Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(19)

They both leaned back at the same time. He was marrying an ice harpy. Fantastic. Just fantastic.

Dugas stepped forward, leaned, and spoke into Elara’s ear.

“I’ll need to inspect your troops,” Elara said, her voice precise. “We need to know exactly what we are buying with our food.”

“Fine.” He gave her a lazy smile. “My men will need to inspect your horses and our quarters in the castle.”

“Make your troops available to us first.”

Hugh poured himself a glass of tea and nodded at the doorway. “Look outside your walls.”





She would strangle that man. No, she would do worse.

Elara strode outside of the gate onto the top of the hill where the castle sat. Soldiers filed out of the forest, running three to a row. They wore black uniforms, some in armor, some without. Each carried a large backpack, a bedroll, and weapons. They moved in unison, their feet striking the ground at the same time.

She hadn’t detected them in the forest, which meant they had to have been far behind.

The soldiers began to form a block, eight soldiers in a line. All of that equipment had to weigh at least twenty pounds. Probably a lot more.

“How long have they been running?” she asked and wished she hadn’t. Any show of interest was an opening, and d’Ambray would wedge his big dumb shoulder through it and hold it open.

D’Ambray shrugged, looming next to her, a darkness shaped like a huge man. “From Aberdine.”

“Ten miles?”

“Yes.” He turned to her, his dark blue eyes calm. “Would you like them to run back and here again?”

He was completely serious, she realized.

“No.”

He turned to face the soldiers. They formed four separate blocks, each eight soldiers wide, ten lines deep and froze, like dark statues against the green grass of the lawn.

“Do you want them to rest?” she asked.

“Are you tired?” d’Ambray roared next to her, his voice carrying across the field. She almost jumped.

The three hundred and twenty people roared back in a single voice. “No, Preceptor!”

“They’re ready for your inspection,” Hugh said.

Elara had to admit, they looked impressive. Guilt pinched at her. This wasn’t about d’Ambray’s people, she reminded herself. This was about keeping her people safe. If d’Ambray put his troops in jeopardy, it was on him.

The creaking of a wagon came from behind them. Slowly, carefully, George, Saladin, and Cornwall came into view, leading Dakota, a massive Clydesdale, as he pulled the wagon forward. A brown tarp hid the contents. She knew exactly what was in the cart.

Elara stepped aside to let the wagon pass. D’Ambray didn’t appear concerned.

The three men guided the wagon down the hill, slowly, as if it were made of glass. Dugas walked behind them, silent. Each of the men carried a shotgun.

The wagon came to a stop. Saladin unhitched Dakota and the three men walked away, back toward the castle.

Elara raised her head. “You said each of your people could take a vampire.”

Dugas pulled the tarp off the wagon. An undead sat in a metal cage. The moment the tarp came off, it lunged at the metal bars, its eyes glowing with insane bloodlust.

“Prove it,” Elara said.

D’Ambray nodded at his soldiers. “Pick.”

Elara stared at the rows of soldiers. She was about to sentence one of them to death. A human, even a skilled human, had very little chance against an undead.

She had to do her job. He would put his strongest people in front and in the rear, so she had to pick from the middle. “Fourth row on my left,” she said. “Third soldier.”

“Arend Garcia,” d’Ambray ordered, his voice rolling. “Step forward.”

The third man in the fourth row took a step back, turned, and marched to the edge of the line, turned, marched toward them, turned again… Dead man walking. He was in his late twenties, dark hair cut short, light eyes. Like all of them, he was lean, almost underfed. A scar crossed his face on the right side of his nose, slanting to the side and barely missing his mouth.

He was about to die. If she showed any care at all, d’Ambray would use it to get out of this test.

Arend Garcia came to a stop.

She checked d’Ambray’s face. It might as well have been cut from a rock.

“Kill the undead,” d’Ambray ordered, his voice calm.

Garcia dropped his bedroll and backpack, stepped forward, facing the cage, reached behind his back, and pulled a brutal-looking knife free. It looked like a slimmer version of a machete, its blade black.

Dugas picked up the chain attached to a heavy metal bar securing the trap door release on the cage and backed away. Garcia watched, impassive. The undead hammered itself against the bars.

Damn it. “You’re going to let your man face an undead with a knife?”

D’Ambray glanced at her. “Did you want him to kill it with his bare hands?”

“No.” She barely knew the man, and she already hated him. “At least give him a sword.”

“He doesn’t need a sword.”

Dugas yanked the chain. The bolt slid free.

The undead tore out of the cage, lightning fast, and charged Garcia.

At the last moment, the slender man stepped aside, graceful like a matador, and brought the machete down. The blade cleaved through the undead’s neck. Its head rolled onto the grass. The body ran another ten feet and toppled forward, the stump of the neck digging into the grass.