too late.

It is already too late, my thoughts reminded me.

“Hoist the red and black pennant,” I ordered, curtly. “And make sure they can see it.”

Horst nodded. “Aye, sir.”

I smiled coldly as the seconds ticked away. The red pennant meant no surrenders would be accepted. The red and black pennant meant we’d only accept unconditional surrenders. I was tempted to raise the red instead, but … I sighed, inwardly. Back home, my superiors hadn’t understood the realities of life in a Third World dictatorship, or how few options the locals had had. Here … the men marching towards me, by and large, hadn’t had any real choice. If they surrendered, I’d treat them well.

“And send in the cavalry,” I added. The irony was killing me. “Tell them to harass, but not to get too close.”

My mood darkened as the cavalry galloped away. They were going to bait the enemy, jabbing at exposed flanks and harassing the enemy horsemen, forcing them to either grin and bear it or give chase. Either way, they’d be badly worn down … worse, perhaps, as my men opened gaps for enemy infantrymen to desert. There was a reason they called it the death of a thousand cuts. One cut wouldn’t be fatal, but a thousand …?

Horst gave me a grim look. “You think they’ll make it here?”

I shrugged. There was no way to know. The three warlords had to hang together or hang – or be beheaded – together, and they had to know it, but could they work together? I suspected they’d already been arguing over the wisdom of breaking parley, if only because their treacherous attack had failed. Victory had a thousand fathers, defeat – and failure – was an orphan. I hadn’t given them the time to sort out the mess either. But I wasn’t going to gamble everything on their army coming apart before it reached my lines.

“Ready the mounted infantry for a charge,” I ordered, instead. It was possible the enemy army might stagger, teetering on the brink of collapse. “But keep them behind the lines until I give the word.”

Horst nodded and hurried off. I braced myself, waiting for the enemy army to come into view. I had no idea if the city’s defenders had followed my orders– I’d refrained from sending messages back to the walls – but if I was lucky they’d hit the enemy too, perhaps even come out from behind the walls to give chase. A third explosion shook the ground and I smiled, knowing it meant the end of the war. The warlords had gambled everything on reaching the third camp before we blew it up, perhaps believing we wouldn’t throw all three camps into the flames. They’d been wrong, they’d lost, and …

The enemy army slowly appeared in the distance. It looked … broken, half the banners already missing as it marched towards us. I suspected the warlords were in shock. Or that they’d deserted their men already. It wasn’t impossible … my guns opened fire, hurling cannonballs and shells into the enemy formation. They scattered, too late, as the guns tore through them. They were so lethargic that I couldn’t help wondering if one of my agents had destroyed or poisoned their food supplies.

An enemy horseman reared, then charged towards our lines. A tired shout echoed through the air as the rest of the cavalry, and some of the infantry, lumbered after him. I felt a surge of naked anger and disgust, wondering just what the common-born infantrymen had done to deserve such a moronic commanding officer. The men were caught in a trap, tormented to the brink of endurance, but they should have known better than to join a charge right into the teeth of our weapons. My anger burned brighter as I realised what the fucker was doing. He was dead, he knew he was, and he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. And he was going to get the rest of his men killed too!

I gritted my teeth. If they were intent on charging, they should have waited. They’d given us far too much warning, more than enough time to meet them with fire. My men were drilled to stand their ground, the simplest tactic one could use against a cavalry charge, but … my rage grew as the distance closed rapidly, yet not rapidly enough. It was pointless petty spite, a final gasp of defiance, one that was going to get hundreds of men killed for nothing … I wondered, numbly, why they were following him into hell. I’d had officers I’d let send me to certain death, because I trusted them enough to believe it was necessary, but I had never seen that kind of loyalty here. Of course not. What had the warlords done to deserve such loyalty?

The command leapt to my lips. I hated myself – and them – even as I spoke.

“Fire.”

The gunners opened fire as one, a ragged wave of bullets and balls washing across the enemy line. The leader fell from his horse and landed badly, lost in the chaos as his men reeled under the blow … I almost hoped he’d survived, just so I could have the pleasure of hanging him. The aristos would make a fuss over him being hanged – apparently, aristos were meant to be beheaded; hanging was for commoners – but I didn’t care. He’d led at least three hundred men to their deaths, a death that was both predictable and avoidable. The enemy charge came apart, a handful of men dropping to the ground and crawling away. They didn’t even get close to my lines.

I gritted my teeth as I looked at the remaining enemy army. It should be deploying now … they had the numbers, still, and they could certainly try to outflank and turn my lines. If I’d been in their shoes … my lips twisted in what wasn’t a smile. I wouldn’t have left my supply camps so unguarded, even if I thought the enemy would prefer to loot rather than destroy; hell, even if I had been a selfish bastard with entitlement issues, I would have ordered my men to surrender and then fled. But they’d broken parley. The local rules of war were quite clear. Anyone who broke parley had to be taught the error of his ways.

“It looks like they’re fighting each other,” Fallows said. “Sir …?”

