The Sergeant’s Apprentice
	
	(Schooled in Magic XI)

	Christopher G. Nuttall

	

	

	

	

The Sergeant’s Apprentice
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Christopher G. Nuttall
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
First Printing, November 2017
Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter

Contents
Prologue I
Prologue II
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Epilogue
About the author

Dedication

To the men and women who fight to defend us.

Prologue I

Gwyneth took a deep breath as she walked along the edge of her family’s farm, tasting death in the wind that blew across the fields. Her footsteps crunched on sand blown in from the desert, slowly strangling the life out of the farm. The field below her was already dying, the corn turning a sickly yellow as it struggled to survive. It wouldn’t be long, she knew — despite her father’s boundless optimism — before the farm died, before her family had to take flight and head west. If they were lucky, they would be able to find work on another farm; if they were unlucky ...
She gritted her teeth as she reached the boundary marker at the edge of their property. The sandstorm in the distance was blowing closer, but she could still make out the remains of an older farm. Her best friend had lived there only two years ago — now, the girl and her family were sharecroppers, slaves in all but name, on a farm further to the west. Gwyneth and her family might go the same way. The thought of giving up their freedom was appalling, but there was no other way to survive.
And I may be married off, she thought, numbly. Forced into someone’s bed to keep my family alive.
She felt a pang of bitter regret, mixed with sadness and grim understanding. Tom had come to pay court to her — she’d known him long enough to believe he would make a good husband — but his father had vetoed the match. Gwyneth’s family was on the brink, he’d said when Tom had asked for his blessing. He didn’t want to have to take them in, let alone feed and care for them ... and he would have been obligated to take care of them, if Gwyneth had become his daughter-in-law. Gwyneth wanted to hate him for forbidding the match, but she was a farm girl. She understood the logic all too well. Tom and his father couldn’t support an entire family, if — when — they were forced off their farm. The entire region was dying and no one gave a damn.
The wind picked up speed, just for a moment. She covered her eyes, cursing under her breath as grit pelted her face. Nothing, no matter what they did, seemed to be enough to keep the sand off their fields. She spent half of her days clearing the land, only to see the sand blow back time and time again. The water wells were drying up. It wouldn’t be long before they had to leave. Already, agents from further to the west were prowling around, looking to see what starving families might have to sell. And with dozens of families on the brink of total disaster, it was a buyer’s market. 
She peered into the distance, her eyes seeking out her friend’s abandoned farmhouse. They’d stripped it bare, of course, once the farm had been surrendered, leaving only the shell of a building in the hopes that — one day — someone would return to the fields. But she knew that was futile. The fields had been strangled so quickly, once the farmers had left, that only endless sand remained. She’d once played in those fields as a little girl, back when the land had been green and wet. Now ...
Her father had forbidden her to walk into the desert. But he needn’t have bothered. There was something about the sand that scared her, something that chilled her to the bone, even though she couldn’t put it in words. No one went into the Desert of Death willingly, not even the bravest man in the village. There were too many strange stories of things lurking in the sand.
Something was moving within the sandstorm. Gwyneth stared, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her. There was nothing out there but abandoned buildings and dead fields. Animals shied from the desert, refusing to go near the sand. And yet, there was definitely something there. She watched shapes within the brown haze, strange figures that seemed to be coming closer. Surely, nothing could survive out there ...
The sandstorm receded, just for a second. Gwyneth froze in horror as she saw the men advancing towards the farm, towards her. They were men, but they weren’t men. Their faces were twisted and warped, their eyes bulging or their faces twisted and mutilated ... a handful had animalistic eyes or legs. And there were hundreds of them, an entire army advancing out of the storm, carrying swords and spears and weapons she didn’t recognize. Her family had no weapons. They weren’t allowed to carry anything more dangerous than a knife.
She turned to flee, too late. Strong arms caught her before she’d run more than a couple of meters, knocking her to the ground. Gwyneth was hardly weak — she’d been working on the farm almost from the moment she could walk — but it made no difference. In an instant, she was hanging over its shoulder, staring down at the rock-like skin of his back. For all the effort it cost him, he might have been picking up a bag of seeds. It was hard to see anything as the creatures swarmed onwards, but she saw enough to know they were storming the farmhouse and tearing the farm apart ... she heard, just for a second, a scream torn from a very familiar throat before it stopped abruptly. Her father was dead.
Her head swam as the creature carried her onwards, its comrades surging into the village and smashing through the buildings. There was hardly any resistance — how could there be? The villagers had no weapons either. She was dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the village square with a handful of other prisoners, as helpless and scared as herself. She knew some of them, worked and played with them. And now ... once she’d prayed to the gods in the square; now; now she wondered if she would die there.
“Sit,” the creature grunted. “Stay.”
Gwyneth glared at its retreating back, then looked around in hopes of finding a way to escape. But there was nothing. An endless stream of creatures was making its way out of the desert and heading west. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the nearest town, then the nearest city ... the king would send soldiers, surely? But the soldiers might not be able to stop the creatures. All they seemed to be good for, these days, was bullying farmers and demanding tax. And more tax. And ...
She glanced at the other prisoners, feeling cold. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason — there were old men and young men, old women and young women — and it puzzled her, more than she cared to admit. Youngsters made good slaves, if the creatures wanted slaves; oldsters weren’t worth keeping alive, not now their village was gone. And yet ...
A man stalked past her, his eyes crawling over the prisoners as he silently counted them. He looked reassuringly normal, yet there was something in his eyes that terrified her. She lowered her eyes, but watched him as best as she could. Who was he? What was he doing with the creatures? What were they?
He reached into his pocket and produced a sheet of parchment and a pen, then wrote something down. Gwyneth frowned, trying to understand what he was doing. Was he a slaver, recording the useful prisoners? Or was he up to something else? She had no way to know. She’d never been taught how to read or write.
“On your feet,” the man ordered, returning the parchment to his pocket. He jabbed a finger westwards. “March.”
Gwyneth stood, then assisted one of the older women to stand. Maybe they had been enslaved after all. Or maybe ... gritting her teeth, she began to stumble west, helping the old woman to walk. There was no way to escape, not yet. They were surrounded by an entire army of monsters. All she could do was follow orders ...
... And pray, desperately, for a chance to escape.

Prologue II

“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, Grandmaster,” Sergeant Miles said. “I believe there is no other choice.”
Grandmaster Gordian didn’t look happy. Miles wasn’t surprised, not really. Gordian might be a stiff-minded bureaucrat, powerful magician or not, but he took his responsibilities seriously. And with his school in disarray, following the near-collapse of the pocket dimensions, the Grandmaster had too many other things on his plate. They’d barely escaped certain death only two days ago — and everyone was screaming for answers the Grandmaster couldn’t provide.
“You intend to take a fifth-year student to the war,” Gordian said. His voice was deceptively even. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Miles said. It spoke well of Gordian, Miles supposed, that the Grandmaster wasn’t prepared to just let Emily go. He didn’t like her — he’d made that clear — but he wasn’t willing to send her into danger. “She is no ordinary student.”
Gordian’s face darkened. To him, Emily would always be a dangerous student. Miles understood, but life was dangerous. No one, not even a Lone Power, could guarantee their own safety. And Whitehall, on the front lines between the Allied Lands and the Blighted Lands, was far from safe. Miles knew, deep inside, just how close the school had come to utter disaster four years ago. Emily had saved them all from a fate worse than death.
“Politics,” Gordian said, finally. He looked up. “I know better than to think this was your idea.”
“General Pollack requested her specifically,” Miles said.
“And it would be politic to grant his request,” Gordian said. “He is her future father-in-law, is he not?”
“If the courtship comes to a successful conclusion,” Miles said. Formal courtships were relatively rare. He was surprised, more surprised than he cared to admit, that Caleb had opened one with Emily. He’d met Caleb’s mother, years ago. She hadn’t struck him as a strict traditionalist. “But I believe he wants the Necromancer’s Bane.”
Gordian’s face darkened. “Does he?”
“Yes, sir,” Miles said. “And he has called in a number of political favors.”
“Of course he has,” Gordian said, dryly. 
He leaned back in his chair. “You do realize this will harm her education? She may have to repeat fifth year just to make up for it?”
And you don’t want Emily hanging around for another three years, Miles thought, sardonically. Gordian had tried — hard — to find grounds for expelling Emily, rather than allow her to return to Whitehall after his predecessor had died. The quicker she graduates and leaves, the better.
“I will offer her private tuition over the summer, if she needs it,” Miles said. “And I believe Lady Barb will do the same. If worse comes to worst, she can sit the remedial exams before sixth year begins. It isn’t an ideal solution, but it will have to do.”
“She won’t like that,” Gordian predicted.
Miles nodded. Emily was one of the most studious students in Whitehall, yet even she wouldn’t want to spend her entire summer trying to catch up with the rest of the class. It wasn’t uncommon for students to retake entire years, if they failed their exams, but it was humiliating. And with Emily’s rather ... odd ... status, retaking a year would probably reflect badly on her.
Gordian tapped the desk, meaningfully. “You may ask her,” he said, flatly. “No tricks, no games ... just a simple request. If she chooses not to go, you are not to force her. And I suggest you clear it with her father first.”
Miles nodded, feeling a flicker of grudging respect. The temptation to just order Emily to go to Tarsier had to be overpowering. It would have gotten her out of the school, with no blame attached to the Grandmaster. And if Emily happened to get herself killed ... somehow, he doubted Gordian would spend overlong mourning her. A student like Emily was always a mixed blessing at best.
He pushed the thought out of his mind. “I will ask her,” he said. He had no intention of trying to manipulate the girl. Barb would cut off his unmentionables if he tried. “And I will ... attempt ... to communicate with Void.”
“Very good,” Gordian said. “Ask him first. She is still under his authority.”
Miles shrugged. Only a handful of people knew Emily’s real origins, and Gordian wasn’t one of them. Void ... had played along when people had started to conclude that Void was Emily’s father. It would hardly be out of character for Void to hide the existence of a daughter, then send her to school as soon as she turned sixteen. And he’d even sent her on a dragon ...
And he is her legal guardian, he thought. He rather doubted that Emily understood all the implications, but it wasn’t his place to discuss such matters with her. She does need his permission to go.
“She will be my apprentice, if she chooses to come,” Miles said. He had no illusions. It was not going to be a comfortable experience. “She will be under my protection.”
Gordian looked displeased, but he said nothing. Miles didn’t blame him. It was unusual for anyone to take on an apprenticeship before completing their sixth year, although some students occasionally managed to jump ahead. And yet, having Emily listed as an apprentice, if only for a few months, would make life easier. He would have grounds to teach her spells and tricks that weren’t normally discussed with students. 
But then, Emily was no ordinary student.
“Take care of her,” Gordian said. He shrugged, dismissively. “And good luck.”
Miles nodded curtly, although he knew that they would need more than mere luck. The reports were grim. This was no raid, no attempt to capture prisoners the necromancers could sacrifice for power ... this was an all-out invasion. The necromancers had been quiet since Shadye’s death, but few had believed it would last. And now the frozen war had finally come to an end. If Tarsier fell, the Allied Lands would face attacks on three fronts ...
And if the necromancers have finally managed to learn to cooperate, he thought as he headed for the door, it could be the beginning of the end. 

