Морган Райс - A Dirge for Princes

He killed the first man without stopping, plunging his sword deep and then wrenching it clear. He kicked the next to the ground, then finished him with a sweeping stroke of his blade. He snatched up the man’s musket with one hand and fired it, using the sight of his crows to tell him where to aim.

He plunged forward into a cluster of men hiding behind a barricade of sand. Against the slow advance of his forces, it might have been enough to delay them, creating time for more men to come to bear. Against his wild charge, it made no difference. The Master of Crows leapt the sand walls, jumping into the midst of his enemies and cutting in every direction.

His men would be following behind, even if he had no concentration to spare to look through the eyes of his crows for them. He was too busy parrying sword strokes and axe blows, striking back with vicious efficiency.

Now his men were there, pouring over the sand barricades like the incoming tide. They died as they did it, but now it didn’t matter to them, so long as they were there with their leader. It was what the Master of Crows had been counting on. They showed surprising loyalty for men who were little more than crow food to him.

With their numbers behind him, it wasn’t long before the defenders were dead, and the Master of Crows let his men push forward toward the village.

“Go,” he said. “Slaughter them for their defiance.”

He watched the rest of the landings for a few minutes more, but there didn’t seem to be any other major choke points. He had chosen his spot well.

By the time the Master of Crows reached the village, parts of it were already aflame. His men were moving through the streets, cutting down any of the villagers they found. Most were, anyway. The Master of Crows saw one dragging a young woman from the village, her fear matched only by the soldier’s obvious enjoyment of it.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he got closer.

The man stared at him in shock. “I… I saw this one, my lord, and I thought – ”

“You thought you’d keep her,” the Master of Crows finished for him.

“Well, she’d fetch a fine price in the right place.” The soldier dared a smile that seemed designed to make the two of them part of some grand conspiracy.

“I see,” he said. “I did not order that though. Did I?”

“My lord – ” the soldier began, but the Master of Crows was already raising a pistol. He fired it so close that the other man’s features all but disappeared in the blast of it. The young woman beside him seemed too shocked even to scream as her attacker fell.

“It is important that my men learn to act in accordance with my orders,” the Master of Crows said to the woman. “There are places where I allow captives, and others where it is agreed that none but the gifted are to be harmed. It is important that discipline is maintained.”

The woman looked hopeful then, as if thinking that this was all some mistake, in spite of the depredations of the others in the village. She looked that way right up to the point when the Master of Crows thrust his sword through her heart, the thrust sure and clean, probably even painless.

“In this case, I gave your men a choice, and they made it,” he said as she clutched at the weapon. He pulled it out, and she fell. “It is a choice I intend to give much of the rest of this kingdom. Perhaps they will choose more wisely.”

He looked around as the slaughter continued, feeling neither pleasure nor displeasure, just a kind of even satisfaction at a task accomplished. A step, at least, because after all, this was no more than the taking of a village.

There would be much more to come.

Dowager Queen Mary of the House of Flamberg sat in the great chambers of the Assembly of Nobles, trying not to look too bored on her throne at the heart of things while the supposed representatives of her people talked, and talked.

Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have mattered. The Dowager had long ago mastered the art of looking impassive and regal while the great factions there argued. Typically, she let the populists and the traditionalists wear themselves out before she spoke. Today, though, that was taking longer than usual, which meant that the ever-present tightness in her lungs was growing. If she did not finish with this soon, these fools might see the secret that she worked so hard to disguise.

But there was no hurrying it. War had come, which meant that everyone wanted their chance to speak. Worse, more than a few of them wanted answers that she didn’t have.

“I merely wish to ask my honorable friends whether the fact that enemies have landed on our shore is indicative of a wider government policy of neglecting our nation’s military capabilities,” Lord Hawes of Briarmarsh asked.

“The honorable lord is well aware of the reasons that this Assembly has been wary of the notion of a centralized army,” Lord Branston of Upper Vereford replied.

They continued to babble on, refighting old political battles while more literal ones were growing closer.

“If I might state the situation, so that this Assembly does not accuse me of neglecting my duty,” General Sir Guise Burborough said. “The forces of the New Army have landed on our southeastern shores, bypassing many of the defenses that we put in place to prevent the possibility. They have advanced at a rapid rate, overwhelming those defenders who have tried to stop them and burning villages in their wake. Already, there are numerous refugees who seem to think that we should provide them with lodging.”

It was amusing, the Dowager thought, that the man could make people running for their lives sound like unwanted relatives determined to stay too long.

“What of preparations around Ashton?” Graham, Marquis of the Shale, demanded. “I take it that they are heading this way? Can we seal the walls?”

That was the response of a man who knew nothing about cannon, the Dowager thought. She might have laughed out loud if she’d had the breath for it. As it was, it was all she could do to maintain her impassive expression.

“They are,” the general replied. “Before the month is out, we might have to prepare for a siege, and earthworks are already being constructed against the possibility.”

“Are we considering evacuating the people in the army’s path?” Lord Neresford asked. “Should we advise the people of Ashton to flee north to avoid the fighting? Should our queen, at least, consider retreating to her estates?”

It was funny; the Dowager had never taken him for one interested in her well-being. He had always been quick to vote against any proposal she put forward.

She decided that it was time to speak, while she still could. She stood, and the room fell silent. Even though the nobles had fought for their Assembly, they still listened to her within it.

“To order an evacuation would start a panic,” she said. “There would be looting in the streets, and strong men who might defend their homes otherwise will flee. I will stand here too. This is my home, and I will not be seen to run from it in the face of a rabble of foes.”

“Far from a rabble, Your Majesty,” Lord Neresford pointed out, as if the Dowager’s advisors hadn’t told her the precise extent of the invading force. Perhaps he just assumed that, as a woman, she wouldn’t have enough knowledge of war to understand it. “Although I am sure that all the Assembly is eager to hear your plans to defeat it.”

The Dowager stared him down, although that was hard to do when her lungs felt as though she might burst into a coughing fit at any moment.

“As the honorable lords know,” she said, “I have deliberately eschewed too close a role in the kingdom’s armies. I wouldn’t want to make you all uncomfortable by claiming to command you now.”