“Looks that way,” I agreed. The enemy armies hadn’t taken very well to being told to work together. I guessed the warlords were blaming each other for the disaster, then trying to find a way to cut their own vassals free and run. The vassals themselves would be running too, if they had any sense … as I watched, a handful of horsemen galloped out of the enemy mass and raced into the distance. “I wonder ...”

I shook my head. Napoleon had decreed it was unwise to interrupt the enemy when he was making a mistake, and letting the enemy troops kill each other suited us perfectly, but I needed a clear and decisive victory. If the army broke apart and went to ground, it might rise again from the ashes. Might. I doubted any of the warlords commanded enough loyalty to keep the army together, after this disaster, but I had to be sure. And besides, I wanted them to pay.

“Sound the charge,” I ordered, roughly.

The mounted infantry cantered past the lines, then broke into a gallop and charged right at the enemy mass. My heart skipped a beat – if I’d misjudged the situation, the enemy was going to have an excellent chance to give me a bloody nose – as the range closed with terrifying speed. I’d trained my men to deploy instantly, if they were charged … I breathed a sigh of relief as the enemy lines shattered, men throwing their weapons to the ground or scrambling to get away, even shooting their own officers when they tried to stop the rout. I guessed they must have been even more demoralised than I’d thought. Some later historian was going to have a field day, trying to determine how much of my black propaganda had worked.

But it wouldn’t have taken root so effectively if they’d thought of themselves as a winning army, I reflected. They could have shrugged it off if it was clear they were winning.

My infantry joined the charge, weapons at the ready. They had orders to take prisoners were possible, but not to put themselves in any further danger. A handful of enemy soldiers tried to feign surrender, only to be ruthlessly cut down; I was amused to note several more tried the same trick, before their peers realised what they were doing and stopped them. They were hardly as fanatical as the Islamic State, hardly willing to give their lives for a pointless cause; the war was over, they knew it, and they didn’t want to be the last ones to die.

I forced myself to survey the battlefield as the prisoners were herded into small groups and kept under heavy guard. The common soldiers could go back home, as far as I was concerned, but the aristos were a different story. They could cause real trouble if we let them go … after the disastrous parley, I wouldn’t have trusted their parole even if they’d been inclined to give it. My anger boiled up again, as the tension of the battlefield flowed away. I’d gambled and won and now all I had to do was mop up.

“Dispatch the remainder of the cavalry to track down the fleeing men,” I ordered, shortly. I didn’t want them to stop running, not yet. The longer they fled, the less time they’d have to reorganise. “And …”

“Sir,” Horst interrupted. “I have three prisoners who insist on being presented to you.”

I knew what – or who – I was going to see even before I laid eyes on them. The warlords didn’t look very martial, not now. Eldred was old and sly; I knew, even as I met his eyes, that there was no way we could risk letting him go home. Hlaford was younger, trying desperately to keep his face under control; Renweard was surprisingly young, but … I told myself it wasn’t really a surprise. The idea of a boy barely out of his teens leading an army seemed absurd, by modern standards, yet it was the inevitable outcome of hereditary rule. He glared at me and I glared back, suddenly convinced that breaking parley had been his idea. Back home, most junior officers managed to get through their dunderheaded mistakes before they found entire divisions under their command. Here …

“My Lord,” Eldred said. “I must protest this treatment …”

“You protest?” I’d heard some nonsense in my time – mostly from junior officers who’d had bright ideas, then realised they were impractical even as they were trying to impress their superiors – but that took the cake. Eldred and his peers hadn’t been tied up, or roughed up, or killed on the spot … “You protest?”

“We are aristocrats,” Renweard snapped. “We demand you present us to Her Ladyship!”

“Her Majesty,” I corrected, curtly. My anger threatened to boil over. I was so sick of entitled young aristocrats. “On your knees!”

They gaped at me. It would have been funny, if Fallon hadn’t been dead. They were aristos … amongst the wealthiest and most powerful men in the kingdom. They had known, going into battle, that they could expect to be treated as honoured guests if they were taken prisoner, to be held in comfortable captivity or send home on parole to collect their ransom. No wonder they’d been so willing to take risks, part of me noted coldly. They’d thought they’d never have to face any real consequences, if their gambles failed. Sure, they might be killed by accident …

I scowled at their uniforms. They were absurdly fancy, nothing more than sniper bait. But they served a purpose.

“Kneel,” I repeated. “Now!”

They looked uncertain. I motioned to the infantry to force them to their knees. Their eyes filled with honest outrage … it would have been funny, I reflected sourly, if they hadn’t killed Fallon and thousands of other innocent victims, including men under their command. They were more upset about being pushed around than the deaths of hundreds of their men …

Hlaford gathered himself. “My Lord, we are amongst the first of the realm,” he managed, his voice taking on an ingratiating tone. I half-expected him to say we were all men of the world next, men who could surely come to some kind of agreement. “I think you’ll find our clients will pay …”

My temper snapped. “They’ll pay? They’ll pay?”

They flinched.

I went on. “How many men are dead, because of you? How many women have been raped, because of you? How many children will starve to death, or grow up without their families, because of you? How many people are wounded beyond all hope of recovery, condemned to beg in the streets, because of you? How many …?