Chapter One

Emily snapped awake.
Her mind raced. She’d been enspelled ... she’d let herself be enspelled. And then ... her head felt hazy, her memories slightly jumbled. It wasn’t uncommon, if magic was used to stun an unwilling victim, but ... she pushed the thought aside as she tried to move and discovered she couldn’t. Her hands were tied — tightly — behind her back.
She forced herself to concentrate, silently assessing the situation. Her hands and ankles were tied so tightly they were starting to go numb, while ... something ... covered her head. It felt more like a piece of sackcloth than a blindfold, she thought ... she stuck out her tongue and felt rough sacking, far too close to her skin for comfort. Someone hadn’t just tied her up, she realized as she tested her bonds, they’d made escape practically impossible without magic.
There were gaps in her mind, something plucking at her thoughts. She tried to focus on what was wrong, but her mind kept jumping away from it. She didn’t know how she’d got there or how she could escape, or even if she should escape. The only thing she was sure of, lying in the darkness, was that she shouldn’t use magic. And yet she wasn’t sure why. Her magic was there, thrumming below her skin, but she couldn’t use it. She was sure of that when she was certain of very little else.
She gritted her teeth as she rubbed her head against the hard wooden floor. The room was warm, alarmingly warm. Sweat trickled down her back as she tried to remove the sackcloth, just so she could see, but it was tied snugly around her neck. Panic bubbled at the back of her mind as the room started to grow warmer ... where was she? Somewhere in Whitehall or Blackhall? She sniffed the air and shuddered, helplessly, as she tasted smoke. Was the entire building on fire? She listened, carefully, but heard nothing beyond the beating of her own heart. A spell could easily make the air smell of smoke ...
And yet, the room was growing warmer. 
She twisted her body, trying to weaken her bonds, but it was futile. Sergeant Miles and Lady Barb had taught her all sorts of tricks to escape captivity, yet whoever had tied her up was clearly an expert. She couldn’t budge the knots, no matter how hard she struggled. And she didn’t dare try to roll over without knowing the layout of the room. For all she knew, there was a bottomless pit right next to her. Or a fire ...
“Emily!”
Emily started. Someone was calling for her. The voice was muffled, the sackcloth making it hard to tell who was calling, but there was someone out there. She lifted her legs and banged them on the floor, hoping the sound would attract her rescuer. Perhaps it was unwise to draw attention to herself, she thought a moment too late, but she was already tied and helpless ... as long as she didn’t use magic. She knew a dozen spells that could get her out of the trap, yet she didn’t dare use them.
“Emily,” the voice said again. Emily heard footsteps, then felt strong fingers untying the rope around her neck. “Found you!”
The bag came free. Emily found herself staring up at Frieda, the younger girl’s face streaked with sweat. Emily was lying on the floor in a small room, utterly barren save for the wooden door. Frieda plucked a knife out of her belt and sliced through the bonds on Emily’s ankles, then freed Emily’s hands. Her pigtails bobbed as she helped Emily to her feet, muttering a spell to help soothe the pain. Emily’s legs felt utterly unreliable.
“We have to get out of here,” Frieda said, half-carrying Emily towards the door. “The whole place is on fire.”
Emily stopped as they stumbled out of the door. Flames were clearly visible down the corridor, licking at the wooden floor. She glanced down at her feet, wondering if the floor was going to catch fire soon ... or simply collapse, plunging them into the flames. If the entire building was on fire ... Frieda yanked her down the corridor, dragging her towards the stairs. Emily caught sight of a portrait hanging on the wall, an aristocratic-looking man with a mouth set in a permanent sneer, a moment before it exploded into flames. The stairwell was burning.
“Crap,” Frieda said. 
She grimaced. They were trapped.
Emily’s mind raced. There were spells they could use to protect themselves, but the odd flickers of color amidst the flames suggested that they were magical. The spells might not be enough to keep them alive. And the air was already starting to thicken ... she ducked down, trying to stay low. If the smoke wasn’t rising ... perhaps the smoke was magic too.
Frieda caught her hand. “This way ...”
Emily nodded and followed her further down the corridor. If they were in Blackhall — and she was sure of it, now — they should be able to find another stairwell and get down to the ground floor. But it was growing hotter and hotter ... she heard the floor creak an instant before it started to collapse, sending them plummeting into the flames. Frieda gasped out a protective spell, then tried to levitate them both into the air. But the levitation spell gave out a second later ...
Frieda threw a pressure spell down, cushioning the fall. Emily’s mind raced, searching for mundane options. If they couldn’t use magic ... if she couldn’t use magic ... there were other options. But what?
“Water,” she gasped. It was growing hard to breathe. A water spell might not work in the local environment. Perhaps ... “Cast breathing spells, then ...”
She glanced up, alarmed, as a chunk of debris fell from high above, landing far too close to them for comfort. Frieda yanked her forward, waving her free hand desperately to cast spells as she pulled Emily down the corridor. The entire building was creaking loudly, on the verge of total collapse ... the roof shuddered, more and more pieces of debris crashing down around them, one smashing into Frieda’s wards and disintegrating into a sheet of flame. Emily nearly cast a protective spell of her own as Frieda’s wards weakened, but stopped herself just in time. The temperature was rising steadily. They were about to die ...
Frieda dragged her through a door, then froze. The room was small, utterly empty save for a window looking out over the forest. Emily peered through, then swore. They were on the third floor, at least. Given time, she was sure they could climb down and make their escape, but they didn’t have time. She wasn’t even sure if they could open the window before it was too late.
“Hang on,” Frieda said. 
Emily sensed the wave of magic an instant before the younger girl wrapped her arms around Emily and held her tight. She closed her eyes as the world lurched around her, something crashing into the wards hard enough to weaken them badly. Frieda screamed as they flew through the air and hit the ground, the magic protecting them lasting barely long enough to save them from the impact. And then the temperature dropped rapidly ...
“Ouch,” Frieda said.
Emily opened her eyes. She was lying in the snow, Frieda on top of her. Their eyes met, just for a second, then Frieda rolled off her and sat up. She looked utterly exhausted, her face paler than usual. Emily gathered herself, then stood and undid her hair. It just didn’t feel right to tie her long hair into a bun.
“Well done,” she said. She helped Frieda to her feet, then turned to look at Blackhall. The old house was wrapped in flame, but the fire didn’t seem to be doing any real damage. “You made it.”
“In the nick of time,” Frieda said. It was clear she could barely stand. Emily wrapped an arm around her to hold her upright. “Do you think we would have been burned?”
“Of course,” Sergeant Miles said.
Emily jumped. The sergeant had been right behind them ... and they’d missed him? Lady Barb would be furious when she heard. And she would hear, Emily knew. She’d certainly heard the lecture often enough. Letting someone sneak up behind you was asking for a knife in the back. She turned slowly, supporting Frieda. Sergeant Miles smiled at them both.
He didn’t look like an army officer — or a sergeant. Or, at least, he’d never matched her conception of what a sergeant should look like. He was short, with neat brown hair and a friendly face ... a face she knew she could trust. But she also knew he was a combat sorcerer with more experience than most of the other teachers put together. A very dangerous man hid behind his friendly smile.
“The flames wouldn’t have killed you,” he assured them. “But yes, you would have been burned.”
Frieda shivered against Emily. “Did I pass?”
Sergeant Miles looked back at her. “Did you?”
“Yes,” Frieda said, stubbornly. “I got Emily out of the building.”
“You also smashed a hole in the wall,” Sergeant Miles pointed out.
Frieda twitched. “The objective was to get her out before it was too late,” she said, before Emily could say a word. “You didn’t say anything about how I was to get her out.”
The sergeant smiled. “True enough,” he said. “You pass. And congratulations.”
He turned. “Jove!”
Emily glanced behind him as the third student stepped into view. Jove was in Frieda’s year, a young man with dark skin and green eyes. She barely knew him beyond Frieda’s comment that he’d asked her out several times. He never seemed to give up hope she would say yes.
“Take Frieda to the infirmary and make sure she gets some sleep,” Sergeant Miles ordered, shortly. “And then report back to the Armory.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Jove said. He held out an arm for Frieda. “I’ll take her at once.”
Emily hesitated, then let go of Frieda. Jove wouldn’t do anything stupid, she thought; Frieda might be drained, but she was hardly incapable of defending herself. And besides, Sergeant Miles would take a very dim view of anything stupid. Friendly or not, Emily knew she wouldn’t want to do anything to risk his displeasure.
She watched the couple walk off, then looked at the sergeant. “I don’t like being the damsel in distress.”
“No one does,” Sergeant Miles said. He snapped his finger at her. “Remember.”
Emily winced in pain as she felt a spell — a spell she hadn’t quite known was there — flicker and fade into nothingness. Her memories returned a second later ... she’d agreed to serve as the victim, she’d agreed to refrain from using magic ... she’d ... her head swam, just for a second. She hated spells that affected her mind.
“You didn’t have to use the spell,” she said. She knew she sounded petulant and she didn’t much care. “I wouldn’t have done anything without it.”
“There were reasons for it,” Sergeant Miles said. He looked up at Blackhall for a long moment. The flames had gone, leaving the building suspiciously intact. “And we will discuss those at a later date.”
Emily nodded, reluctantly. She knew there was no point in trying to draw the sergeant out, not when he was determined to be quiet. He’d tell her the other reasons when he felt like it.
“I need to talk to you about something else,” Sergeant Miles said instead. “Go back to the school, take a shower and then report to my office. Do you have anything planned for the rest of the afternoon?”
“I was due to help clear up the library in an hour or so,” Emily said. “Lady Aliya ...”
“I’ll speak to her,” Sergeant Miles said. “Go shower. I’ll be back in my office in—” he glanced at his watch “—thirty minutes.”
Emily hesitated, then turned and hurried back down the path towards Whitehall. She wasn’t in any trouble, she thought, but it was odd for the sergeant to want a meeting. And a long meeting, at that. What could he possibly want? She puzzled over it as she walked through the side door, shaking her head at the mess. Only two days since the entire school had come close to a complete collapse ... they were still cleaning up the mess. It felt like longer ... but then, it had been longer for her. Her trip to the past had made her several months older than everyone else. It still surprised her when her friends talked about events that — to her — had occurred months ago.
Time lag, she thought. It was like jet lag, only worse. At least I don’t think it’s midnight when it’s actually noon.
The wards pulsed around her, silently welcoming her home. The Grandmaster had realized the implications of her work in the past, even if no one else had. But then, he had cautioned her to keep the whole story to herself. She had been there when the nexus point was tamed, she was the sole surviving founder ... she, in a very real sense, owned the school. And yet, the knowledge was as much a curse as it was a blessing. No one had managed to duplicate Whitehall’s work in nine hundred years. If someone realized she knew how to do it, they’d want her to show them how ...
... And they wouldn’t ask politely, either.
She glanced into one of the spellchambers and smiled when she saw a couple of boys practicing their spells. Sergeant Miles had put her to work repairing several of the spellchambers, although she wasn’t sure if it was a reward for hard work or a punishment for nearly destroying one of his chambers several months ago. Except it had been only a few weeks for him ... she shook her head, then headed onwards. The remainder of the Armory was completely deserted, save for a hopeful student browsing the small collection of books on military tactics and strategy. Emily silently wished him well, although she knew he needed more than book learning to pass Martial Magic. Sergeant Miles had made it clear, more than once, that nothing could substitute for experience.
Putting theory into practice isn’t easy, Emily thought. Jade had admitted as much, back when he’d been writing to her during his apprenticeship. Master Grey had been a good teacher, whatever his faults. Jade had problems leading men at first, too.
She pushed the thought aside as she stepped into the washroom, checked the wards to make sure she was alone and started to undress. She’d picked up a whole series of bumps and bruises during the escape from Blackhall — and there were nasty marks around her wrists and ankles — but she was otherwise unharmed. Frieda’s charms had held up, despite the flames and heat. She walked into the shower, turned on the water and allowed it to run down her body, enjoying the sensation. Several months with nothing but sponge baths — at best — had reminded her, again, of the sheer luxury of being able to have a shower whenever she wanted one. 
But there was no time to relax and enjoy the warm water. She stepped out of the shower, used a spell to dry herself and hastily tugged her robe over her head. The ill-fitting tunic she’d worn earlier would have to be washed before it was returned to the general pool, waiting for the next person to wear it. She scooped the tunic up, dumped it in the basket and left the room, pacing down the long corridor. A couple of first-years were playing hide and seek through the tunnels, risking worse than a ticking off if they were caught so close to the Armory. Emily had been the only first year student in decades to be allowed to enter the Armory and train under the sergeants.
She stopped under a large portrait of Sergeant Harkin and looked up at it for a long moment, feeling a wave of bitter grief. Nothing in her life had prepared her to like a man who looked like a gym teacher from hell, but she had. He’d treated her as just another student. And he’d given his life to save hers and beat Shadye. Whoever had painted the portrait, she thought numbly, had never known him. The basic details were accurate enough — short brown hair, lanky body — but the subtle points were lacking. He looked to be sneering, rather than smiling.
Shaking her head, she walked through the door into the sergeant’s antechamber, then sat down on the bench and waited. She knew better than to try to enter the sergeant’s office without his presence, even though he had asked her to meet him there. The protective spells were so powerful that she could feel them from halfway across the antechamber. Trying to break in could wind up costing her more than she cared to pay.
The door opened. “Emily,” Sergeant Miles said. “Come with me.”
He led the way into his office, the protective spells falling back at his touch. Emily smiled in genuine admiration at how easily he handled the spells, then glanced around the office. It was simplicity itself, bare save for a handful of pieces of wooden furniture. A desk, some chairs ... she couldn’t help wondering if he’d made most of it himself. Emily had watched him work miracles with wood during long excursions into the wildlands surrounding Whitehall.
“Take a seat,” Sergeant Miles said. He motioned to a chair. “Kava?”
“Yes, please,” Emily said. She couldn’t help a flicker of relief. If he was offering Kava, she wasn’t in trouble. “Thank you.”
She sat, smoothing down her robe, as the sergeant poured them both Kava. He passed her a mug, then sat down behind the desk. A handful of pieces of paper — she smiled as she recognized a chat parchment — lay on the table, one unfurled to show a map. She wasn’t familiar with the country.
“Emily,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded oddly hesitant. That was odd. She’d never seen him at a loss for words before. “There is a serious problem.”
Emily forced herself to meet his eyes. They were grim. “What?”
“Four years of relative peace have come to an end,” Sergeant Miles told her. “A necromancer has invaded the Allied Lands.”

