Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(17)

The wall was new. It seemed that the garrison’s young commander, Halston Matelon, had grown tired of hit-and-run attacks.

The military road crossed the river midway between the main road and the wall. Jenna drove across the bridge, found a wide place to turn around, crossed back, and pulled over.

Mick and Byram wrestled four kegs of powder off the back of the wagon. They hauled them down to the water’s edge. Jenna set the brake on the wagon and scrambled down after them, her carry bag slung over her shoulder. “Mick, you go up and keep a lookout,” she said, though she’d have rather sent Byram. With him looking on, smirking and rolling his eyes, she was more fumble-fingered than usual, so it took longer than she expected to get everything tied together—two kegs on either end of the bridge, each with its own fuse.

Kindling a spark, she lit both fuses. “These should go off at about the same time,” she said. “I just don’t know how long we have.”

“Maybe we should wait and see if it actually works,” Byram said.

“You can wait if you want,” Jenna said, beginning the climb back to the road. “I’m the one with the wagon, and I’m heading back to town.” After a moment, she heard Byram following after her.

They scrambled back up the bank to where Mick waited with the wagon. Back in the driver’s seat, Jenna released the brake and flicked the reins, and they began their descent toward the main road. The horses knew they were heading back home, so it was hard to keep them reined in. Before they reached the intersection, they saw a dozen riders galloping toward them from the main road.

“Scummer,” Mick muttered. Mick never said much, and when he did it was usually “scummer.”

As the riders drew closer, Jenna could see that they rode black horses with silver fittings and wore black capes over their black tunics and gray breeches.

“Blackbirds,” Jenna muttered, and thought, Scummer.

“Blackbirds?” Byram squinted at them. “There’s no way you can tell, that far away, in the dark.”

“My eyes are better than yours,” Jenna said. “You wait.”

Before long, there was no question who was riding hot toward them.

Jenna would have preferred mudbacks, who’d leave you alone if you didn’t get in their way. Most of them were reluctant recruits from the down realms or mercenaries with no ax to grind. They just wanted to survive their time in the north and go back home.

Blackbirds were the king’s personal enforcers in the empire, known to be as cruel and ruthless as the king himself. Meanwhile, behind them was a bridge that might blow up any minute.

Jenna’s heart had been beating fast before, but now it was thumping so hard it seemed the blackbirds couldn’t help but hear it.

Byram shifted on the seat beside Jenna as if he might launch himself into the dirt at the side of the road.

“Don’t you move,” Jenna said, gripping Byram’s forearm, digging in her nails for emphasis. “You can’t outrun them, and there’s nothing looks guiltier than running away. And keep your mouth shut.” Byram bobbed his head, his face pasty in the moonlight. He seemed more than willing to shut up now.

The troop of blackbirds surrounded their wagon, blocking the way. One of them nudged his horse in closer, so that when Jenna looked sideways, his black boots were all that she could see. She looked straight forward, gripping the reins hard, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

There was one thing in their favor: being scared of the King’s Guard wasn’t unusual—it would have been more suspicious if they hadn’t been nervous.

“It’s late to be out on the road,” the blackbird said. Something about his velvet voice made Jenna’s hair stand up on the back of her neck.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Would you care to explain it?”

“We—we was bringing dry goods to the kitchens yonder.” Jenna nodded toward the garrison house.

“In the middle of the night?”

Jenna nodded, her gaze fixed on the wagon team.

“Look at me, boy.”

Jenna looked up at the blackbird. His eyes were like twin coals set into his skull, or maybe more like marbles set over a straight nose and an almost lipless mouth. He was completely hairless—no brows or lashes, and his head was smooth as a billiard ball. He wore the signia of an officer.

Scummer, Jenna thought. It’s Clermont.

Marc Clermont was the commander of the King’s Guard in Delphi, the spider that maintained the king’s web of control here in the north. He was rumored to have a knack for torture. Once you came into Clermont’s hands, you would talk. And when you’d spilled everything, then you would die. Slowly.

At least he’s not a mage, so he can’t spell me, to make me tell the truth. Jenna could always tell a mage—they had this peculiar glow about them, to her eyes, though others said they didn’t see it. Very few mages ever came to Delphi, and those who did were all in the army or the King’s Guard.

Jenna suddenly realized that the commander had said something, and she’d missed it. “I’m—I’m sorry, sir. What was that?”

“There’s no reason to be frightened,” Clermont said with a smile. He put his hand on her shoulder. When she flinched, he tightened his grip. She didn’t like him touching her, but didn’t dare fight back. Now she was the one who was tempted to bolt blindly, without a plan.