The Silvered (19 page)

Murphy had snorted.
“Catch an officer do something like work.”

Now the five of them sat awkwardly on the ground in a half circle, too far apart for private conversation, but close enough that even in the fading light Danika could see that Annalyse still looked too pale, Stina, who had a purple bruise on her forehead, still looked angry—Danika envied her energy—Kirstin looked as though she’d folded in on herself, and Jesine looked worried about Kirstin specifically, barely taking her eyes off her face and inching as close as she could.

Each of them had an Imperial soldier standing over them, musket ready. The other soldiers were setting up camp—reusing two of the three old fire pits. Danika wasted a moment wishing that Allyse had been with them in Bercarit. Not that she wished this captivity on yet another friend, but if the nets allowed first level mage-work, then a first level Fire-mage could light a candle. Or a sleeve. Or a pant cuff. Or a series of ammunition pouches.

On the other side of the camp, by the fast-moving stream where Kyne and Tagget were filling canteens, Sergeant Black and Lieutenant Geurin were talking.

Danika tipped her head so the breeze brushed over her right ear.

“We need to make better time tomorrow, Sergeant.”

“Private Murphy has a point, sir. If we tie their hands in front of them, they won’t fall as often.”

“And Private Murphy is giving the orders now?”

As pleased as she was that Murphy had done as she wanted, Danika thought Lieutenant Geurin sounded like her sister’s five year old, and a five year old with the power of life and death was a terrifying thought.

Smart enough not to answer what was so clearly a rhetorical question, the sergeant remained silent.

“Fine.”
The lieutenant started across the camp, the sergeant falling into step behind him. When he stood in the center of their half circle, he smiled and said, “Call the squads back around them.”

Sergeant Black frowned, but obeyed the order.

With Murphy on her left, Tagget on her right, and Hare behind her, Danika tucked her chin in to her chest and watched Lieutenant Geurin through her lashes. He would think it made her look weak, afraid of him. She knew it masked expressions she might not be able to hide.

“Tie their hands in front of them. Do not,” he added before the men began to move, “allow them at any point to get a hand free.”

The dull ache in her shoulders turned into fiery pain as her arms moved in ways they hadn’t been able to all day. Annalyse cried out, and one of the men who held her arms made soft clucking sounds. Through her own pain, Danika made note of that sympathy for later use.

When they had all been retied, the lieutenant stepped forward, pinched Danika’s chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted her head. She gave serious thought to seeing if she could bite the end of his finger off, but, in the end, merely met his gaze.

“Translate this,” he said.

“Drop dead,” she said pleasantly in Aydori.

He nodded, not imagining for a moment a bound captive would argue and stepped away.

“You’ll notice your hands are now bound in front of you,” he said, and paused.

“The lieutenant thinks we’re so stupid we have to be told our hands are in front of us now,” Danika translated.

Jesine coughed.

Danika did not look over at Sergeant Black.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking you can now remove the tangle and use your mage-craft against us. Well, you can’t.”

That, she translated as spoken.

“Attempting removal without a second artifact will cause extreme pain.”

And that.

“I realize you have no reason to believe me, so I’m going to prove it to you.”

Prove it? Danika shifted so she was not staring up at him at quite so acute an angle. “How?”

“By attempting to remove one of the artifacts of course. Now, translate.”

“Sir, I don’t think…”

“No one asked you to think, Sergeant. Translate, or it’ll be you for sure instead of a one-in-five chance.”

Danika showed teeth. “Then it’ll be me.”

“As you wish.”

She swept her gaze across the others and while none of them looked happy, she was Alpha and they’d abide by her decision.

But before the lieutenant could either step forward or order the net removed, Kirstin, who’d sat limp and unresisting while her bindings were changed, met Danika’s eyes and gave a nod so tiny Danika wasn’t positive she hadn’t imagined it. A heartbeat later, she dug the fingers of both hands into her hair, hooked them around the barely visible net, and screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

Sergeant Black grabbed her bound wrists and yanked her hands free.

Kirstin collapsed as though she were a puppet in a winter pantomime and her strings had been cut.

“You!” The sergeant moved men aside so Jesine had a clear path. “Do what you can.”

Jesine was already moving.

The lieutenant opened his mouth, but before he could speak, before he could make a smarmy pronouncement on what Kirstin had done, before he could claim her pain as his, Danika said softly, “They have very good hearing, our beasts.”

The lieutenant’s mouth snapped shut. He glanced up at the darkening sky with wide eyes, looked for a moment as if he were about to order a march through the night, then he snarled, “Get those fires lit!” Turned and strode to other side of the camp.

Danika glanced at the sergeant, who nodded.

“Jesine?”

“Pulse is fast but strong. Her nose is bleeding, but I think it’ll stop soon enough. The net’s left white lines on her fingertips.”

“Burns?”

“More like frostbite.”

“I think the lieutenant’s point’s been made,” the sergeant said softly.

Danika nodded in turn. No one else would try to remove the net. But from the way the men glanced into the darkness between the trees, the way they jumped at every sound, her point had been made as well.

They ate the same food as the soldiers: dried meat, army biscuits,
and water. The lieutenant had Carlsan heat water for coffee and the smell made Danika’s stomach roil, but she managed to keep her food down.