Chapter Two

“A necromancer,” Emily said, in shock. “I never knew ...”
“The news hasn’t spread far yet,” Sergeant Miles said. “That will change.”
Emily took a moment to gather herself. She’d known — they’d all known — that the necromancers would eventually resume their offensive, but she’d hoped it would take longer for them to recover their nerve. They didn’t know — they couldn’t know — what she’d done to Shadye. And they couldn’t know — she hoped — that what she’d done to Shadye couldn’t be repeated, not outside Whitehall. 
Sergeant Miles leaned forward. “A week ago, while we were trapped in the school, a small army of orcs and enslaved men crossed the Desert of Death and attacked Tarsier,” he said. He turned the map to face her, running his finger over the parchment. “The White Council hoped that it was just a large-scale raid, but the army has continued pressing northwards, crushing anything in its path. Tarsier may be on the verge of falling completely.”
“That’s not good,” Emily said, numbly. 
If she recalled correctly, Tarsier was over two thousand miles from Whitehall, but if it fell the necromancers would be able to pillage the Allied Lands at will. Millions of people would be captured and drained for power, making the necromancers even more dangerous. There were few natural barriers between Tarsier and the remainder of the Allied Lands, certainly nothing like the Craggy Mountains. Putting a cork in the bottle might prove impossible.
“It is,” Sergeant Miles agreed. “The necromancer in question is called Dua Kepala. Have you heard of him?”
Emily shook her head. The Allied Lands tried to keep track of the power struggles amongst the necromancers, but it wasn’t easy. Necromancers were dangerously insane, their actions often completely unpredictable. They might turn on each other as easily as they might invade the Allied Lands, particularly as they started to run out of humans to drain. Their armies of orcs and other dark creatures, she assumed, couldn’t be drained.
“He’s been a known necromancer for fifteen years,” Sergeant Miles said. “We don’t know who or what he was before he appeared in the Blighted Lands, but we do know that he’s remained remarkably stable for a necromancer. His actions have often been more calculated than Shadye’s. Somehow — we don’t know how — he managed to break through the defenses of Heart’s Eye and destroy the school. He may have come very close to absorbing the nexus point.”
“Maybe,” Emily said. Heart’s Eye had been destroyed twelve years ago, if she recalled correctly. God alone knew how many students, tutors and helpless civilians had perished when the school had fallen. And yet, if the necromancer had absorbed the nexus point, he would have become something far worse. “What happened to the nexus point?”
“We don’t know,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded frustrated. “No one has been able to get close to the school.”
He shook his head. “Dua Kepala is a very dangerous man,” he warned. Emily nodded, shortly. All necromancers were dangerous. “There are even some sorcerers who speculate that he has managed to retain some of his sanity.”
“Ouch,” Emily said. Both Shadye and Mother Holly had shown moments of cunning, but their power — and its demands — had eventually overcome them. Shadye had died, at least in part, because he’d focused on Emily to the exclusion of all else. She pushed the thought aside and met his eyes. “What are the Allied Lands doing about this?”
“An army is being put together to assist Tarsier,” Sergeant Miles said, bluntly. “Assuming everyone keeps their promises, there will be upwards of twenty thousand men and a number of combat sorcerers. Tarsier itself is trying desperately to raise another army of its own. General Pollack, whom you may have heard of—” he winked at her “—is taking command.”
Emily felt her cheeks heat. General Pollack was Caleb’s father, her prospective father-in-law. She honestly wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was a decent person, she thought, but he was too bombastic, too openly masculine, for her to feel completely comfortable in his presence. And she doubted he understood his second son very well.
“That’s good,” she said, trying to ignore her embarrassment. Sergeant Miles wouldn’t have called her into his office for a pleasant chat. “I’m sure he’ll be able to stop the invasion.”
Sergeant Miles looked back at her. “He has requested your presence,” he said, flatly. “I have been asked to invite you to accompany the army.”
Emily blinked in surprise. “Invite me?”
The sergeant’s face darkened, as if he’d bitten into a particularly sour lemon. “You are the Necromancer’s Bane,” he reminded her. He didn’t sound entirely happy. “Your presence would boost morale. Your magic and ... innovations… would make a useful contribution. I can’t say he’s wrong, either.”
“But you don’t like the idea,” Emily hazarded.
Sergeant Miles nodded. “Being in a military camp, even as a combat sorceress, will be very different from anything else you’ve done,” he pointed out. “You will find it thoroughly unpleasant. And you are not ready to take up a full apprenticeship. As ... innovative ... as you are, I would prefer you finish your education rather than leave the school for several months.”
“I might have to repeat the year,” Emily realized.
“You might,” Sergeant Miles agreed.
He held up a hand before she could say a word. “If you choose to accompany me, you’ll be my apprentice for the duration of the war,” he said. “Not unlike the arrangement you had with Lady Barb, but you’ll be expected to act more like an adult. Unfortunately, there will be very little time for proper training. You may find yourself at a disadvantage compared to the other apprentices.”
And you won’t be able to look after me, Emily filled in, silently. She’d learned enough about apprenticeships to know that the apprentice was expected to learn to stand on her own feet, without a master holding her hand. It could be awkward.
“You have a completely free choice,” Sergeant Miles told her. “I contacted your guardian and he agreed you could go, if you wished. The Grandmaster ... feels that you should make your own choice. There will be no consequences for saying no.”
But that wasn’t entirely true, Emily knew. If General Pollack had asked for her ... he’d certainly take it amiss if she refused to go to the war. And if he’d pulled strings rather than asking her directly ... she ran her hand through her hair, thinking hard. He could have asked her directly, if he’d wished. Or through Caleb, if he was reluctant to contact a prospective daughter-in-law himself. Pulling strings suggested ... what? 
There will be consequences, she thought, crossly. She needed to sit down and think about the situation, if she had time. What will Caleb’s father do if I say no?
“I’ll have to consider it,” she said, temporizing. “How long will I be away from the school?”
“Wars have a habit of being unpredictable,” Sergeant Miles pointed out, rather dryly. “I suspect we’ll be away for at least four months. It may be longer. You may well have to repeat the year.”
Emily winced. The prospect of repeating fifth year wasn’t pleasant, even though part of her didn’t want to leave Whitehall. No one would make fun of her for repeating a year — it was fairly common — but still ... it wasn’t something she relished. Sharing classes with younger students would be awkward.
Sergeant Miles leaned back in his chair. “There are some good reasons for you to come,” he said. “Zangaria is sending a company of musketmen — the first company in history — to take part in the war. You may find that interesting. And you may also find a way to rid us of another necromancer.”
Maybe, Emily thought. She had the nuke-spell. Mother Holly hadn’t survived the blast she’d unleashed. But using it near so many other sorcerers would be incredibly risky. Someone might have the presence of mind to figure out what she’d done and duplicate it. And if they do, the entire world will be at risk.
She forced the thought out of her mind. “King Randor is sending troops?”
“Just about every kingdom is sending troops,” Sergeant Miles told her. “Convincing them all to cooperate will not be easy.”
Emily made a face. The troop commanders would be noblemen, of course, and noblemen had a habit of picking fights over status and precedence. Organizing Alassa’s wedding, when the vast majority of the guests knew their place in the pecking order, had been hard enough; organizing an army would be far harder. General Pollack was going to have his work cut out for him. It was all too easy to imagine an aristocratic fop taking his troops and going home because he thought he’d been insulted.
And it won’t be much better amongst the sorcerers, she thought. And as his apprentice, I will be the lowest of the low.
She dismissed the thought with some irritation. Sergeant Miles was a good man. She trusted him. Lady Barb trusted him. They’d been in a relationship for the past two years.
“General Pollack may have an agenda of his own,” Sergeant Miles warned. “You need to watch him.”
“I will,” Emily promised. She cleared her throat. “Will Lady Barb be accompanying us?”
“She may join us in Tarsier,” Sergeant Miles said. His voice was flat, but Emily thought she heard a hint of wry amusement. “She has something else to do at the moment.”
Spying on the necromancers, Emily guessed. Lady Barb had made a career out of spying on the necromancers. She might want to know if other necromancers intend to support the invasion — or take advantage of it.
The sergeant picked up a set of papers and held them out to her. “These are the latest briefs from the field,” he said. “Read them, then make up your mind. I’m due to leave in four days, so ideally I’d like your answer by tomorrow. There’s a lot of work we have to do before we leave.”
“Exercise,” Emily guessed. It had been too long since she’d taken Martial Magic. She might be in better health now than she’d ever been on Earth, but she hadn’t been working out over the past few months. “And refresher courses?”
“And a few spells that are normally only taught to combat sorcerers,” Sergeant Miles said, dryly. “You will have to fight to defend yourself.”
“I know,” Emily said.
She shuddered helplessly as she remembered the army of orcs smashing through Whitehall, forcing its way into the school. Shadye had come far too close to winning outright, taking the nexus point for himself and using it to make himself a god. The prospect of facing another such army was terrifying. And yet ... and yet, she suspected she had no choice. The necromancers had to be stopped before they could pillage the Allied Lands.
“I advise you to review the apprenticeship rules too,” Sergeant Miles added. “You may not be taking on a full apprenticeship, but you will be bound by the rules as long as you remain in my service. There will be very little wiggle room when other sorcerers will be watching.”
Emily nodded in grim understanding. An apprentice’s behavior reflected on the master. If she acted poorly, Sergeant Miles would be shamed. But then, if she did well ... she wondered, absently, just how that would reflect on the sergeant. It wasn’t as if she’d been his apprentice for the last five years. He didn’t have any claim to her achievements.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly. What I do with him is what counts.
“I will,” she promised.
“Finally, I advise you to discuss it with your boyfriend,” Sergeant Miles suggested. “He may have some insight into his father.”
He smiled. For once, it didn’t look reassuring. “And he may hate being parted from you for so long,” he added. “Now that your relationship has turned physical ...”
Emily flushed, helplessly. Her mind raced frantically. The sergeant knew? Did everyone know? How? Had Caleb told everyone that she’d slept with him? She’d trusted him ... he wouldn’t have betrayed her, would he?
“He didn’t have to say a word,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded oddly amused. “But he’s been grinning like an alchemist for the past few days.”
It took Emily a moment to realize that he’d answered her unspoken question. “How ...?”
The sergeant laughed. “Honestly,” he said, shaking his head. “You youngsters are always so transparent.”
Emily’s flush deepened. “Does everyone know?”
Sergeant Miles shrugged. “What makes you think that anyone cares?”
“People like to blather,” Emily said, finally. She fought the urge to cringe. The idea of countless strangers keeping track of her love life, such as it was ... it was horrific. She hadn’t realized it was so obvious. “Everyone talks.”
“True enough,” Sergeant Miles said. He met her eyes. “I trust you’ve been taking precautions?”
Emily put her head in her hands, fighting a tidal wave of embarrassment. She didn’t want to talk about it. Lady Barb would have understood, she was sure, but Sergeant Miles was a man. How could she look him in the eye after ... after he knew what she’d been doing? And yet ... cold logic told her it didn’t matter, not really. She was hardly the first student to start a sexual relationship in Whitehall. Imaiqah had had so many boyfriends that Emily had lost count. Hell, some of them had come and gone so quickly that Emily had never learned their names.
“I have,” she whispered. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Potions and ... well, you know.”
“Glad to hear it,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded amused, rather than embarrassed. Emily wondered, suddenly, just how many lovelorn students he’d seen. “If you became pregnant ... it would be awkward.”
“There are quarters for married students,” Emily pointed out. Melissa used them whenever Markus came to visit. “If we were married ...”
She shook her head. She liked Caleb, but she didn’t want to marry him, not yet. But she might not have a choice if she fell pregnant. She couldn’t abort the child, let alone forbid Caleb his rights. Bastardy carried a very special stigma in the Nameless World. Hell, given her rather ambiguous noble title, who knew what King Randor and his court would make of her bastard child?
“Better to finish your studies,” Sergeant Miles advised.
He cleared his throat, loudly. She looked up at him. “I need an answer within the next day or so,” he reminded her. “If you don’t feel comfortable leaving Whitehall and heading to war, say so. I will not take an unwilling apprentice to the war.”
Emily winced. She had no illusions about what the invading army would do to the local population, to the serfs and peasants who couldn’t leave the land before it was too late. The kingdom would be ransacked, food and drink stolen ... the locals rounded up and either enslaved or drained for power. Even if the invasion was stopped before it reached Tarsier’s capital city — she made a mental note to study the map very carefully — large swathes of the country would be devastated. The survivors might well envy the dead. She might have a choice, but the locals didn’t. They were on the front lines.
Which makes stopping the invasion a priority, she thought. And yet, it won’t be enough.
“I understand,” Emily said. 
“Talk it over with your friends,” Sergeant Miles advised. “And then let me know what you decide.”
Emily finished her Kava, feeling torn. She didn’t want to leave Whitehall. Her studies had suffered badly when she’d fallen into the past. Grandmaster Gordian was already talking about extending the school year to allow everyone a chance to catch up. But on the other hand, she could be needed. General Pollack might well be right. If her presence boosted morale, it might swing the war in their favor. 
And if we don’t stop the invasion now, she thought, the Allied Lands might be doomed.
“I will,” she said. She paused as something clicked in her mind. “You were testing me, weren’t you?”
Sergeant Miles lifted his eyebrows. “I was?”
“When you ordered me not to use magic,” Emily said. She rubbed her forehead. The last remnants of the confounding spell were gone, as far as she could tell, but she could still feel a headache coming on. “You wanted to know if I would obey orders, even when death seemed certain. Frieda wasn’t the only person being tested.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Sergeant Miles agreed. “And you both passed with flying colors.”
He met her eyes. “There will be times, if you serve in the military, when you will be ordered to do things against your better judgement,” he warned. “And some of those times, your orders will seem suicidal. You’ll wonder if you’re being sacrificed because your superior doesn’t give a damn about you — or if your death will save countless lives. Learning to exercise proper judgement is vitally important.”
Emily wasn’t sure she agreed. On Earth, claiming that one was only obeying orders wasn’t accepted as an excuse for countless atrocities. But on the Nameless World, it was. A lord could issue orders to his men and they would be considered personally blameless, no matter what they did. His men were his tools, not individuals with minds of their own. But she thought she understood what he meant.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said, finally. She glanced at her watch. If she was lucky, she should make it to the library in time to help with the clear-up. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“Good,” Sergeant Miles said. He smiled, rather tiredly. “And if you see Jove, ask him to pop into my office.”
Emily nodded, then rose and took her leave.