I clenched my fists. “You thought you could turn the clock back and …”

It was hard to form words. I was looking at the eternal enemies of humanity, the men who were on top and staunchly resisted any sort of change. Aristocrats, slave-owning plantation masters, industrialists and party bosses and everyone else who climbed to the top, or inherited their position from their parents, and then kicked the ladder away, in the delusion they could stop the lower classes from demanding change. And then the inevitable revolutions came and created far worse worlds …

“You killed my fiancée and child,” I told them. Fallon had been nothing to them, just another commoner woman with a slight talent for magic, but she’d been everything to me. “Die.”

I drew my sword and cut off their heads, one by one. Their bodies collapsed, spilling blood … no one said a word, not as the warlords breathed their last. I knew none of my people would object, not really. The warlords had been a blight on the kingdom for longer than any of them had been alive.

Horst cleared his throat. “Sir, we captured forty-seven other aristocrats,” he said. “What do we …?”

I met his eyes. The commoners could go home, but the aristocrats … they were guilty, guilty as sin. They had had far more options than any of their serfs and yet they’d chosen to stand against progress, against the changes that would sweep over the world like the waves had swept over King Canute. They had to pay for their crimes. If we didn’t end it now, we’d wind up fighting the same war again and again and again …

My voice was cold. “Kill them all.”

Chapter Thirty

“You can’t stay,” Helen said, flatly.

I said nothing. In truth, I was too numb to feel much of anything. The warlords and most of their vassals were dead and gone – the conscripts were on their way back home – and yet it had done nothing to bring Fallon back. How could it? She was dead and our unborn child was dead too and no magic, from what I’d been told, could raise the dead. All I had was a single body to bury.

Helen’s messenger had met us as we made our slow way back to the city, ordering me to hand command of the army over to my staff and meet her in a tent just outside the city. I wasn’t sure what she was thinking, if she thought I would rebel if someone else took over the army or if she thought she couldn’t take the risk of acting weak where her aristocrats could see her. Did they think I’d gone rogue? Or did they think she’d given me secret orders? I couldn’t decide which would be worse, from their point of view. Helen couldn’t allow herself to be seen as my helpless captive, at the mercy of someone who was supposed to be under her orders, but she couldn’t afford to condone what I’d done either. Aristocrats were not supposed to be executed on the spot, not without a proper trial. It might give the commoners ideas.

They already have ideas, I thought. The broadsheets had rushed out special editions as soon as word reached the city, praising me for executing the warlords and putting an end to the threat once and for all. The aristos might be horrified – and they were – but the commoners were dancing in the streets. The world will never be the same.

I had to admire her nerve as she faced me. It would have been hellishly dangerous, if she’d faced almost anyone else … anyone local, at least. The army was supposed to be loyal to the kingdom, but … in reality, she had to fear it might be more loyal to me than to its monarch. It might be easy for me to take the city, put the rest of the aristocracy to fire and sword, and then reshape the kingdom to suit myself. There weren’t many locals who wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to play Napoleon, even if they knew how the legendary emperor had met his end. The risks were immense, and legitimacy incredibly difficult to secure, but the prize was worth pretty much everything.

But I didn’t want it. I was just … numb.

“I’m going to honour the deal with Cuthbert and send him into exile,” Helen said, a hint of disgust in her voice. As far as she was concerned, Cuthbert had been the worst of the warlords … and, ironically, he was the only one who’d survived. I wondered, idly, why she hadn’t had his throat cut. “You will escort him to the border, then go into exile yourself.”

Her voice was nothing but cold steel. I knew what she was doing. There would be no pretence. I would either do as I was told, and go into exile, or rebel against her and become another usurper warlord. Helen wasn’t going to pretend to be my sweet little wife or tell the world she’d married me because we’d fallen in love, or anything else that would hide the brutal truth. She was drawing a line and testing me, daring me to cross it. I felt a twinge of respect for her bravery, as well as her intelligence. If she’d been born in a kingdom that didn’t look down on her because she was a woman, she’d have gone far.

A vision washed through my mind. I could take the helm. The aristocracy had been gravely weakened. There was no need to coddle the remaining aristos.  I could become a dictator, long enough to lay the foundations of democracy and freedom, and then put down the crown … I could! It might be better for the kingdom if I did, if I ensured merit – rather than birth – led to promotion and innovation and everything the kingdom needed to develop into a modern state. The reactionaries could be simply brushed aside. I could carry out a program of land reform and industrialisation on a national scale, tying the kingdom together with railways and highways and everything else …

But I didn’t want to try.

I looked back at her, evenly. “I have conditions,” I said. “If you agree, I’ll go into exile without a murmur.”

Helen’s face was a blank mask. I suspected she was relieved. An aristo going into exile would have a reasonable chance of being allowed back, once the hue and cry had died down. The monarch might quietly ignore his return, as long as he didn’t make it impossible to pretend it hadn’t happened. Commoners, of course, were rarely sent into exile and never returned when they were, but me …? I had vast estates … had had, I supposed. It wasn’t as if I had any family who could keep them in trust until I returned, or inherit them …

Her voice was cold. “Name them.”

