Stepsister(104)

Isabelle nodded to a young, wiry private. He saluted her, then climbed a tall pine tree behind her, a spyglass tucked inside his jacket.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Isabelle had given orders that each company send a man up a tree with a piece of red cloth. The man was to wave it when all the members of his company were in place. Forty minutes went by.

She tightened her grip on her sword.What is taking them so long? she wondered tensely. Nero tossed his head but made no noise.

Just when she thought her taut nerves would snap, she heard it—a hawk’s cry, made by the young private high in the tree above. That was the signal. The red flags had all been sighted. Everyone was in place.

Isabelle lowered her head. Elizabeth, Yennenga, Abhaya Rani, be with me, she prayed. Give me cunning and strength. Make me fearless. Make me bold.

Then she lifted her head, raised her sword, and shouted, “Charge!”





One Hundred and Twenty-Seven


The grand duke never saw Isabelle coming.

After she and Ella had escaped, he’d ridden to Cafard’s camp to order search parties out after them; then he’d returned to Volkmar’s camp, where he’d spent the rest of the night. He’d been in his tent, shaving in front of his mirror, as Isabelle had been fanning her forces out along the edge of the Devil’s Hollow.

He’d been buttoning his jacket as she took her place at the head of them.

He was sitting at a campaign table, slathering butter on a slice of toast, as she and her fighters descended.

Shouts and screams brought him to his feet. He heard gunshots. Horses whinnying. A jet of blood spattering across the wall of his tent. The wet thuk of a blade being driven home.

He grabbed his scabbard, buckled it around his waist, and ran out into the fray. The camp was in chaos. Isabelle's soldiers were swarming through it, savaging Volkmar’s troops.

“My horse! Bring me my horse!” he bellowed, but no one answered his command. Men were falling all around him. The air was filled with the white smoke of gunpowder. The grand duke’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, but he never got a chance to draw it. His last sight was of a girl on a black stallion, an avenging fury bearing down on him. And then Isabelle drove her blade into his chest, straight through his treacherous heart.

He fell to his knees, a crimson stain blooming across his jacket, an expression of surprise on his face. Then he toppled forward into the dirt.

Isabelle did not stop to exult, for she took no pleasure in killing, but rode on determined to do more of it. Soldier after soldier fell under her slashing sword. Her men swirled through the camp like a raging, flood-swollen river, some fighting with swords, others with bayoneted rifles. They set fire to tents, destroyed paddocks, freed horses, smashed wagons.

Though they’d been surprised, Volkmar’s men quickly rallied. They were formidable soldiers who were fighting for their lives, and they put up a strong counterattack. But Isabelle was fighting for the lives of her countrymen and she fought like a lion, urging Nero on, deeper and deeper into the camp.

She’d just run her sword through an officer who’d been aiming his rifle at one of her lieutenants when she heard hooves behind her. Turning in her saddle, she saw a rider bearing down on her. He wore the uniform of the invaders. There was a sword in his hand and murder in his eyes.

Someone’s just walked over your grave, whispered Adélie’s voice.

Had he?

Here, in the Devil’s Hollow, she would finally find out.

Isabelle whirled Nero around.

Came face-to-face with Volkmar.

And let the wolf run free.





One Hundred and Twenty-Eight


Blue sparks flew into the air as the two swords clashed.

Volkmar was bigger, he was stronger, but Isabelle was nimble. She parried his blows with her blade, blocked them with her shield.

On and on they fought, their horses churning the dirt around them, their shouts and grunts and oaths mingling with those of their soldiers. Volkmar hammered against Isabelle’s shield, making her left arm shudder. He had run out of his tent without armor. Isabelle deftly thrust her sword at his unprotected head, opening a gash in his cheek, but neither was able to deliver a killing blow.

Then Volkmar reversed direction and swung his sword at Isabelle’s back, catching her with the flat of his blade. The force of the blow sent her sprawling out of her saddle to the ground. The impact knocked her helmet off, but she managed to hold on to her sword.

Volkmar jumped down from his mount and advanced on her. Dazed by her fall, Isabelle didn’t see him coming. But as he raised his sword, one of Isabelle’s soldiers, fighting only a few feet away, shouted a warning.

The blade slashed through the air. Isabelle rolled to her right, trying to get out of its way, but its tip bit into her left calf. She screamed and scrabbled backward across the ground with her good leg,

Volkmar ran at her and kicked her in the side, behind her chest plate. There was a crunch of bone. Blinding pain. She fell onto her other side, gasping, her sword underneath her.

“Get up, you little bitch. Stand up like the man you think you are and face your death.”

Isabelle tried to get up. She struggled to her knees. Volkmar backhanded her savagely across the face, knocking her to the ground again.

Isabelle’s entire body was made of pain. She struggled to see through its red fog. Volkmar was nearby, circling, playing with her before he killed her.