Chapter Three

I think you should go, Alassa wrote. Father is most concerned about the invasion.
Emily nodded as she sat at her desk, using the chat parchment to talk to her friend. It wasn’t easy to have a real-time conversation — Alassa was in a different time zone, insofar as the Nameless World had time zones — but she’d gotten lucky. Married or not, Alassa was still the Crown Princess of Zangaria. She would know more about the political undercurrents than Sergeant Miles.
I understand he’s sending musketeers, she wrote. Is that true?
They’re already on their way, Alassa wrote back. Sir Roger of the Greenwood is in command. Did you meet him?
I may have, Emily wrote. But I don’t remember him.
Young, brave and very loyal to my father, Alassa noted. I’ll send you a copy of his file.
Emily smiled, wryly. She’d met so many knights and noblemen in Zangaria that she didn’t have a hope of remembering them all. There were simply too many noblemen in King Randor’s court. Sir Roger of the Greenwood hadn’t made enough of an impression for her to remember him ... she hoped, absently, that he wouldn’t find that insulting. But he would be loyal to Randor, she was sure. Command of a company of musketeers wouldn’t be given to just anyone. Randor had to be sure of him.
Her face darkened. Alassa’s father was one of the most ruthless men she’d met. He could be pleasant, even affable ... and then swing to threatening the moment he felt the situation called for it. Sir Roger of the Greenwood might have a wife and family who were being held hostage for his good behavior, just to make sure he didn’t come up with ideas of his own or side with the other noblemen. Randor had always been careful, according to Alassa, but a near-successful coup and assassination attempt had tipped him into outright paranoia. And yet, he had a point. His daughter had almost been killed a scant few months ago.
Thank you, she wrote. Is there anything I ought to know about Sir Roger?
Nothing too important, Alassa wrote back. But you really ought to watch some of the other noblemen. They may have been sent to the war just to get them out of their kingdoms.
The penmanship changed. The Mediators will keep infighting to a dull roar, Jade wrote. His hand was rougher than Alassa’s. He hadn’t mastered English letters until after he’d left Whitehall. Trust them to handle such matters.
Emily felt herself blush. She hadn’t realized that Jade was in Alassa’s room. But then, he was her husband. She wondered, suddenly, just what they’d been doing when she’d interrupted them. Surely, Alassa wouldn’t have bothered to reply if they’d been busy.
Keep an eye on the other apprentices, Jade added. They’ll be trying to establish a pecking order.
Sergeant Miles will keep that under control, Alassa wrote. Concentrate on your duty instead.
Emily sighed. Alassa was right, she suspected. She might not have sworn any oaths to the Allied Lands, but she did have a duty to them. If there was a chance, even a remote chance, that she could end the invasion, she had to try. She did have an ace in the hole, if necessary. It wouldn’t be hard to set up the nuke-spell and then teleport out, leaving the necromancer to die in the blast. She’d just have to make sure the spell was triggered well away from everyone else.
There was a knock on the door. I have to go, she wrote. I’ll send you both postcards.
She closed the parchment, then rose and opened the door. Caleb stood there, looking tired. She stepped back, beckoning him into the room, then gave him a tight hug as soon as the door was safely closed. Her roommate — Cabiria — had practically moved into her boyfriend’s room, leaving Emily alone. Emily rather suspected the housemother would tell Cabiria to get back in her original room, eventually, but for the moment Emily would take advantage of the privacy.
“Sorry I’m late,” Caleb said. He kissed her, his hands stroking her back. “Professor Thande kept me busy in the alchemical labs.”
“I was in the library,” Emily said. Whitehall wasn’t back to normal yet, no matter what the Grandmaster said. Just cleaning up the mess and replacing the destroyed supplies would take weeks, if not months. “Lady Aliya is not in a good mood.”
She motioned for him to sit on the chair, rather than inviting him to join her on the bed. A faint flicker of ... something ... showed in his eyes, just for a second. It had taken her too long to be comfortable sitting next to him, let alone getting undressed and sleeping with him. He had to fear rejection, even now. And yet ...
“Your father ...”
She swallowed hard, then went through the entire story. Caleb listened carefully, occasionally injecting a question. Emily knew he loved his parents, but his relationship with his father had always been strained. General Pollack favored Casper, his eldest son. He hadn’t made a secret of it either. Caleb had been expected to follow in Casper’s footsteps, not transfer to Whitehall as soon as he decently could. Emily couldn’t help wondering if it had been a shock to the old general when he’d discovered his son was courting a noblewoman.
There was a long pause. “He wants you there,” Caleb said, finally. He sounded angry. “And yet, he could have asked you directly.”
“Yeah,” Emily agreed. “Why didn’t he?”
Caleb’s face darkened. “I don’t know,” he said, after a moment. “Contacting you wouldn’t have been unforgivable. I mean ... he doesn’t have to talk to you through me.”
He looked down at the stone floor. “He may have been trying to convince the Grandmaster,” he added, after a moment. “The Grandmaster could forbid you from going, if he wished.”
Emily frowned. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“It’s one explanation,” Caleb said. “If you left without the Grandmaster’s permission ...”
“Maybe,” Emily mused. Gordian didn’t like her. She rather suspected the older man would have been delighted if she’d left the school without permission. It would have been the perfect excuse not to let her return. “Or maybe he was trying to pressure me into going.”
“He could just have asked,” Caleb said. He looked up at her, his eyes concerned. “Are you going?”
“I think so,” Emily admitted. “If I can do something about the invasion ...”
“Father is playing his own game here,” Caleb said. “And I think he wants you to play a role in that game.”
Emily closed her eyes for a long moment. She knew, intellectually, that she was important, but she didn’t really believe it. Even now, even after she’d abandoned Cockatrice, she was one of the most famous people in the Allied Lands. Lady Barb had warned her, more than once, that people would seek to use her. Hell, King Randor had tried to use her. General Pollack presumably had his own ambitions.
He must have been delighted and shocked when Caleb started to court me, she thought, grimly. On one hand, there would be a chance to expand his influence; on the other, he might as well have caught a tiger by the tail.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “What does he want?”
Caleb shook his head. “I wish I knew,” he said. “Father may want you to shore up his position in the command tent, which will be awkward, or he may have another idea in mind.”
Emily frowned. “His position?”
“He may be formally in command, but he won’t be all-powerful,” Caleb told her. “I heard too many of his early stories. He’ll have a council of war at his elbow, objecting to everything they don’t like ... he’ll have to argue to convince them to support him, particularly if the war drags on. Every last nobleman will have ideas of his own and threaten to stomp off if they’re not implemented. Your support may make his life easier.”
He went on before Emily could say a word. “But, at the same time, you’re going as Sergeant Miles’s apprentice. Formally, you’ll have no authority at all. Putting you in the command tent will not make your life easier.”
“Oh,” Emily said.
Caleb shrugged. “And I may be over-thinking it,” he admitted. “Father may merely hope you can help fight the invasion.”
“I hope so,” Emily said. Alassa might delight in playing political games, but Emily preferred to keep herself to herself. “I guess I’ll find out when I get there.”
Caleb swallowed. “Can I talk you out of it?”
Emily blinked. “Do you think I should stay here?”
“I’d like you to stay here,” Caleb said. He paused. “You’re not going to have a good time.”
“I know,” Emily said. She hadn’t enjoyed the forced marches and camping trips that had been an integral part of Martial Magic. Somehow, she doubted a military camp would be much better. But then, Old Whitehall hadn’t been pleasant either. “I don’t think I have a choice.”
“Father cannot order you to do anything,” Caleb reminded her. “Emily ...”
“I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t go,” Emily admitted. She met his eyes. “If there is something I can do, I have to do it.”
She saw a flurry of emotions pass over his face. Worry, fear ... he cared about her, he truly cared about her. He didn’t want to let her go. The thought made her feel better, even though she knew she couldn’t stay.
“I could come with you,” Caleb offered. “Sergeant Miles could take on two apprentices ...”
Emily considered it, briefly. She’d miss him. She’d miss him more than she cared to admit. But she doubted Sergeant Miles would agree to take two students into the war. He’d clearly been reluctant to take Emily, despite political pressure. Taking Caleb also would be a step too far.
“I need you to continue work on the spell processor,” she said. She’d planned to sit down with him and work through everything she’d learned in Old Whitehall, but that would have to wait until after the war. “What happens if I die? You have to finish the work.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Caleb said. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” Emily promised.
“You could get killed down there,” Caleb snapped. “You’re not invincible. A charmed knife, a cursed arrow ... Emily, you could drink unclean water and die! And there’s a necromancer out there too. You could die!”
“I won’t,” Emily said, reassuringly. 
But she knew he was right. She was far from invincible. Robin ... she resisted the urge to retch as she remembered what Robin had tried to do to her. The spell he’d cast on her was burned into her memory, mocking her. He’d tried to take control of her; he’d tried to rape her. And he’d come far too close to success. She shuddered, helplessly. She’d studied the spell he’d used. If she cast it on anyone who wasn’t a powerful and experienced magician, that person would be her slave for life. It represented an awful temptation as well as a stern warning not to experiment.
“You could,” Caleb said. He rose, pacing the room. “Emily, I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” Emily said. She pulled him down to sit beside her. She trusted him enough to allow him to sleep with her, but she still disliked him — or anyone — looming over her. “And yet, I have to go.”
Caleb looked mutinous, even as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Emily couldn’t help wondering if something else was bothering him. They’d only been sleeping together for the last few days. Was he worried she wouldn’t be sleeping with him any longer? Or was he worried she’d find someone else while she was away? She wouldn’t, she knew, but ... she shook her head in frustration. Life had been much simpler before she’d found a boyfriend.
“Stay in touch,” Caleb said, firmly. “Take the chat parchment and write to me every day, all right? I’ll come charging down if I don’t hear from you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Emily agreed. “But don’t leave the school. Gordian will expel you.”
“He wouldn’t,” Caleb said. “He’d just make me repeat the year.”
“I might have to,” Emily muttered. “How many months can I miss without having to repeat the year?”
Caleb looked stricken. “You need to pass the exams and submit a completed project,” he said, after a moment. “We might be able to get the project rolled over into the next year, if we were lucky, but it would have to be completed then. If you failed the exams, you’d have to repeat the year.”
“Which would be bad,” Emily said. In hindsight, maybe it had been a mistake to continue their joint project into fifth year. She might just bring Caleb down with her. Maybe he wouldn’t mind that too much. If she had to retake a year and he didn’t, he’d have to leave Whitehall and take up an apprenticeship — without her. “Do you want to repeat the year?”
“Only if I repeat it with you,” Caleb said. He gave her a soft smile. “I wouldn’t want to be without you.”
“Me neither,” Emily admitted. She snuggled up to him. “I will stay in touch.”
“Keep a sharp eye on my dear father,” Caleb warned, as his fingers started to play with her hair. “He will seek to use you.”
Emily sighed. “Does everyone want to use me?”
“I don’t,” Caleb said. “But everyone else does.”
He turned his head. “You know what’s at stake,” he added. “The necromancers have to be stopped.”
“And hardly anyone seems to be taking the threat seriously,” Emily said. “At least your father is trying to do his job.”
She remembered the map and shivered. The Nameless World was roughly the same size as Earth, as far as she could tell, but distances appeared to be so much greater. Without magic, traveling even a few hundred miles could take weeks. The necromancers appeared to be thousands of miles away, a distant threat that hardly anyone noticed ... unless, of course, they were on the front lines. But the necromancers would keep coming until they overwhelmed the Allied Lands. They had no choice. Without a ready supply of people to drain, they would eventually run out of magic and die.
Unless this particular necromancer really has worked out a way to remain sane, she thought, grimly. 
She’d read the reports very carefully, going through them one by one. Dua Kepala had not only survived, he’d prospered. He had neither burned out nor gone on a mad rampage that ended with his death. His fortress — the former school — was practically impregnable, even to someone as skilled as Lady Barb. And that worried her. If someone had worked out a way to channel that much power safely and use it, without turning into a madman, the entire world was at risk. Dua Kepala might have knowledge and experience as well as vast power.
But he’s risked an invasion, she told herself. He must think he can win.
She leaned against Caleb, feeling the reassuring warmth of his arms. She was going to miss him. But she couldn’t take him with her. Sergeant Miles wouldn’t let her. She briefly considered asking, just in case, before dismissing the thought. The sergeant had to take her seriously. He wouldn’t listen to her if she made an obviously absurd request.
Caleb’s arms tightened, one hand starting to fiddle with the dress clasp behind her neck. “When are you going?”
“Sergeant Miles said four days,” Emily told him. “I have to tell him my decision tomorrow, then ... I’m not sure what he’ll want me to do.”
“Train, probably,” Caleb said. “He’ll be running behind you with a whip, just to make sure you keep going. And he’ll be barking questions at you all the time.”
His face darkened. “That’s what they used to do at Stronghold.”
Emily smiled as her dress came free. “I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” she said. She leaned in to face him, lifting her lips for a kiss. “And now I just want to forget about it for a while.”
Afterwards — and after a quick shower — she lay in bed, listening to Caleb’s gentle snores. It felt strange, very strange, to be sleeping next to a naked man, although it no longer felt wrong — or terrifying. She was more concerned about the small bed, she told herself with some amusement, than his nakedness or hers. Her stepfather’s ghost had finally been banished, leaving her free ... free to do what? Enjoy herself?
Men are untrustworthy, her mother had said, years ago. A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the old drunkard’s bitter remarks. They only want one thing. And they lose interest as soon as you give it up.
Emily shivered, again. Caleb wasn’t like that, was he? He’d set out to court her, rather than merely ask her out on a date. There was something formal in what he’d done that had impressed her, an offer of a genuine commitment. And yet ... part of her was scared. Not of sex or sexuality, not any longer, but of losing him. Choosing to sleep with him ...
It wasn’t a mistake, she told herself, firmly. Caleb had been clumsy at first — just like she was — but it had gotten better over the last two days. Imaiqah’s brutally frank advice had helped, even if it had been embarrassing. And I won’t come to regret it.
She rolled over and snuggled up to him, her fingers tracing the muscles on his arms. He would have been considered a geek on Earth, she was sure, but he was stronger than any of the jocks she recalled. Stronghold had battered combat training into his head, literally. And yet, he was always gentle with her. She trusted him not to hurt her. She didn’t want to hurt him either.
Smiling, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Chapter Four