“The people I promoted get to keep their posts,” I said. I couldn’t ask Horst, Fallows and everyone else to go into exile with me, and I didn’t want to leave them in the streets. “The industrial development programs I started … you keep them going. The land reforms I made, on my estates … you leave them alone. Leave the farmers with their lands.”

Helen’s lips twitched. “The local gentry will howl.”

“Let them,” I said. They’d had to copy my land reform program, if only to keep the serfs from walking off the land … or taking it by force. “They can’t turn back the clock.”

“Apparently not,” Helen agreed. “Is that all?”

“Treat Fallon’s family well,” I said. “They can inherit her property.”

Helen said nothing for a moment, just long enough to be noticeable, then nodded. “Is that all?”

I shrugged. There was little else she could give me. I had caches of money in various places – an old habit I’d taken into my new home – and I’d have no trouble accessing one or two before I left the kingdom. I doubted she could keep me from sneaking back to collect the others, if I had no other choice. The border was little more than a line on the map. There were no border guards, no one checking passports or otherwise harassing travellers who wanted to cross the line. Anything else … it wasn’t as if I could take the mansion, or the estates, with me. I’d never really considered them mine.

“More or less,” I said.

Helen’s face softened, slightly. “I’m sorry about Fallon,” she said.  “She deserved better.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. I didn’t want to talk about it, not to her. She’d been the one to suggest Fallon joined the delegation. I didn’t blame her for assuming the warlords wouldn’t break parlay, not so openly, but it still hurt. “She deserved much more than …”

My voice trailed off. I had hoped to visit her parents, to tell them what had happened to their daughter …

Helen stood. “Cuthbert will be ready to leave in an hour,” she said. “You’ll accompany him up north, then across the border.”

“Very efficient,” I said. Get me out of the city as quickly as possible … there wouldn’t even be time to hold a proper ceremony for Fallon, before I had to go. “Can I offer you a word of advice?”

“Of course,” Helen said.

I met her eyes. “The world has changed,” I said. “The old certainties are no longer certain. The commoners have felt their strength, and started to question why they need to follow the old rules. They resented and hated it because they thought they had no choice, but now … now they think there is a choice. Right now, you are the most popular monarch Johor has ever seen, but that will change in a heartbeat if you start trying to …”

Helen grimaced. “Turn back the clock?”

“Yes.” I’d said the same myself. “Intelligent and ambitious men have always resented being held back, or forced to bend the knee to people who have the right bloodlines but little else to justify their supremacy. Once it becomes clear that the system is brutally unfair, and it is, they start scheming to overthrow it. And then you have trouble.”

“I see,” Helen said. I doubted she did, in any real sense. The idea she didn’t have an inherent right to rule was alien to her. “I’ll take your words under consideration.”

I smiled. “Think about it,” I said. “You have been the Ruling Queen, with very real power, for the last year. Would you give it up, now you know what it is like?”

Helen didn’t try to answer, but I knew what she would say. She’d had a taste of power … and there was no way in hell she’d give it up, not willingly. The new industrialists and merchants and everyone else who’d risen through merit, through hard work and intelligence and a hefty dose of sheer luck, wouldn’t give it up either. Helen and her peers would have to learn to ride the winds, to adapt to a whole new world, or be destroyed by them. I silently wished her luck. She’d need it.

“We thank you for your service,” Helen said, her tone becoming more regal. “And We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours.”

She stepped out of the tent, closing the flap behind her. I leaned back in my chair and waited, unsure if it would be an escort or an assassin. Helen would have to be insane to have me killed, when pretty much the entire population saw me as a hero, but there were quite a few aristos stupid enough to think they could kill me and take advantage of the chaos to rise to power. They were deluded idiots – the warlords were gone, and none of the remaining private armies were anywhere near powerful enough to impose order – yet … human history was littered with deluded idiots. Hell, for all I knew, one of the newly empowered commoners intended to make a bid for power …

Someone else’s problem, I told myself. If Fallon had survived, I would have been happy to remain in the kingdom, but now … I wanted to be somewhere else. Helen and everyone else can stand and fall on their own.

The flap opened. Violet stepped into the tent.

I blinked. “Violet?”

“She’s sending you into exile,” Violet said. “I’m coming with you.”

I stared at her for a long moment. “You should stay here.”

“I owe you my life,” Violet said. “And what sort of future do I have here?”

I grimaced. Violet had grown up on the streets. She’d been isolated even after I’d taken her into my household and arranged for her to get some proper education … another reminder, I supposed, of just how much human potential was being wasted. If Violet had grown up in a merchant household, she would have gone far. Just like Helen. Instead … Fallon and I had been the only ones who’d been kind to her. I couldn’t help feeling a degree of kinship. If I hadn’t joined the army, back in my teens, I might have been trapped on the streets too. I’d been lucky to escape. Countless others like me hadn’t made it out.

“Helen won’t take anything from you,” I said.” You’ll have a place here.”

In truth, I wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Violet’s position was more precarious than most. She didn’t really have a job, or possessions of her own … gathering intelligence for me and keeping her finger on the pulse of public opinion wasn’t something she could put on her resume. Helen might employ her, in the same role, but … my lips twitched. The people who’d made snide remarks about Fallon and I associating with a street kid would have heart attacks if Helen did the same …

And I was uncomfortably aware that, no matter what Helen did, the kingdom was in for some rough times.