When she knew the lieutenant was watching her, she looked at the fire and smiled an
I’ve got a secret
kind of smile.

“Douse the fire,” the lieutenant snapped. “The beasts aren’t blind!”

“But, sir…”

“Douse it!”

Danika remembered hearing a lecturer at the university say that the first fear was fear of the unknown and the dark was the unknown’s representative. Everyone feared the dark, at least a little. Feared what the darkness hid.

The night was cloudy, no moon or stars, and the shadows under the surrounding trees were nearly thick enough to have substance. She could feel that fear rising from the men around her.

“If they smell us on you when they come…” Soft words to the breeze that circled the camp. Had there been a fire, some of the men might have tried to prove they weren’t afraid. Had they been anywhere else, those men might have been what the darkness hid.

Here and now, in the forests of Aydori, knowing that the beastmen were somewhere in the darkness, they had other things on their minds.

It was as close to safety as Danika could arrange.

T
OMAS WAS DREAMING of Harry. He knew it was a dream because he knew Harry was dead, had died with his legs blown off and his life pouring out of the stumps. Dream Harry was laughing, the mage marks in his eyes glittering nearly the same shade of red as the wine in the glass he held up to the firelight.

“So let me get this straight; sex is connected to your nose?”

They’d had that conversation, Tomas remembered, but not in uniform. They’d been thirteen, the first year they’d spent together at school. “It has to smell right,” he said, realizing too late he was in fur. Fur had many advantages, but words weren’t one of them.

It didn’t seem to matter as Harry laughed again and said, “What smells right, then?”

Tomas looked down at Mirian Maylin, lying on the floor of Harry’s study in a gray wool traveling suit and black ankle boots. Her hair was a tangled mess, her hands were filthy, and a purple bruise covered the lower half of her face. He didn’t remember the bruise being that bad. She was attractive enough, he supposed, average to tall, brown hair, gray eyes, maybe a little on the
sturdy
side…

“Tomi!” Harry was still laughing. “What smells right?”

“If it’s not Pack, power.”

“And if it is Pack?”

He could feel himself blushing, which was weird because he was still in fur. “None of your business.”

“I have power.” The mage marks gleamed.

“Yeah, but you’re dead, Harry.”

Harry’s legs were gone, and the floor was covered in blood. Mirian Maylin lay in a puddle of it, her skirt darkening as the fabric soaked it up. He couldn’t see her boots anymore. The skirt just…ended. Tomas was sure she’d had legs when they went to sleep. Of course, she smelled so good, he supposed legs weren’t actually necessary.

He was still half asleep as he pushed himself out of the cave in skin, her scent in his nose and Harry’s laughter ringing in his ears. He changed to fur as he emerged, gouges the rock had taken as payment for his panicked exit, healing. Tail clamped between his legs, he sucked in a deep breath, forcing the dream and his reaction to it away.

It took a moment for him to realize he was an idiot.

And a lucky one.

It was barely dawn. The light hadn’t quite made it under the trees, but his shadow stretched across the small clearing in front of the rock. He flattened into it, slowly, and froze, nose turned into the breeze. The faint scent of the Imperials was old. Last night, not this morning.

If they weren’t moving now, they would be soon. The last watch would wake them at dawn, and if they ate at all, they’d eat what cold food they had as they broke camp. They’d assume their captive would head back toward the border and, because they knew she was a mage, they’d assume…what?

If Miss Maylin was to be believed, they’d already survived an encounter with Danika and those of the Mage-pack traveling with her. They’d have faith that this last artifact would do its job as well as the others had.

As he’d been stupid enough to leave it behind, the net was there for them to use.

With the net, the Imperials would be overconfident, unaware of
what the Mage-pack could do. They had the artifact. They had silver bullets.

But he had Mirian Maylin.

Lying alone in the dark, Mirian took inventory of aches and pains and decided first, that she’d live, and second, that she desperately wanted a drink of water. No, she desperately wanted tea, and toast with honey, and maybe a boiled egg, but she’d settle for water.

Right after she emptied her bladder. Unfortunately, caves didn’t come with water closets. Still, if Tomas had left—and he had—it must be safe to go outside. Unless he’d left more than the cave. He could have left her entirely. Gone to kill the soldiers, gone back to the army, gone after Lady Hagen—it didn’t matter, the point was he’d gone without…

The soft scrape of skin against stone and a quiet, almost inaudible grunt stopped the thought. That could be him returning, but there was no way to guarantee it. The soldiers could have killed him. Tracked him back to the cave. He’d be able to smell the difference between friend or foe, but she wasn’t Pack.

Shuffling around until she was as far from the sound as possible, she removed her right boot and held it ready by the toe. The stacked wooden heel was only an inch high, but it was the closest thing to a weapon she had. In the world of
Onnesmina,
women carried a discreet dagger in their bodices; her world having gotten slightly operatic of late, that seemed like an excellent idea to Mirian.

“Good, you’re awake.” From the sound of his voice, Tomas’ upper body had cleared the entrance. “You’re right. We need to work together. You deal with the silver. I’ll take out the Imperials.”

“What?”

“You deal with the silver,” he repeated. She could almost hear his eyes narrowing. “Leave the Imperials to me. Let’s move. They’ll be up and after us soon, and we left a trail a blind, one-legged priest could follow.”