Sergeant Miles hadn’t shown either pleasure or irritation when Emily had visited him the following morning, and told him she would be accompanying him to Tarsier. Emily wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Instead, he’d given her a long list of items to find and pack, saying she would have to justify anything she chose to leave behind. Emily had spent the next hour in the Armory, trying to find everything on the list. It hadn’t been easy. Some items were common, with hundreds to choose from; others needed to be borrowed or altered for her. The only one she actually owned was her staff.
The third staff, she reminded herself. Mother Holly had destroyed the first one, two years ago; Master Grey had destroyed the second. And I have to be very careful with it.
She shrank it down, stowing it in her pocket with a handful of warding spells to ensure it couldn’t be stolen. Sergeant Miles would be furious if she lost it and Grandmaster Gordian would go through the roof. Magicians could become dependent on wands and staffs after all, and anyone who used them ran the risk of losing the ability to work magic without them. She didn’t dare take the risk. Alassa’s virgin dagger went into her sleeve, where she could draw it if necessary; the remainder, thankfully, could be packed into her rucksack. But when she was finished, the bag was too heavy to lift, let alone get over her shoulders.
“I think you’ve overdone it,” Frieda’s voice said. Emily turned to see her friend standing by the door, wearing a long white dress. “Can’t you take some of the gear out? Or use a spell?”
“Sergeant Miles said I wasn’t to use spells to lighten the bag,” Emily said. It was frustrating, but she understood his point. A single cancellation spell, cast in her general direction ... she’d be crushed under the weight of her bag. She wouldn’t put it past Sergeant Miles to cast such a spell just to make sure she wasn’t trying to cheat. “And I need everything in the bag.”
“But you can’t carry it,” Frieda pointed out. She strolled over to the table as Emily started to unpack the bag. “He has to know that, surely?”
Emily shrugged. The bedroll ... she needed that, unless she planned to sleep on the bare ground. She knew from bitter experience that she’d wake up stiff and sore. The potions ... maybe she could leave some of those behind. She’d made potions from items she’d harvested before, after all. The compass ... the whistle ... the cooking tools ... the knives ... maybe she could leave behind a couple of the knives. And the books ...
“I probably won’t have much time for reading,” she mused, reluctantly.
“Take a couple of the newer paperbacks,” Frieda suggested. “If you think you’ll have time to read ...”
“I probably won’t,” Emily admitted. She put the books aside, then examined the cooking tools. How many of them did she actually need? Knives and forks were one thing, but couldn’t she share pots and pans with someone else? She wouldn’t be cooking her own meals, would she? “I’ll have to check these with Sergeant Miles.”
“Make sure you take the tinderbox,” Frieda warned. “You don’t want to be caught without it.”
Emily nodded. Tarsier was next to a desert, but deserts got very cold at night. Magic would be enough to light a fire, yet ... what if she was tired and drained? Or if she didn’t want to risk using magic? The Manavores she’d seen in the past had warned her, as if she didn’t already know, that there were things out there that hunted magic users. She’d never heard of them before her trip to the past, but they might still be lurking around somewhere.
Not that I need to worry about them, she thought. There’s a necromancer out there.
Frieda shrugged. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Riding, it seems,” Emily said. Sergeant Miles had told her they’d be going on a long ride around the countryside. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Alassa might love her horses, but Emily had never liked riding. “And then we’ll be going on a long forced march.”
“I could come with you,” Frieda suggested. Alassa had taught her how to ride, back in Alassa’s fourth year. “Should I ask the sergeant?”
“Why not?” Emily asked. She’d told Frieda where she was going, after swearing her to secrecy. “But don’t push it if he says no.”
Frieda nodded her head, one hand playing with her pigtails. “You will be back, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Emily promised. 
She wished she felt so confident. Many of the reports warned that the invasion was gathering steam. Tarsier was in deep trouble. No one knew how the necromancer had managed to get such a large army across the desert, but no one could deny that was exactly what he’d done.
He might have opened a portal, she thought, grimly. Most necromancers don’t have the skill to open a portal, but this one is unusually dangerous.
“Be careful,” Frieda warned, as Sergeant Miles stepped into the room. “The necromancer will hate you most of all.”
“Probably ... ” Sergeant Miles said. He smiled at Frieda, then winked at Emily. “We could use you as bait in a trap.”
Emily made a face. “Only if there’s no other choice,” she said. “Sergeant ... could the necromancer have opened a portal?”
“It’s been considered,” Sergeant Miles said. “So far, nothing has been detected. A portal should be noticeable from quite some distance.”
“It could be in the desert,” Emily pointed out. “Have you managed to get anyone right up to the borderline?”
“It’s a possibility,” Sergeant Miles said. He dismissed Frieda, then smiled, rather thinly. “But right now you have other problems. How much do you intend to leave behind?”
Emily felt her head pounding, an hour later, as she was finally dismissed from the room. The sergeant had questioned each and every one of her choices with savage intensity, making her doubt herself. Everything was needed, he said ... but how was she meant to carry it all without collapsing? In the end, he’d pointed out that she could obtain some of what she needed in the camp, but told her to keep the bare essentials. Running short of potions to deal with her periods would be embarrassing.
“Report back to me in two hours,” he’d finished. “You have some spells to learn.”
Emily made her way to the dining hall, found herself a plate of food and sat down to eat. The hall was in bad shape, even though most of the broken tables had been removed and turned into firewood. Thankfully, the kitchens were still producing food. Her headache started to fade as she drank water, reminding her — again — that water was an essential part of her supply kit. There was no point in knowing a dozen spells to purify the water if there was no water at all. 
I may have bitten off more than I can chew, she thought, ruefully. Mistress Danielle had taught her more combat spells, but she hadn’t forced Emily on long marches to stretch her legs. I wish I had more time to prepare.
She looked up as Jasmine entered the dining hall, a dark blood-red scar clearly visible on her face. It was a nasty hex, Emily noted, watching the first-year girl slowly make her way over to her table. Jasmine was normally strikingly pretty, but the hex twisted her face into something thoroughly unpleasant. And she smelled too, a foul scent that made Emily’s stomach lurch uncomfortably. Tiega had clearly taken a savage revenge on her enemy.
“Lady Emily,” Jasmine said. She swallowed. “Are you really leaving us?”
“Not for long,” Emily said. “I will be back.”
She couldn’t help feeling a strange mixture of emotions. Jasmine had acted badly, very badly. The anonymous notes she’d sent to Tiega had been nothing short of bullying, all the worse because the poor girl had been unable to strike back. But, at the same time, Tiega’s revenge would mark Jasmine for life. The hex would fade, given time. The damage to Jasmine’s reputation would not.
“She’s mad at me,” Jasmine confessed. One finger traced out the scar on her face. “I think she hates me.”
Emily lifted her eyebrows. “Do you blame her?”
“She was awful to us,” Jasmine said. She gave Emily a plaintive look. “Lady Emily ...”
“And if someone is awful to you,” Emily asked, “does that give you the right to be awful back?”
“She wouldn’t stop,” Jasmine said, resentfully. “I thought ...”
Emily felt a flicker of tired understanding. Taking the moral high ground was all very well and good, but real life didn’t give a damn. Bullies wouldn’t stop bullying unless they were met with greater force, regardless of whether they were school bullies or foppish aristocrats. What was the point of claiming to be the better person if the better person couldn’t defend herself against threats? To refuse to fight only made oneself a target.
But she couldn’t condone what Jasmine had done.
“I’ll speak to her, later,” she promised. She’d meant to spend more time with the younger students she was supposed to mentor. But she doubted she’d be able to do it anytime soon. “Until then ...”
She sniffed, then cast an analysis spell. Tiega, whatever her faults, was an accomplished spellcaster. The hex — actually a trio of hexes — was something she would have expected from a third-year student. Tough, extremely hard to remove ... she felt a flicker of admiration as she parsed out the third hex. Anyone who tried to remove it would have to do some pretty fancy footwork to avoid being stung badly. Professor Lombardi would have no trouble removing it, she was sure, but she would have problems.
Tiega will be in trouble if Jasmine tries to get it removed, Emily thought, dryly. It isn’t quite locked, but its close enough to cause no end of trouble.
“I’ll speak to her,” she repeated. She’d hoped that Tiega and Jasmine would learn to work together, the way Alassa and she had become friends, but it seemed as though she was out of luck. “And if the hex lingers for more than a week, go ask the Head Girl to remove it.”
“I told her,” Jasmine said. “I confessed.”
It took Emily a moment to realize that Jasmine meant Tiega, rather than Aloha. It was rare for a student to go running to a teacher — or even the Head Girl — if they got into trouble, even if they were being bullied. It wasn’t something she approved of, but Whitehall was more interested in teaching self-reliance than protecting its students. The staff wouldn’t step in unless there was a serious threat to life and limb.
“She wouldn’t have been happy,” Emily pointed out, dryly. “What did you expect?”
Jasmine flushed, angrily. “Not ... not this.”
Emily reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she promised. She would have to find Tiega later, if only to point out the dangers of carrying her revenge a little too far. The Grandmaster would take a dim view of a hex that was difficult to remove — and, perhaps, impossible for a first-year student. “Now, go eat something and then go back to helping repair the school.”
“Yes, My Lady,” Jasmine said.
She turned and hurried off. Emily watched her go, wishing she knew how she felt about the situation. She’d failed Jasmine and Tiega ... perhaps it had been a mistake to force Jasmine to confess. But Tiega had needed to know that her tormentor had been silenced. She wouldn’t have thanked Emily for keeping the details to herself. And then ...
Emily rose, carrying her empty dishes and placing them on the trolley to be washed before walking out of the room and down the corridor. There was still at least another hour before she was due back in the Armory, so she walked back to the dorms and checked the wards. Tiega wasn’t in her bedroom, unsurprisingly. The first-years knew the least magic, yet there was still work for them to do rebuilding the school. Emily was tempted to use the castle’s wards to find Tiega, but she dismissed the thought. She couldn’t give in to the temptation without risking everything.
Instead, she walked back through the castle, glancing into classroom after classroom as she passed. She had to admit that Gordian was a great organizer, whatever his flaws. He’d not only managed to get the students working to repair the damage, he’d brought in outside experts and set them to work rebuilding the wards. Emily had a private suspicion that he intended to eventually reopen the control chamber below the castle, but the wards wouldn’t let him in without her approval. Until then ...
She waved cheerfully at the Gorgon, who’d been assigned to help Professor Thande brew more potions, and made her way back down into the Armory. Three of the spellchambers were occupied, but a fourth was deserted. Emily checked the wards carefully, then stepped into the chamber and started to cast a series of spells, one after the other. Her magic seemed to hum around her as she allowed it to run free, blurring into the castle’s wards. They seemed almost to dance around her. 
The door opened. She turned, expecting to see Sergeant Miles. Instead, Grandmaster Gordian stepped into the room. Emily braced herself, unsure what to expect. He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with long dark hair drawn back in a ponytail. Emily couldn’t help thinking that he had aged a decade overnight, as Whitehall School had begun to collapse around him. His predecessor had been over a hundred years old.
“Emily,” Gordian said.
Emily bowed her head. “Grandmaster.”
She couldn’t recall the Grandmaster — either Grandmaster — seeking her out before, not like this. She’d met Gordian before he’d become Grandmaster, back at Cockatrice, but since then ... he’d either summoned her to his office or met her after she’d tried to teleport out of the trap below Whitehall.
“Your spells have improved,” Gordian said, tilting his head. “You’re turning into a very powerful young lady.”
“Thank you, sir,” Emily said. 
Her mind raced. Did he know about her weekend combat training with Mistress Danielle? Were his words a subtle rebuke — or a warning? Or did he believe, despite all the evidence, that she might have learned forgotten magics from Lord Whitehall himself? Or was he merely trying to make conversation? She honestly had no idea what he wanted. To ask her if she really wanted to go, perhaps? Or to encourage her to go? She rather suspected he disliked the idea of a student who could overrule him at will.
“Your father was surprisingly insistent that you be allowed to accompany Sergeant Miles,” Gordian added, after a moment. “He has not yet granted you your majority?”
Emily winced, inwardly. Void was her legal guardian, at least as long as she stayed in school. And yet, her position was odd. By some standards, she was an adult; by others, she was still legally a child. In truth, she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. On one hand, it was humiliating to be treated as a child when she was twenty years old; on the other, it was nice to know that someone was looking out for her. But she hadn’t seen Void for months.
“Not yet, sir,” she said. She’d researched the age of majority in the Nameless World, only to discover that it tended to rely on the parents. Some parents granted their children freedom almost as soon as they entered their teens, others tried to control their children as long as possible. “I believe he wants me to complete my schooling first.”
“Which may be difficult if you go to the wars,” Gordian said, dryly. “Are you sure you want to go?”
“I think I have to go,” Emily said, after a moment. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I could have saved thousands of lives, but did nothing.”
Caleb had accepted that argument. Gordian didn’t seem as impressed. “You will never know if there was something you could have done or not,” he said, shortly. “Can you defeat a necromancer in single combat?”
“I have,” Emily lied. She’d killed two necromancers, but she’d cheated both times. Did Gordian know what she’d done? She’d always suspected Grandmaster Hasdrubal knew the truth, even though he’d never mentioned it to her. “And if I have to do it again, I will.”
Gordian studied her for a long moment. “Very well,” he said. “You have my permission to go. And when you return, we will consider where you may best resume your studies.”
“Thank you, sir,” Emily said. Gordian couldn’t have stopped her from leaving, but he might have made it impossible for her to return. He certainly had extremely good cause. “I hope to be back soon.”
“Don’t count on it,” Gordian said. “As long as a single necromancer remains alive, the war will never be over.”
Emily nodded. There were ways to deal with necromancers now, if she had the time to craft them. A Mimic, one programmed only to attack necromancers; a pocket dimension, combined with the nuke-spell; her batteries, combined with lethal spells ... she had plenty of ideas. But she’d need time to prepare them. She doubted she had that time.
“I will also give you my blessing,” Gordian added. “The Mage Lord of Heart’s Eye was a friend of mine. He didn’t deserve to die in his school.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily said. Gordian had friends? She shook her head in annoyance. Of course he had friends. Hell, there were tutors who thought he was doing a good job. “Do you know what happened?”
“The necromancer must have sneaked through the wards, somehow,” Gordian said. “There are ways ... there’s no such thing as an impregnable defense. But the Mage Lord should have been able to take precautions ...”
He sighed. “Be careful, Emily,” he added. “This necromancer is cunning. And that makes him very dangerous.”