“I can’t promise anything,” I told her. I had saved her life. She’d repaid me time and time again. “We could find ourselves in very real trouble … dead, or worse. If you don’t want to come, I will understand.”

“You don’t abandon your friends,” Violet said, firmly. “Who else can you trust?”

I nodded, curtly. “Very well,” I said. “Let’s see what the future holds.”

It was hard not to feel a little thrill, despite the bitter numbness, as the guards escorted us to the convoy. This was a whole new world. Part of me wanted to explore, to see how many of the tall tales I’d heard were actually true; part of me wanted to join the Diddakoi and just travel from place to place; part of me wanted to track down the mysterious Emily and discover the truth behind the myths … part of me just wanted to put the past behind me and carry on, to build a new life for myself. I took one last look at the city as the convoy rumbled into motion, heading north, and quietly said my goodbyes.

Who knew what the future would hold?

Afterword

“When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.”

-Cersei Lannister

Why this ending?

When I originally conceived what became the Stuck in Magic series, I wanted to explore aspects of the Schooled In Magic universe that could not be explored through Emily. As I noted back in the first Stuck in Magic afterword, Emily entered society at a very high level indeed and it would be very difficult for her to lose everything in a single catastrophic moment. Even losing her powers, as happened briefly in Cursed, was not completely disastrous for her personally. There were limits to how far she could fall.

Elliott, by contrast, does not have a particular solid foundation for his life in the Nameless World. He does not have a family name and estate backing him up, ensuring he always has to be taken seriously the matter what he does, nor does he have a high degree of personal and somewhat insurmountable power. Elliott is a capable fighter, and a very experienced tactician who is far more aware of the potential of new weapons than anyone native to his new world, but he is not all-powerful. He can be threatened and killed and, to a very great extent, his success is dependent on powerful patrons. This is very much a double-edged sword. On one hand, a client - no matter how useful - can be discarded on a whim; on the other, an over-mighty client can become extremely dangerous to his master. It is extremely difficult for a master to control a client if the client gets too powerful, which means that relationships between the two are always dangerously unsteady. The client wants to secure himself; the master fears what will happen if the client becomes independent of his master. This dynamic is common in mediaeval history: Thomas Cromwell, for example, or Sir Robert Devereux (2nd Earl of Essex), both represent cases of clients who tried to make themselves independent and had to be cut down by their masters. In both cases, they also had powerful enemies who were often far more established and, having climbed to the top, were intent on pulling the ladder up behind them.

This created a serious problem for Elliott. His success would always be dependent on Helen. When he undertook programs designed to reform society (such as land reform, or limited democracy), he was actually striking at the roots of aristocratic and monarchical power. On one hand, Helen might be pleased to see the warlords losing control of their power base; on the other hand, she could not be blind to the long-term implications for her rule. In a sense, Elliott was creating a power base of supporters for himself, one that could easily put him on the throne and keep him there. A regular challenger would be relatively easy to dismiss; Elliott, by contrast, was an entirely different threat. An outside context problem, if you will.

Elliott also had a second problem. His innovations, like Emily’s, could be copied easily. Elliott took steps to ensure new ideas were spread widely, like Emily, but unlike her he had much less insulation from the painful side effects. There was no reason the warlords could not copy the innovations for themselves, or figure out how to use them in combat. This ensured the balance of power would always be much more unstable than he would have preferred, but also threatened Helen’s rule. The spread of firearms would make it much harder for any band of bandits, even if they called themselves aristocrats, to dominate a country. She could not fail to look on this with a certain degree of trepidation. Elliott’s independence of mind - a habit that was hardly a downside in the United States - threatened to become a very real danger. To us, there is no reason why Elliott should ask Helen’s permission to get married; to Helen and her peers, a aristocratic wedding is a matter of state security, as it ties together two families and forecloses other possible arrangements, and the monarch’s permission is a legal requirement. Helen was growing increasingly dubious about Elliott’s value to her even before he disobeyed orders and brutally executed the three warlords. Helen had no intention of leaving them alive, but she needed the executions to be legal (i.e. ordered by her). Elliott’s actions were essentially lèse-majesté.

From a writing point of view, the story needed to be shaken up a little too. Elliott had won the war against the overwhelming threat of the first three books. He might be happy to retire, to marry and raise children and serve as the Queen’s trusted counsellor, but from a storytelling point of view that is an ending. I saw no point in continuing the formula of the first three books. Sending Elliott into de facto exile created room for newer and different stories exploring different aspects of the universe, as Elliott tries to find a place after rising high and then falling low. I have many ideas, all of which I intend to explore over the next few years.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading the first tales of Elliott’s adventures. If you did, please leave a review where you bought the book. The more reviews, the more sales; the more sales, the more encouraged I am to complete further books in the series.

Thank you for your time, and I hope to see you again soon.

Christopher G. Nuttall

Edinburgh, 2023.