Chapter Five

“Have you packed everything?” Caleb asked.
“I think so,” Emily said. He’d helped her go through the rucksack one last time, but they’d been unable to slim it down any further. Thankfully, she could carry it — barely. “I have everything I need.”
“Write to me every day,” Caleb urged, as they walked down to the courtyard. Two horses awaited them, their bridles held by a pair of youngsters from the stables. They took her rucksack and fixed it to the saddle, hanging down so she could sift through the bag while on the move. “I’ll be watching for your messages.”
“I’ll do my best,” Emily promised.
Sergeant Miles stepped around the horse and nodded to her. “Mount up,” he ordered, glancing sharply at Caleb. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“I’ll make it up later,” Caleb said. “Emily ...”
“She’ll be back before you know it,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded impatient, yet oddly distracted by some greater thought. “Emily, mount up.”
Emily gave Caleb one last hug, then scrambled onto the horse’s back. The horse shivered underneath her, as if it was preparing to bolt. Emily sighed and took a firm grip of the reins, hoping they wouldn’t be riding for long. Sergeant Miles hadn’t been clear on how they were going to get there, but she doubted they would be riding the entire journey. It would take weeks, at best, to reach Tarsier. 
She glanced down at Caleb, then around the deserted courtyard. Caleb was the only one who had come to see her off, something that bothered her more than she cared to admit. Frieda would be in class, of course, while some of the other students were working to rebuild the school ...
“Good luck,” Caleb said.
Sergeant Miles snorted. “Open the gates,” he ordered, as he turned his horse. “It’s time to move.”
Emily forced herself to relax as her horse cantered forward, following Sergeant Miles as he plunged through the gates and onto the road. She heard Caleb shout something after her, but his words were lost in the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. The beast picked up speed as the cold struck them, a mocking reminder that there might be ice on the road. There would be charms on the horseshoes, she was sure, but she knew they weren’t perfect. Hitting a piece of ice might get her thrown.
The trees closed in as they headed further and further away from Whitehall, tiny fragments of snow and ice dropping down around them. Emily lowered her head, silently praying that there were no branches waiting to knock her off the horse. She’d expected to head down to Dragon’s Den, but instead they were heading down a path she’d never used. She couldn’t help wondering where it led.
It might have been charmed to remain hidden, she thought, as Sergeant Miles led her onwards. Or I might just never have noticed it before.
She sensed flickers of magic around her as they headed onwards, a droll reminder of the Blighted Lands on the other side of the Craggy Mountains. The mountains themselves were covered in snow, their peaks hidden in dark clouds that were clearly moving northwards. She wondered, despite herself, if they were carrying contaminants from the Blighted Lands to the Allied Lands. She’d seen too much raw magic in the Blighted Lands to feel complacent about its effects.
And no one knows how Shadye got his army over the mountains, she reminded herself. We never did find his tunnel.
It was nearly an hour before Sergeant Miles started to slow, Emily’s horse also slowing to a trot as they entered a clearing. Emily could sense strange magics flickering around the area, magics that felt oddly familiar. She looked around, spotting a small cabin half-hidden within the trees and a tiny pond, somehow unfrozen despite the cold. The horse gave it a wide berth, suggesting that something dangerous lurked within the waters. The absence of animal tracks tended to agree. None of the local creatures risked drinking the water.
Sergeant Miles reined in his horse, then slipped neatly to the ground. “Tie the horses up and give them their food,” he ordered, as he turned towards the cabin. “And then join me.”
Emily nodded as she clambered off the beast and dropped down. The horse gave her a contemptuous look, but didn’t try to run as she tied it to the nearest tree. Emily couldn’t help feeling that the beast knew she wasn’t a confident horsewoman, although it didn’t seem inclined to take advantage of her. But then, a horse trained at Whitehall would have been taught not to abandon its rider. They were a little more intelligent than the average horse.
The magic field probably caused some mutations, she thought, as she secured the other horse and strode towards the cabin. Or some sorcerer started to experiment with beast magic.
Her body felt stiff, but she could walk. The snow felt odd, crunching against her boots as if it was permanently on the verge of melting. She kept walking, using a basic charm to keep out the cold. The sense of familiarity surrounding the clearing grew stronger, nagging at her mind. Had she been here before? If she’d seen the clearing in the past ... it would be very different now, wouldn’t it? Had she fought the Manavore here? But she felt sure she was further from the castle than that.
She walked through the door and looked around. The cabin was very basic, nothing more than a woodsman’s hut. An unmade bed, a tiny fireplace, no windows ... she winced as she realized there was no privy either. The occupant would have to go outside when they needed to use the toilet. A small stockpile of dried fruit and nuts hung in one corner. Sergeant Miles was digging through a cupboard, checking the supplies. The dark expression on his face suggested it wasn’t going well.
“Someone’s forgotten to replace the emergency rations,” he growled. He didn’t sound pleased. “I’ll have to send word back to the castle.”
Emily nodded. The hut wouldn’t be permanently occupied, not during winter. But it would serve as shelter for anyone caught in the snow. Anyone could use it, according to customs older than written laws, but they were supposed to replace what they took. Who knew who’d need the shelter next? She didn’t envy the last visitor when Sergeant Miles caught up with him. The sergeant took the customs seriously. They saved lives.
Sergeant Miles stood upright, turning to face her. “How are you feeling?”
“Stiff,” Emily admitted. She’d felt worse, in the past. “Can I ask a question?”
“You can ask any question you like,” Sergeant Miles said. “But I don’t promise to answer.”
He pointed a finger at the fireplace. “Set up a fire,” he added. “We may be here for some time.”
Emily knelt down by the fire and started to pile up the wood. “Why aren’t we just teleporting to Tarsier?”
Sergeant Miles didn’t seem surprised by the question. “You’ll see,” he said, vaguely. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He strode out of the cabin. Emily sighed, then opened the chimney before using magic to set the wood on fire. At least the cabin had a chimney. She’d been in hovels in the Cairngorms where the air had been thick with smoke. She wondered, as she fed more wood into the flames, why they weren’t using magic to heat the air, but she supposed Sergeant Miles knew what he was doing. Maybe he wanted her to conserve magic.
Sergeant Miles crunched his way back into the cabin a moment later. “Good enough,” he said, studying the flames. “Do you remember the Berserker spell?”
Emily nodded. She hadn’t used it since first year, when she’d been in Zangaria. Mistress Irene and the sergeants had made it clear that the spell wasn’t to be used unless there was no other choice. It just kept going until the caster ran out of energy and collapsed. The one time she’d used it in combat, she knew she would have died if she’d been alone.
“We’ll be going over it later,” Sergeant Miles said. “But I don’t want you to use it.”
“I know,” Emily said. “But what if there’s no choice?”
“Use your own judgement,” Sergeant Miles said. “Just remember that removing the spell isn’t easy.”
Emily shivered. Cancelling a spell she’d cast on herself should be easy, but the berserker spell was addictive. She might not realize that she had to cancel the spell before it was too late — and if she did, she might be too drained to cancel it successfully. And she wouldn’t want to cancel the spell. The sense of power and strength was overwhelming.
Sergeant Miles reached into his pocket and produced a scrap of folded paper. “Tell me what you make of this,” he said, holding it out to her. “It’s a very interesting spell.”
Emily took the paper and unfolded it. The spell had been neatly diagrammed out, but there were no annotations to make deciphering it easy. She shook her head in annoyance, then started to work her way through the spell piece by piece. It was so complex, for something so small, that she couldn’t help wondering if the writer had added a great deal of additional detail, just to confuse the reader. It wasn’t until she reached the end that she realized there were actually two spells, mingled together.
“This is a combined spell,” she said, in surprise.
“Correct,” Sergeant Miles said. “What does it do?”
Emily hesitated. She’d been told, time and time again, not to combine spells. Two spells — interacting as they were cast — could have unpredictable results. Hell, she’d come far too close to killing Alassa by accidentally casting two spells at once. An inch or two higher and the Crown Princess of Zangaria would have been killed. And then ...
She shuddered, then started to work her way through it. One spell was a simple cutting spell, one she’d used herself; the other looked like a particularly nasty curse. It reminded her of something, the thought nagging at her mind until it came into the light. The curse was a twisted healing spell, one designed to harm rather than heal ...
“This is awful,” she said, finally.
“True,” Sergeant Miles said. “And if someone was hit by the spell, what would happen to them?”
Emily worked it out. The first spell would cut into their skin, the second ... the second would rip them apart. A victim might survive the first spell, if they were lucky; the second, infused directly into their skin, would prove fatal. The more she looked at it, the more repelled she felt. Cutting the victim open would ensure that the second spell spread at terrifying speed. It was unlikely anyone could cancel the spell before it was too late.
“Death,” she said. “They would die.”
“Correct,” Sergeant Miles said. “Before we leave here, I want you to be able to cast the spell.”
Emily stared at him. “You want me to cast the spell?”
“That is what I said,” Sergeant Miles said, waspishly. “You’ll need it.”
He rose, heading towards the door. Emily followed him, her head spinning. She didn’t want to inflict such pain on someone — anyone. It was a torture curse ... it was worse than a torture curse, because it would be fatal. Except, judging from the spell notation, the curse might do its work so quickly that there would be very little pain. Somehow, she didn’t find it reassuring. 
The cold slapped against her face as they walked back into the clearing. Emily looked over at the horses, then back at the sergeant as he pointed a finger at the nearest tree. The curse leapt from his fingers a second later, striking the tree and splashing out of existence. A moment later, the tree shattered into a small pile of firewood. 
“The effects are less dramatic if you use the spell on a human — or an orc,” Sergeant Miles commented, as Emily stared at the rubble. “But it is almost always lethal.”
Emily swallowed. “What do you do if you’re hit with it?”
“You hope your protections can handle the curse,” Sergeant Miles told her. “And if they can’t, you’re dead.”
He nodded towards the next tree. “Try to cast the spell.”
Emily braced herself, then started to cast the spell. It wasn’t easy to shape the spell in her mind, let alone cast it. She’d been taught never to try to combine spells. The magic seemed to spin around her, the cutting charm slicing through the wood while the curse failed to materialize ...
“Try again,” Sergeant Miles ordered. “You need to master the spell.”
“You could have taught me this in Whitehall,” Emily muttered. She shivered, fighting the urge to cast a warming charm. The cold was digging into her bones. “Sergeant ...”
“I have my reasons,” Sergeant Miles said. “Cast the spell.”
Emily gritted her teeth, then cast the spell again. The spellweave came apart in her mind, magic spilling everywhere. She felt her head start to pound, a mocking reminder that she had the power, but not the skill. Taking a deep breath, she tried for the third time. The spell struck the target and ripped it apart.
“A little too much power,” Sergeant Miles commented, casting a protective ward as pieces of wood rained down around them. “You’ll drain yourself rapidly if you use so much magic.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Emily said. At least she’d managed to cast the spell. “I’ll keep trying.”
She sucked in her breath as she cast the spell for the fourth time. It was easy to see why the spell was considered restricted. The combination of the two spells was lethal — and required relatively little power to cast. A first year student could probably cast the spell ... hell, she suspected that a first year would actually have found it easier. He or she would have less magic at their disposal. If she’d learned to cast lethal spells in first year ...
I did, she reminded herself. Even the prank spells can be lethal, if used properly.
“Good enough,” Sergeant Miles grunted, after she’d cast the spell a dozen times. “You will keep practicing, of course.”
“Of course,” Emily said.
She followed him back into the cabin and hurried over to the fire, kneeling down and allowing the heat to seep into her bones. Sergeant Miles snorted, then passed her another piece of paper. It outlined another spell, one that compelled its hearers to obey. Emily shuddered at the thought, remembering Lady Barb using a similar spell. She hadn’t been the target, but she’d been affected nonetheless.
“Do not use this spell unless you are desperate,” Sergeant Miles told her, once she’d parsed it out. “Its effects are often unpredictable. Magic users are often capable of shrugging it off, but so are strong-willed mundanes. Using it on a crowd works better than using it on a single person. No one knows why.”
Emily frowned. “And you expect me to cast this?”
“If necessary,” Sergeant Miles said. “It’s harder to practice with this spell, if only because finding suitable test subjects isn’t easy.”
“No one wants to volunteer?” Emily guessed. “Or do they know what’s coming?”
“They do,” Sergeant Miles confirmed. “It’s very difficult to test the spell on someone who knows what’s coming. They prepare themselves to resist.”
He paused. “Stand up.”
Emily’s entire body jerked. The compulsion was strong, yet crude ... an odd blend of outright compulsion and subtle magic. Part of her wanted to stand up, wanted to please him ... she forced herself to remain kneeling, rather than rising. She felt a sudden surge of anger as the magic faded away, her fists clenching helplessly. How dare he try to compel her to do anything?
“That’s the other problem with the spell,” Sergeant Miles told her. He didn’t seem surprised at her anger. “When it is released, when the effects fade away, the victim is furious. I’ve seen casters beaten to a pulp by their victims.”
“I’m not surprised,” Emily muttered. The urge to lash out at the sergeant had been overwhelming. Her magic crackled through her, demanding retribution. If she’d hit him ... she had a feeling he’d understand. She took a deep breath, centering herself as her anger drained away. “Do I get to test the spell on you?”
Sergeant Miles cocked his head. “Do you think it would work?”
Emily shook her head. Sergeant Miles would be ready for the spell. The nasty part of her mind wondered if she should cast it on him when his back was turned, but she rather suspected his protections would deflect it. And then he’d be furious. She looked back down at the paper, silently going through the spellwork. It wasn’t related to Robin’s compulsion spell, as far as she could tell, but it did have some things in common.
“Put the kettle on,” Sergeant Miles ordered. He jerked a finger towards the kettle, hanging from the wall. “We need a warm drink before we head onwards.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Emily said. She was the apprentice. Preparing Kava was merely one of her duties. A thought struck her as she hung the kettle over the fireplace and filled it with purified water. “Can you teach these spells in Whitehall?”
“Let’s just say that I would prefer not to take the risk,” Sergeant Miles said. “You are an advanced student, but combined spells are normally only taught in sixth year.”
And Gordian wouldn’t be happy you’re teaching me at all, Emily added, silently.
“Put out three cups,” Sergeant Miles added. He glanced towards the door. “We’re going to need them.”
Emily blinked. “Someone is coming ...?”
There was a knock at the door. Emily stood, hastily smoothing down her trousers. Perhaps Lady Barb had come to join them. Or Mistress Danielle. Emily had sent her a letter to say that she wouldn’t be able to take lessons for the next few weeks, but Mistress Danielle hadn’t written back. Sergeant Miles opened the door ...
And Void stepped into the cabin.