Next up, try a snippet from another Henchman Press title, Walls of the Sleepers by Shirley Meier – available at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CNY4SZ61 .

It was supposed to be just another day for Coughlin, Guardian of the Hub where interdimensional portals met: Protect the Sleepers that keep the portals called Walls open so that trade and travelers could pass between worlds.

But an ambitious usurper and his clan have other ideas: Kill all the Sleepers and their Guardians, particularly Hub Captain Coughlin, and seize control of the Hub.

Now Cogh is on the run – naked and unarmed as he flees between dimensions, murderous conspirators close behind with the last Sleeper alive in his arms, and the fate of civilisation at stake should the usurper’s coup succeed.

Chapter One: The Peaceful Six

Coghlin sank down on the bench by the Ocean Wall, catching his breath and toweling his hair dry. The Guardian’s swimming course in the Ocean was taxing, since he was used to water being solid. He closed his eyes a moment. Even after his years as Hub Captain he was still disoriented by the Apadana, the Hub. It was always disorienting. He still wondered what part of him had led Tech to place him here, at the centre of everything, instead of out in the Six. Five really, since the Tech didn’t have people in it.

In his ears he could hear the cheerful sound of the Guardian’s channels, open and closed, the communication that let all the Invested humans talk no matter what their shape or vocal set up.

In the centre, the white alabaster altar, with black granite horns on each corner, was the only thing that seemed normal, solid stone. No matter where you stood around the edges it was always oriented the same way. The Sleeper would lie on the Altar to keep the Six Worlds in contact. At this time of day it was the Elder Geoff, who always wore black and silver satin robes with his long gray hair flowing down to pool next to him as he lay, perfectly straight, on his back. He looked like a sleeping king waiting for the call to wake and save his people, but to be honest he snored loud enough to be heard through all the Six’s Walls.

The open Walls were what made the Apadana so stupefying. If Cogh looked straight across the walkways and Altar he looked into Stikistes, called ‘Mold’ or ‘Stik’ commonly; the world where green was the dominant colour and heat and humidity thick enough to slice oozed on the other side of their main Wall.

Bales of rare plants, skids of tropical lumber were currently moving through to Automistes and Kaltistes. Right now there was a rainstorm going on, with tall trees and vines lashing, twisted by the wind. Everything in Stikistes was probably wet, rotting, toxic, venomous, or poisonous and humans there had a very thick skin. They were as human as everyone in the Peaceable Six but had a very reptilian look to them. There were also more reptilian people who only interacted with their own usually. Only two Scaled humans had ever been invested as Guardians in the past hundred years. Cogh had seen a family of them once, at a distance, during his training.

If he looked down it was straight into his own home, Kaltistes, or Snowball. Mostly blowing snow even in summer. Ice and mines. His people were pale because the sun seldom shone at home, except near the middle of the world, and then only for half the year. Along with primate humans, it was the Yeti’s homeworld. There were a dozen young Yeti at the Guardian training centre, weirdly, because Cogh had told them all about his training and they had applied when he became a Hub Captain.

The giant rolling barges loaded with ore went mostly through to Automistes, though Ocean was accepting for a new build, along with silica and glass from Heisistes. Today the main Wall showed a cold, bright iron blue sky and snowy stillness.

Behind him, of course, was Nasistes, Ocean, the world that had so little dry land that people joked it was made up of merchant’s toe-nail clippings. The main Wall into that ocean was about ten feet under water and shimmered a lovely turquoise over white sand. All around the edges of the main Wall, smaller Walls showed different parts of the world, only two showing any land at all. A small school of yellow coinfish flickered by.

As a Guardian, he’d found it hardest to learn how to swim, and his bone density made his neutral buoyancy much lower than most people. It was part of his Snowball heritage even if he didn’t have the heavy brow-ridges. When he’d first started sleeping with Jarl he’d started shaving so people wouldn’t tease about him loving a hairy brute. He hadn’t yet requested Tech make him a body depilatory.

Across from him was Gotistes, or Grain, the best planet in the Six that Coghlin loved most. It had enormous stretches of plains, churned and tended and pounded flat by herds of beeson, horses, camelopards from Desert, ‘roos, and ostrich.On Grain you felt like a bug on a plate, usually, with their forests in narrow bands around the world and in the ravines and canyons. It was home for him and Jarl. Their ger was small for the tribes, only big enough for the two of them. But their herds made up for their apparent lack of wealth. Since he and Jarl were Guardians, Jarl’s clan had husbandry of most of their animals.

Every main Wall in the Hub was fringed and framed with smaller Walls, each showing a different Pitch station, with their Guardians.

Cogh half-waved at Danuta, on duty now, and she opened her helmet and grinned at him. She was originally from Oceanand the record holder for continuous surface swim and also for deepest free-dive. She waved back, tucked her braid back into her hood and snapped her helm shut once more. She and the others were coming to the end of their shift so were being a little more lax than usual. He should have said something but shrugged and hid his face with the towel again for the moment. Guardians didn’t tend to idly chat in the Hub; even if they weren’t on duty, there was enough noise from the ear jewellery channels.