Chapter Six

“Void,” Emily said, astonished.
She darted forward and gave him a hug, surprising herself. Void hugged her back gravely, then glanced at Sergeant Miles. The sergeant inclined his head, motioning for Void to join them. Emily let go of the older sorcerer and headed back to the fire, hastily pouring the Kava into three cups and passing the first one to Void.
Void took it, then winked. “Technically, you should offer the first one to your master,” he said. “It’s a sign of respect.”
Emily flushed, embarrassed. “Sorry ...”
“Try not to do it in front of the other combat sorcerers,” Sergeant Miles said. He sounded amused, rather than angry. “Although sorting out who should be served first in the aristocratic camp will be a real nightmare.”
He took his mug and turned towards the door. “I’ll tend to the horses,” he said. “Give me a shout when you’re done.”
Emily watched him go, then looked at Void. He was taller than she remembered, with long dark hair — the same shade as Frieda’s — falling down around his angular face. It was a droll reminder that she didn’t know what he really looked like, his appearance constantly changing to suit himself. But he hadn’t changed that much in the past few years. She would have assumed he was in his early thirties if she hadn’t known he was well over a hundred.
“It’s good to see you again,” she said. There were no chairs in the cabin, so she sat down on the earthen floor and motioned for him to sit facing her. “I’ve ... I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“So do I,” Void said. He sat, seemingly untroubled by the hard ground. “And time is pressing.”
Emily felt an odd twinge of regret. “Sergeant Miles knew we’d be meeting, didn’t he?”
“I asked him to find a place we could meet,” Void said. He shrugged, taking another sip from his cup. “Walking into Whitehall isn’t so easy these days.”
It could be, Emily thought. 
She scowled. Gordian might have tried to keep Void out, but she could override the wards. And yet, she didn’t really want to talk about it. Gordian didn’t need more reason to dislike her.
“I’ve been watching the situation,” Void said, after a moment. “The invasion ... the necromancer ... it doesn’t bode well.”
“I know,” Emily said. She looked up at him. “Are you going to be coming?”
“I’ll be around, somewhere,” Void said. “This necromancer is known to be cunning, but he’s showing a degree of forward planning I would have thought impossible. That worries me.”
“He might have found a way to make necromancy work,” Emily said.
“Perhaps,” Void said. He looked pensive. “Theoretically, a powerful magician would be able to stave off the madness longer. There are ... concepts ... that might assist him in remaining sane. But none of them have ever been truly tested.”
“No one wants to take the risk,” Emily guessed.
Void smiled, humorlessly. “They would never be able to turn back,” he agreed. “Either they escape to the Blighted Lands or they are killed by their former comrades.”
He shrugged. “That’s not why I came to talk to you, though,” he said. “General Pollack requested you personally, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Emily said.
“He wasn’t the only one,” Void said. “Quite a few councilors wanted you to go.”
Emily blinked in surprise. “Why? I mean ... do they all think I can beat him?”
“You’re the only person in recorded history to have killed two necromancers in single combat,” Void pointed out. Emily refrained from pointing out that she’d cheated. The councilors didn’t know what she’d done. “That makes you powerful indeed.”
He leaned back, his face suddenly expressionless. “Some of the councilors wanted you to go because they believe you can beat him,” he said. “Others want you to go in the hope you’ll fall on your sword. They want you dead.”
Emily stared at him. “They want me dead? Why?”
“Different reasons for different people,” Void told her. “Some think you’re just as dangerous, either because you’re uniquely strong or because you’re a necromancer in your own right. Others see the changes you’ve already wrought and fear what you’ll do in the future. And others ... they see you as a destabilizing force, a person who will change the world.”
He smiled. “A Child of Destiny, if you will.”
“You know I’m not,” Emily pointed out. Her mother had been called Destiny. “I’m certainly not one in the sense they mean.” 
“They don’t know that,” Void said. He leaned forward, his face utterly composed. “And you have changed the world. The printing press ... gunpowder ... steam engines ... All the little changes, building up into something ... you’re responsible for far more than a minor civil uprising in Zangaria. They’re scared of you.”
Emily shivered. People she didn’t know, people she’d never met, had plotted her death, merely because they saw her as a potential threat to their world. But the Allied Lands were slowly losing the war. They needed to change, they needed to develop more advanced technology, before it was too late. She knew, all too well, that there would be disruption, that there would be winners and losers. But the entire Allied Lands were at risk. They had to change.
“I know,” she said, finally.
Void gave her a long look. “So watch your back,” he warned. “Someone might just try to stick a knife in it. Or find some other way to humiliate you. Killing you outright carries risks, but destroying your reputation carries none.”
“I understand,” Emily said. 
“Very good,” Void said. He finished his drink, placing the cup on the floor. “I can’t stay, I’m afraid. I’ve got an appointment elsewhere.”
Emily felt a stab of pain. She’d hoped he would stay. She had so much to tell him. Void would be delighted to hear about the past, about Lord Whitehall and his commune ... but she knew he wouldn’t stay. All she could do was hope he would find more time for her soon, after the war.
“One thing, before I go,” Void added. “I notice the protective spell I gave you was torn to shreds.”
“It was,” Emily confirmed. 
She sighed. Void had called it The Secret That Cannot Be Spoken, a protective spell that shielded her from truth spells and compulsions that would otherwise make her talk. But the spell hadn’t stood up to Robin’s attack, even though it had saved her from becoming his slave. She’d had to weed the last remnants of the spell out of her mind, once she’d returned to the present day. It would have been dangerous to leave them in place.
A thought struck her. “How did you know?”
“It’s clearly visible if you know what to look for,” Void said, vaguely. “Do you want me to cast the spell again?”
Emily hesitated. Lady Barb had warned her that relying on a single spell to maintain her defenses was dangerous. A skilled or knowledgeable sorcerer might find a chink in her armor and use it to break her mind. Robin had been neither skilled nor knowledgeable, but the spell the demon had given him had managed to crack through her defenses. She would have to be more careful in the future.
“I think I’ll rely on other spells,” she said. She’d have to see if Sergeant Miles was willing to help her test her defenses. Lady Barb would have been preferable, but Emily had no idea where she was. Or when she’d be free to assist. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Void looked approving, just for a second. “Very good,” he said. “But make sure you layer your protective spells carefully.”
He rose. “And make sure you learn as much as you can from the sergeant,” he added, as Emily stood. “He’s a good teacher.”
His face twisted in dark amusement. “And also quite low in the pecking order. A smart officer will listen to his sergeants, but he won’t consider them his equals.”
Emily frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You will,” Void said. 
He opened the door. A gust of cold air blew in, carrying snowflakes. Emily looked up at the dark sky and shivered. They would either be riding in the snow, which struck her as insanely dangerous, or remain trapped in the cabin until the snow stopped falling. And if the snow kept falling, they might be snowbound.
But we could use magic to teleport or simply blast our way out, she thought. We wouldn’t be trapped permanently.
Void stepped out into the cold air. Sergeant Miles was standing next to the horses, smoking a long pipe. He raised a hand as Void nodded to him before teleporting away. Emily felt another twinge of sadness — he hadn’t even said goodbye — as she walked over to the sergeant. The horses were munching contentedly from feedbags.
“Put out the fire, then clean up the cabin,” Sergeant Miles ordered. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Emily looked up at the sky. The snow was falling harder now, hiding their tracks. She looked over towards the pond, watching the water ripple as snowflakes touched the surface and vanished. Something was lurking there, just below the surface. She had a nasty feeling she didn’t want to find out what it was. But if they were going to be riding in the snow ...
She swallowed. Was this an order she was supposed to question? Or was she meant to do as she was told?
“The snow’s getting heavier,” she said, finally. “Shouldn’t we stay here?”
“It isn’t long until our next stop,” Sergeant Miles said. “Go clean up the cabin.”
Emily sighed and did as she was told, putting out the fire, washing up the cups they’d used and wiping the floor. Sergeant Miles checked everything carefully as soon as she had finished, then motioned for her to pick up her bag and follow him outside. The horses were waiting, looking cold. Emily had to struggle to climb onto her horse when the beast’s fur was wet and cold. The warming spell she cast as soon as she was seated didn’t seem to help. Sergeant Miles led her down the path as soon as he’d mounted his horse.
It was a terrifying experience. Alassa would probably have loved it, but Emily couldn’t help feeling as though the horse was going to slip and fall over at any moment. They picked their way onwards as the snow kept falling around them, the horses picking their way through the slush. She clung to the reins with grim desperation, hoping — praying — that they reached their next destination before they froze to death. Maybe there was something supernatural in the snow, she reasoned. She’d cast the warming spell twice, but the cold still seeped into her bones.
This is utter madness, she thought, as the horse slipped. Just for a moment, she was certain the horse was going to throw her. We should have stayed in the cabin.
The trees parted suddenly, revealing a cluster of small buildings. Emily forced herself to sit upright, admiring the wooden houses. A small gully ran through the village, tiny fragile-looking bridges connecting the houses to the streets. In summer, she realized, the gully would be a stream, providing water for the occupants. Warm light spilled out of windows, welcoming them to the village. Sergeant Miles led her down what she assumed was a street — the snow made it hard to tell — and up to a large inn. A grim-faced person was standing outside, wrapped in so many furs that Emily couldn’t tell if she was looking at a man or a woman.
Sergeant Miles slipped off his horse and landed neatly on the ground. “Take the horses back to Whitehall, once the snow has melted,” he said, passing the reins and a silver coin to the figure. “They’ll tip you once the horses are returned.”
He beckoned for Emily to join him. “Have you been here before?”
Emily shook her head as the horses were led off towards the stables. If the inn was like the others she’d seen, there would be room for a dozen horses at the rear. There was probably a horse-trader somewhere within the village too, always looking to sell or barter his wares. A courier might exchange a tired horse for a fresh one too. But in winter, business would be slow. The innkeeper would probably be very relieved to see them.
“This is a free community on the King’s Road,” Sergeant Miles said. He led the way across the tiny bridge — Emily could barely make out the snow-filled gully — and pushed open the door. A gust of warm air struck them as they entered. She leant into the warmth, gratefully. “Most of the people here are farmers or woodsmen, but there’re a couple of magicians who harvest potions’ ingredients from the forest. They’re good people.”
Emily looked around as Sergeant Miles removed his coat. The inn was cleaner than most, she had to admit, but it still looked dingy. A number of patrons, mainly young men, eyed her curiously, not bothering to hide their interest. There were only two women in the room, both old enough to be her grandmother. She forced herself to stare back at the young men as she removed her coat, allowing them to see the crest on her outfit. They looked away hastily as soon as they realized she was a magician.
The innkeeper materialized in front of them, moving with surprising stealth for a man of his immense bulk. “Welcome to the Belching Hydra, My Lord,” he said, bowing low to Sergeant Miles. His eyes flickered across Emily before returning to Sergeant Miles. “Can I fetch you a drink?”
“A flagon of mulled ale,” Sergeant Miles said. He glanced at Emily. “And for you?”
“Kava, if you have it,” Emily said. She wouldn’t touch alcohol, not after watching her mother steadily drink herself to death. There were spells to remove the alcohol, but she’d always considered them somewhat risky. “If not, warm milk.”
“Of course, My Lady,” the innkeeper said. He bowed, again. His belly scraped against the floor. “It’ll be right with you.”
“There’s a toilet over there if you have to answer the call of nature,” Sergeant Miles said, jabbing a finger towards the rear of the inn. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Emily watched him go, then looked down at the table. People were looking at her. She could feel them. And yet ... she forced herself to ignore them. Her fingers felt frozen, as if the cold had turned her bones to ice. She knew it was her imagination, but the impression refused to leave her. She felt as though she would never be warm again. The innkeeper returned, placing a large mug of warm milk in front of her. Emily took a sip, silently appreciating the creamy liquid. Kava would have been better, but the inn might not keep it in stock.
Which it should do, she thought, as Sergeant Miles returned. We can’t be the only magicians who visit.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” Sergeant Miles said. He drank his ale quickly, gulping it down as if it were water. Emily couldn’t help feeling worried, even though she knew he wouldn’t take the risk of getting drunk. “I suggest you use the toilet. There won’t be another chance for a while.”
Emily nodded. “Are you going to order fresh horses?”
“We’ll be teleporting,” Sergeant Miles said. “There’s no need to ride the rest of the way.”
“Good,” Emily said, with feeling.
Sergeant Miles smiled. “I thought all girls loved horses.”
“I think they love the idea of horses,” Emily said, sourly. Maybe she would have wanted a pony, as a little girl. But real horses were dirty and smelly and needed to be mucked out every day. Spoiled rich brats could afford horses and men to do the hard work, but she hadn’t had a hope in hell of even looking at a horse. “The real animal is different.”
She touched the snake-bracelet on her wrist. The Death Viper was an easy pet, even though it was incredibly dangerous to everyone else. All she had to do, when the snake was in its natural form, was feed it or let it hunt. A dead rat could keep the snake going for days. And all she had to do was maintain mental contact to make sure it didn’t go after a human victim.
“But important,” Sergeant Miles pointed out. “Owning a horse makes a man a gentleman.”
Emily shrugged. Alassa might love horses — Frieda and Imaiqah liked horses — but it wasn’t something she shared. It still surprised her that Alassa actually took care of her own horse, although she’d met the woman who taught Alassa how to ride. She wouldn’t have allowed anyone, even a princess, near her stables unless they were willing to help take care of the animals.
She finished her milk, answered the call of nature and then picked up her bag and followed Sergeant Miles into another room. It was large enough to hold several dozen people, but it was completely empty. She puzzled over the empty space for a moment, then reasoned it was probably used for dances and weddings. There wasn’t much else to do in such a small village. 
Sergeant Miles took her arm and closed his eyes, preparing to cast the spell. “Wait,” Emily said. “What about our coats?”
“They’ll be sent back to Whitehall with the horses,” Sergeant Miles told her. He didn’t open his eyes. “Unless you left something valuable in the pockets ...?”
“I didn’t,” Emily assured him. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Good,” Sergeant Miles said. He shifted, rebalancing himself. “Then let’s be off. Time is pressing.”
Emily sucked in her breath, then closed her eyes as she felt the magic build up. The world shifted beneath her feet as the spell engaged, causing a surge of white light that seemed to burn through her eyelids ...
... And then they were somewhere else.