In the Hub the Guardians were armed with sword and shield because missile weapons were not allowed through the Walls. One of Tech’s limitations on the Six. People could have all the wars they wanted on their own worlds but you couldn’t take rifles, bows, energy weapons or missiles through a Wall. You could move an army but they’d not have their weapons on the other side. Four centuries ago the Heisistes had tried to invade Gotistes with swords and lances intending to steal the single shot rifles that the scaled people had. It hadn’t gone well for the President who would be an Emperor of Worlds.

But the idea of firearms had spread and every world had their own variant. Funnily enough, the world that had the most wars internally was Heisistes and people tended to joke that the heat cooked their brains and served up aggression.

Coghlin could hear his love, Jarl, laughing as he caught Cogh and Danuta’s interaction. That gorgeous young man had the open, bellowing laugh of Irigol clan from , the planet nicknamed Grain.

There were always twelve Guardians on duty when the Walls were open and only Danuta and Jarl were close enough for him to interact with where he sat.

He looked away to his right. Heisistes, or Desert, had a golden yellow/brown sandstorm blowing across. Dust, sand and scorching dry were the word of the day and freezing cold at night. That world got most of their water from the Ocean, since all water that passed through the Walls became pure, leaving a shower of salt or other metals behind and most of that was all gathered up and funnelled straight to Automistes.

To the left behind Jarl, Gotistes showed a wild sky and waves of wind in their tallgrass. Tall grass, short grass and grains… most of the food that fed the Six. It was where he’d found out that he could ride horses and zebu and darn near any other quad they had. It was where he and Jarl had set up their compound when they’d got married. He’d head on home to spend some time with his herd before dinner. Their pasture was getting thin and he’d be moving the four-foots soon. He owed Gotistes for saving him from himself. Da had been most healed up in that world and Cogh had hooked with his love, Jarl. It had been Jarl who’d got him his shot at being a Guardian at all. No one had ever expected him to be a Hub Captain. He raised a finger to the silver filigree fringing around his right ear. Hub Captain. It was fancy enough that other candidates had noticed that it gave him elf ears; an elegant point. In his first year in the Hub the silver had grown into his scalp and rather than shave his head and show off, he grew his hair long enough to hide most of it, even if he had the stark white hair of a brute of Kaltistes. Head hair was acceptable. Political hairiness. No need to make anyone else envious with scalp and ear jewelry.

Above was the most disorienting of all. It was the Automistes, or the Mechanism. Mech. Or Tech. People didn’t talk about it much. It took in the bulk of extra resources from the other Five and all of their waste. Everything. It was gears, wheels, metal flowing or burning or hardening. It was wheels and teeth and belts and molten steel seething and very hard to look at. You could pick a single wheel or tooth in the mass visible through the Wall and you wouldn’t be able to keep track of it. It would just melt away in your perception as if shy. Not many people traded with the Automistes and Coghlin kept his mouth shut that he actually found it soothing to watch. At his investiture he’d stayed longest in the Tech, just mesmerized by its voice and the Hum as it invested him and gave him the fancy silver on his head. It also didn’t have a training centre. Nothing biological lived there, everyone knew, though Cogh could have sworn he heard singing and bird song in his hour there. In the top corners where the four met the Automistes, there seemed to be new lines growing however. It was the only one that had just one Wall. All the others had a central and a frame, a mosaic, of lesser Walls connecting with each other. Cogh raised his head and squinted at what look like the seeds of two new main Walls growing into existence but he couldn’t make them focus. He blinked and went back to drying his hair.

That was all of the Six and the Altar and the bands that delineated each world and the walkways that made up the Apadana where all the worlds touched. It was always moving when the Walls were open and a lot of the new recruits to the Guardians would fall down in nauseated vertigo the first time they were ever brought in.

The Walls Closing chime began, a silvery warning to every person trying to ship goods or water or anything living through. When the Wall snapped shut it snapped shut no matter what was mid-transit.

The Chime rose to waking urgency and the Walls closed as Geoff opened his eyes and stretched, yawning. Suddenly all the urgent motion of ocean, sandstorm, grass sea, seething rainstorm, mechanism and snow all faded to a luminous gray, the worlds fading away to shining pearl of a closed Wall.

Doors opened and from each world’s Apadana-access hall the new shift of Guardians came in, servants to help Geoff get down. Servants to replace the black padding and clean the stone where he’d lain though it never seemed terribly dirty to Cogh. Human talk and laughter, noise and motion of a different sort.

Cogh wasn’t on duty till the evening, so he stayed put and watched the procession. Rosalind, Geoff’s first wife, didn’t often take her place on the altar any more to keep the Walls open. She had insomnia, and their oldest daughter had just had the most disrupted sleep associated with pregnancy, but the baby slept like a dream. After Lillium, Geoff’s second husband, Mark, would come on duty.

There. Lillium and little Rose came in, everyone hushing as they saw the baby already asleep.

There were always a bunch of people around the Sleepers as if they needed help. Some people hovered for no other reason than to be close to the magic that ran the Peaceful Six. Jarl stepped down from his raised pedestal, sheathed his sword and breezed by dropping a kiss on Cogh’s head. “I’ll have dinner ready when you get off shift, love,” he said. “Lynna and Bruce are going to be joining us since I’m cooking mallowflower stir-fry. They’ll be stuffed before they go on duty.”

“Love you,” Coghlin said. Their home, a blue-painted ger, was on Gotistes in the middle of one of the seas of grass. “I’ll bring home a bottle of Ice wine.”Jarl grinned.

“Love you back.”

Lillium waved at him and at her other Guardians before she lay down on the altar with Rose and nodded off almost at once. The Walls opening chime, a rather deeper one, began to sound and a moment later all facets of the Apadana were once more filled with the motion of their worlds and the trade between them began to flow once more.

“I never get used to that.” Desk General Harsheer said as he sat down next to Cogh on the bench. “Still trying to become a champion swimmer?” Cogh bounced to his feet, towel in hand. “Oh, for Peace’s sake sit down, man!”

Cogh sat back down on the bench, on the edge of it, and knotted the towel in his fists. “Sir!”

Harsheer was a native of Gotistes and had the dark skin like Jarl. But where Jarl had a neat, tidy moustache of a clans’ first son, the Desk General affected the chest length whiskers of a plains Chieftain. He waved a hand with the ring implant that showed he was of the Desk, instead of the Hub or the Pitch. “No need to be so formal, my boy! You’re hardly on duty!”

Cogh wasn’t sure of what to say to that. In the three years he’d been a Guardian he’d seen Harsheer only a dozen times since his investiture. The Desk didn’t tend to talk much to either the Hub or the Pitches. “Sir?”

“I’m on my way through to Heisistes and thought I’d stop and say hello, Hub Captain.”

Cogh just blinked at him for a moment. If he was going there… then why had he walked all the way over here to do it? “Of course, sir.” The hair crawled all up his spine. There was something very wrong going on here.

“You’ve been doing very, very well as a Guardian, my boy. Quite not what I was given to believe when you were invested.”

Cogh found himself squeezing his towel hard enough that the moisture in it began to drip on his feet, but he didn’t let any of what he felt show on his face. He’d learned that before he was ten. You always kept a blank face to the boss. Any boss.

He’d not been the most shining of candidates. Hairy animal, mining scum, rock-cracker, itinerant slobby, bilge-drinker, muck fucker. He’d heard them all, and more, on Five of the Six. Rat-eating bastard even, though that last one wasn’t true. His parents had been married according to a Deep Ice Priest. When he’d won his place as a Guardian, he’d heard all of that from half a dozen of his fellow year students They told him that some of their teachers hadn’t thought he’d make it. That had all stopped when he came out of Investiture with Hub silver on his ears.

“Oh? How so, Sir?” He kept his tone even and polite where once he would have just punched the man’s lights out. Danuta nodded as she went by and at the Guardian coming in to take her place even though their face-plate was shut.

All of the new shift had their faces covered. Wait. That was wrong. Cogh tabbed the towel around his waist, holding up a hand to stop the Desk General talking. Danuta jolted as though she’d run into a closed Wall, sank to her knees mid-step then onto her face, a pool of red under her, a shocking red sword sticking out of her back.

The Guardian running up the bridge to the altar wasn’t supposed to be there. Their sword was – “Lilly wake up!” Coghlin’s throat ached from his yell.

He dodged away from where Harsheer reached toward him, a dagger suddenly in the Desk General’s fist. A rip pulled down through his towel, a sting on his thigh, as he dodged the dagger thrust, turned and ran down the bridge toward the Altar as Lilly woke, the Emergency shutdown began to wail and Rose, deeply sleeping baby, began to cry even before she was awake. The Walls, the Walls that let all the Six Worlds be one, began flickering; throwing anything in transit out, salt and sand began spewing into the air, and snow. A mucky river of piranha fell through onto ice and froze. A bovid bellowed, falling, shitting as it fell and then hit the Ocean Wall below just as it flickered shut, then open, passing the smashed corpse through into the Great Sea to be hit and carried off by a shark. The air was full of the grinding sound from Tech and burning sand showered across from Heisistes.

Cogh ran, in a nightmare of slowness, bare feet on black as what he could clearly see as a false Guardian raising their sword over the two on the altar. Lilly rolled off the end, away from the strike.

Cogh’s breath burned in his throat, empty hands outstretched. Lilly, half tangled in her robes, on her knees, flung Rose into his outstretched arms. What else could he do but catch her, shrouded in a sudden blizzard, just as the assassin brought the sword around and struck Lilly’s head half off and her blood coated him and the baby, the altar and the bridges.

The baby was screaming in his ear, the Walls shutdowns howling – all the channels had the emergency screeching. Other false guardians were drawing their swords and he had only a towel. Desk General               Harsheer stood directing the killers. Cogh’s head rang with the screams of dying Guardians and he managed to click off. Everyone had been taken by surprise. A gigantic tree sliced into a flurry of splinters instead of the tidy lumber it should have been, slashed through the Apadana. The Walls were still flickering open, somehow, and everywhere from the altar was down so he did the only thing he could do.

He clapped a hand over Rosie’s nose and mouth and jumped into the Ocean.

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