Chapter Seven

It was hot, almost scorching.
Emily opened her eyes, taking a deep breath. The air was dry, as if they were standing on the edge of a desert. She looked down, half-expecting to see sand under her feet, and glanced around. The sun was high overhead ... it looked to be just after noon, local time. They’d crossed several thousand miles in the blink of an eye. She adjusted her tunic as she tried to adjust to the sudden change in temperature, her eyes taking in her surroundings. It looked, very much, like a tropical country.
Insects buzzed through the palm trees, the sound of their passage blurring into background noise. Strange pineapple-like fruits hung from the other trees, some shivering as though they were on the verge of falling. The ground felt odd, like a strange mix of sand and soil; the air smelled faintly of something exotic, something she couldn’t quite place. She could hear men shouting in the distance, their voices echoing through the air. Sweat started to trickle down her back as the heat rose further, mocking her. She suddenly felt extremely overdressed.
“This way,” Sergeant Miles said.
Emily glanced at him as they started to walk down a dusty road. It was hard to be sure, but it looked as though hundreds of horses and thousands of men had marched down it in the last few days. The surface had been completely torn up, rendering the road nearly useless for horses and carts. A couple of young children, so thin she couldn’t tell if they were male or female, were scooping up horse dung and carrying it away from the road. It made good fertilizer, if she recalled correctly. The locals had to consider it a windfall from the gods.
But there’s also an invading army bearing down on them, she thought, as she caught sight of their hovels. The shacks were tiny, so ramshackle that she couldn’t help feeling that a single gust of wind would blow them over. Beyond them, the fields looked yellow, as if they were already dying. Scraping an existence from the soil, so close to the Desert of Death, would be almost impossible. These people are too poor to flee.
“The camp should be over there,” Sergeant Miles said, as they walked through another patch of trees. Spiders scrambled through the branches. Emily eyed them warily before giving them a wide berth. “Try to keep your hands in sight.”
She smelled the camp a long time before it came into view. The scent of too many humans in too close proximity ... she shuddered, reminding herself to breathe through her mouth until she grew accustomed to the smell. Hygiene on the Nameless World was a hit-or-miss affair — she’d been in cities that smelt like sewers — but the camp was particularly unpleasant, the stench of sweat, piss, and shit blurring into one obnoxious odor. The wind shifted, blowing the scent in their direction. She had to swallow hard to resist the urge to be sick. 
And yet ... it was smaller than she’d expected.
“This is the tip of the spear,” Sergeant Miles told her, when she asked. “Other forces are gathering to the north, preparing for war. More troops ... more sorcerers ... everything we can scrape up in a hurry. We ... may be charged with slowing the enemy down until the main body is ready to take the field.”
Emily shivered, helplessly.
The camp slowly revealed itself. An outer layer of makeshift tents ... she blinked in astonishment as she saw the women and children surrounding the wooden walls. They looked out of place, didn’t they? Dogs and cats ran around, looking surprisingly well-fed; she shuddered as she caught sight of a rat climbing on a wooden box. It didn’t look scared of humans — or of the cats. But then, it was large enough to give a good account of itself even against a cat. 
A long line of men waited outside one of the tents, laughing and jeering and calling out lewd suggestions ... it was a brothel, she realized numbly. She’d expected, at some level, men wearing military uniforms, but the soldiers — the common soldiers — looked more like rough laborers. Their clothes seemed to follow no rhyme or reason. One of them was shirtless, his back covered in nasty scars. Emily felt sick. Someone had flogged him so hard that they’d literally taken the skin off his back.
She glanced around. A trio of women were bent over a tub, washing clothes. Others were flirting with the men or trying to sell them stuff. A handful of men were doing the same, hawking their wares to anyone who looked interested. One of them was bellowing out an advert for protective charms, but Emily couldn’t sense any magic surrounding him. They had to be fakes ...
A drunkard rolled up in front of them. “Hey, man,” he slurred. He leered at Emily. “How about a kiss?”
Sergeant Miles knocked him down with a single punch and kept walking towards the gates, seemingly unbothered. Emily glanced at the drunkard, who had been knocked out, then followed him. The guards, thankfully, looked more professional, wearing leather that would turn a blade, if they were lucky. She’d expected plate armor. But then, she considered, anyone wearing heavy armor under the sun would probably die of heatstroke within minutes.
“Inform General Pollack that we have arrived,” Sergeant Miles ordered. “He will wish to see us.”
The guards were professional, Emily noted. They summoned a messenger and dispatched him rather than going themselves. She quietly reached out with her senses and tested the magic surrounding the camp, noticing the network of protective wards. It was crude, compared to Whitehall’s protections, but she suspected they’d be effective. The guards, too, had protective charms layered over them. Maybe not enough to stop a necromancer — no, it wouldn’t be enough to stop a necromancer — but it would delay any lesser threat.
Sergeant Miles leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Look confident,” he muttered. “You are a noblewoman — and a sorceress. You must not show weakness.”
Emily nodded, reluctantly. Lady Barb had tried to teach her how to behave, but projecting strength wasn’t her forte. It was easier to be polite to everyone rather than boss them around, whatever her status. She rather suspected that the noblemen in the camp were desperately trying to work out the pecking order, if only so they could suck up to their betters while sneering at everyone below them.
She heard a man shouting and turned her head, just in time to see a line of young men jogging past. The sergeant following them — she assumed he was a sergeant — was bellowing out encouragement and insults, while helping a couple of laggards along with kicks to the rear. Two more groups followed, each carrying heavy rucksacks as they ran around the camp. It would make them stronger, she knew, if they survived. Several of the young men looked as though they were on the verge of collapse.
A young man appeared, wearing a fancy uniform. “Sergeant,” he said, addressing Sergeant Miles. His tone hovered on the brink of rudeness. “General Pollack would be pleased to see you in his tent.”
He turned and strode away, without waiting for a response. Emily remembered Void’s warning as Sergeant Miles followed him, clenching her fists at the blatant disrespect. The messenger had to genuinely believe he spoke for General Pollack or he would never have risked insulting a combat sorcerer. She’d met some of King Randor’s messengers, who believed they spoke for their king. Thankfully, they’d had the sense to be polite to his daughter and heir.
The camp was larger than she’d realized, she noted, as they walked past a row of battered-looking tents, each one large enough to hold a hundred soldiers. Men were sleeping on the ground or marching to and fro, shouting and chanting as they prepared for war. Some were throwing spears, stabbing with swords or shooting arrows at targets. Others seemed to be playing dice or arm-wrestling. And one man was standing in front of a tent, wearing nothing below the waist. Emily looked away, hastily. What was he doing there?
“Punishment duty,” Sergeant Miles explained, when she asked. “He’ll have offended his superior in some manner.”
The tents grew better as they made their way further into the camp. Some had flags fluttering above them, others seemed to be made of finer materials or protected by magic. Dozens of brightly clothed young men were riding their horses around, giving them much-needed exercise. Emily couldn’t help noticing that they looked better than the common soldiers, their uniforms flashier and their faces unscarred. Their weapons flashed in the sun. A couple of them gave her odd looks, as if they weren’t quite sure who she was. She didn’t really blame them. None of the portraits of her looked remotely realistic.
Which is par for the course, she thought. There isn’t an accurate portrait of anyone in the Nameless World.
“Most of the horsemen are minor nobility,” Sergeant Miles commented. The hint of bitterness in his voice surprised her. He nodded towards a particularly foppish young man, who was balancing upside down on his horse’s back. “It’s very rare for a commoner to be able to afford a horse, let alone the upkeep. Even when they do, they can’t really afford to join a cavalry regiment. Each of those young fools is expected to buy everything from their uniforms to enough drink to drown the entire regiment.” 
“They look flashy,” Emily said. It struck her as terrifyingly inefficient. “Aren’t they useful?”
“If they follow orders, cavalry can be very useful,” Sergeant Miles said. “Put a strong commander in charge, one they’ll obey, and they can be decisive. But far too many of them will not obey orders, if they consider their commander to be their social inferior. Battles have been lost because some young idiot decided to do his own thing in the midst of combat.”
Emily glanced at him, then back at the horsemen. “The army doesn’t buy horses for its men?”
“Of course not,” Sergeant Miles said. His voice darkened. “Commoners are not natural horsemen, didn’t you know?”
Emily nodded, slowly. Peasants — in Zangaria, at least — were not allowed to own horses, even if they did have the money. Even merchants and innkeepers, who were allowed to own horses, had to register them with the local sheriff. Their horses could be requisitioned — or confiscated — at will and they knew it. Only the aristocracy were allowed to maintain their own stables. It was just another line drawn to keep the lower classes in their place. 
“The cavalry also gets better food than the infantry,” Sergeant Miles said. “They’re all expected to chip in, just to pay for the mess. They might invite you to eat with them, if you’re lucky. Make sure you starve yourself beforehand.”
Emily glanced at him. “Should I go?”
“If you want,” Sergeant Miles said. “They’ll flirt outrageously, but they’ll behave themselves. As long as you’re careful.”
“How reassuring,” Emily said, dryly.
Sergeant Miles laughed. “Remember what I said,” he warned her. He’d told her so much before departure that Emily had had real trouble keeping it all straight. “As long as you’re here, pretend you are a man and be one of the boys.”
Emily kept her face expressionless as they reached a second set of wooden walls. The riding clothes and tunic she wore didn’t hide her figure, certainly not enough for her to pass for a man. And her hair didn’t help either. Aristocrats might wear their hair long, but she’d never seen a man with hair that reached down to the small of his back. The messenger led them through the gate, nodding to the guards. They didn’t seem inclined to stop him.
But there was another set of wards. She could feel them probing her as they walked towards the command tent. Someone was being careful, very careful. The tents were protected against all forms of magical spying, as well as long-distance attacks. She nodded in approval. Necromancers weren’t supposed to have the skill to spy on their enemies, but it wouldn’t be wise to take that for granted. Besides, there were plenty of people in the Allied Lands who would probably want to spy on the army too.
A tall man wearing black stood outside the largest tent, next to a younger man in apprentice robes. Emily couldn’t help thinking that there was something forbidding about the man’s granite-like face, as if he was utterly unmoved by the world around him. And then he broke into a smile that transformed his features. His teeth practically flashed under the sun.
“Miles, you old horse-thief,” he said, grinning. “How have you been?”
He clasped hands with the sergeant. “It has been a very long time,” he added. “I’ve been meaning to make it to Whitehall, but ...”
“You wouldn’t want to blow up the school,” Sergeant Miles finished. He waved a hand at Emily. “Emily, this is Master Storm. Combat sorcerer, blade-master, and all-around sneaky bastard. Storm, I believe Emily needs no introduction. ”
Storm beamed. “I thank you,” he said. “I have heard of her.”
He looked Emily up and down. “Master Grey clearly underestimated you.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily said.
She couldn’t help noticing that the messenger looked horrified. If Storm could talk to Sergeant Miles as an equal ... it boded ill for his future. Clearly, Sergeant Miles was more important than his rank suggested. But then, a sorcerer — even one of humble origins — was effectively a nobleman. She suppressed her amusement with an effort. There were more important things to worry about.
Sergeant Miles was still talking to Storm. “They got you on guard duty now?”
“Someone keeps poking at the wards,” Storm told him. “They’re very good too, whoever they are. The wards need to be constantly monitored to keep the bastards out.”
He waved a hand at his apprentice. “Lady Emily, please allow me to introduce my apprentice,” he added. “He’s been with me two years.”
“We’ve met,” the apprentice said. “Emily, it’s good to see you again.”
Emily stared at him. It took her several moments to place the face. “Cat?”
“It’s been a while,” Cat said. He’d been in fifth year when she’d entered Whitehall. They’d shared Martial Magic classes. “You’ve changed.”
“I hope so,” Emily said. She hadn’t had much in common with him, although he’d always treated her well. “I was surprised you didn’t attend the wedding.”
“I couldn’t get time off,” Cat said. “Master Storm’s been keeping me busy.”
He paused. “How are the lovebirds settling down?”
“They’re doing well,” Emily said. Jade and Alassa had been almost sickeningly sweet, the last time she’d seen them. “I believe they’re going to be touring the Allied Lands soon.”
Master Storm cleared his throat. “You two can catch up later,” he said, practically. “Right now, I believe the general wants to see his daughter-in-law.”
Emily felt her cheeks redden. The messenger looked as though he wanted to redo the last twenty minutes. She looked down at the ground, trying to compose herself. She and Caleb weren’t married, not yet. General Pollack wasn’t her father-in-law until the wedding ceremony was over.
Cat looked interested. “Marrying the general’s son? I think ...”
“That will do,” Storm said. He looked at Sergeant Miles. “After you have spoken to General Pollack, please join me and the other combat sorcerers for a chat. We have to plan our tactics for when the army moves south.”
Miles frowned. “You’re not building a defensive line here?”
“The king’s forces will see to that,” Storm said. The wards flickered around him, just for a second. “We’re moving forward, it seems. General Pollack will fill you in.”
He smiled. “And we also have better wine than the rest of the camp.”
“Wine,” Sergeant Miles repeated. He sounded displeased. “How do you plan to fight on wine?”
“We also laid in several barrels of beer,” Storm added. “And someone will be brewing alcohol in the camp soon enough.”
Cat winked at Emily. “Try not to drink it,” he said. “You’ll go blind.”
“Good advice,” Sergeant Miles said. He looked at the messenger, who was practically hopping backwards and forwards. “Do you need to take a piss?”
The messenger reddened. “My Lord, General Pollack requested your immediate presence,” he said. “He’s waiting for you.”
And every wasted second is one you might have to pay for, Emily added, silently. She didn’t think General Pollack would waste time shooting the messenger — she didn’t even know if he had a gun — but she didn’t know him well enough to be sure. The general might take any further delays out on you.
“They’re free to enter,” Storm said. “I’ve already keyed them into the wards.”
“They might be imposters,” Cat pointed out. “The wards here aren’t precise enough to be sure.”
“Posing as someone I know very well would be extremely impressive,” Storm pointed out, sarcastically. “Why, how could anyone pose as Smiles around me?”
He grinned. “But feel free to demand further proof.”
Cat looked embarrassed. “Emily ... prove you’re you.”
Emily closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to think. Was he serious? Or was he just trying to impress his master? They hadn’t known each other that well. She didn’t think she’d ever been alone with him, let alone shared secrets no one else would know. Hell, on the face of it, they might not even have known each other. There’d been four years between them at school.
“You and your team played the dirtiest game imaginable against Alassa and hers,” she remembered, finally. “And afterwards she kicked you in the groin.”
Cat winced. Master Storm laughed. 
Emily concealed her amusement with an effort. “Is that good enough for you?”
“Yes,” Cat said. “She’s tough, isn’t she?”
Master Storm cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I would like to invite you to join the other apprentices after your master dismisses you,” Cat said. He gave Sergeant Miles a sidelong look. “If that’s all right with you.”
“Just remember she’s my apprentice,” Sergeant Miles growled. “No funny business.”
He nodded to Storm, then looked at the messenger. “Take us to the general.”
The messenger led them forward, pulling open the flap. “General,” he said, loudly. “I beg leave to announce Sergeant Miles, Knight of the Allied Lands and Tutor of Whitehall, and Lady Emily, Baroness Cockatrice, Necromancer’s Bane.”
“Welcome,” a familiar voice said. “Please, come inside.”
Emily glanced at Sergeant Miles, then followed him into the tent.

Chapter Eight

“Emily, welcome,” General Pollack said. He gave her a smile. “Come on in.”
The tent was larger than Emily had expected, roomy enough to hold two large wooden tables that looked as though they could easily be broken down. They were covered in maps and paperwork, a dozen folding chairs and something that looked like a portable drinks cabinet, perched in the corner. General Pollack stood behind one of the tables, flanked by two men; three more sat beside the other table, their eyes following her as she walked into the tent. General Pollack walked around his table and bowed to her, smiling as Emily curtseyed in return.
He’d changed, Emily noted, as he pulled out a seat for her. His body looked more muscular, his face more florid now he’d shaved off his moustache. He’d trimmed his hair close to the scalp too, giving him an intimidating appearance. He wore a white uniform, covered in gold braid, that glittered under the lanterns. Emily couldn’t help thinking that it would also make him a target, if someone spotted him at a distance. The Nameless World had no sniper rifles — not yet — but it did have archers who could fire bolts over incredible distances. She hoped that General Pollack would be careful.
“It is good to see you again,” General Pollack said, as she sat. “And Miles! I’ve heard good things about you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sergeant Miles said. His voice was very dry. “Being her master has been an interesting experience.”
“But it’s just a temporary arrangement,” General Pollack pointed out. “One devised to smooth her path.”
Emily couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable. They were talking about her as though she wasn’t there. And General Pollack hadn’t offered Sergeant Miles a chair. Was that a subtle insult based on his low birth? Or was she the one being insulted? General Pollack wouldn’t insult her in front of his staff, would he? Unless he was trying to make it clear that she was under his authority ...
“But a real one, until we part,” Sergeant Miles said. There was no give in his voice. Low birth or not, he was a combat sorcerer. “She is my responsibility.”
General Pollack nodded. “You are both welcome here,” he said. “Let me introduce you to my staff.”
He waved a hand towards a tall man wearing a fancy uniform. “Lord Fulbright, Master of Horse,” he said. Emily glanced at Fulbright and felt a flicker of automatic disdain. He seemed to be looking down his nose at her. “I believe you may have met.”
“I was at the wedding,” Lord Fulbright said. He didn’t need to say which wedding. His accent was surprisingly strong, suggesting he hadn’t spent much time out of his own country. “I don’t believe we were formally introduced.”
“I don’t believe so,” Emily said. She’d been introduced to so many people that she’d forgotten most of them within minutes. “But it is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
General Pollack beamed. “And this is Lord Alcott, Master of Foot,” he said. “He’s been on the border for years.”
Lord Alcott didn’t seem pleased, Emily noted. He was a short man, his hair cut close to his scalp, wearing a leather outfit that had to be charmed to keep out the heat. She wondered, as she nodded to him, if he’d been exiled from his homeland for some reason. Very few high-ranking aristocrats would willingly spend years patrolling the borders, even though it had to be done. He’d probably been on the wrong side of a political struggle and gone into exile, rather than face the headsman.
“Charmed,” he grunted.
“Lord Oswald, Master of Arrows,” General Pollack said. He nodded to a man who looked constantly on the verge of turning to fat. “You will be working closely with him.”
“You are welcome,” Lord Oswald said. He looked like someone who had just run an uphill race, his face unpleasantly sweaty. “There is still room for archers in the ranks.”
“And finally, we have Sir Roger of the Greenwood,” General Pollack said. “He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
Emily winced, inwardly, as Sir Roger came forward. He was a strikingly handsome man, a few years older than she was, with ginger hair and a neatly-trimmed goatee that made him look like a dandy. His tunic looked as though it had been designed for ease of movement, rather than protection. He carried a crude flintlock pistol and two daggers on his belt, along with the traditional sword. And yet, there was something about his appearance that was almost too perfect, too good to be true. She reached out with her senses, but felt nothing. Sir Roger probably just spent more time on his appearance than most of the men she knew. 
He would have cut a swath through court, Emily thought, as she rose. And as long as he was loyal, Randor wouldn’t care.
“Baroness Cockatrice,” Sir Roger said. He knelt to her. “May I say what a great honor it is to set eyes upon you?”
Emily fought down a blush. She hated it when people knelt to her. Alassa accepted it as her due, but Emily had always found it embarrassing. There was something about the total submission it implied that she hated. A man like Sir Roger shouldn’t be kneeling to her. And yet, it was protocol ...
“I left Cockatrice,” she managed, finally. “I am no longer the Baroness.”
“My Lady,” Sir Roger said. “You will always be Baroness Cockatrice.”
Emily kept her face expressionless, somehow. She’d tried to walk away from the barony, but Alassa had patched together a compromise that — technically — left Emily in exile, while Imaiqah held her lands in trust. She didn’t want to go back, not when King Randor had tried to use her, but she couldn’t escape either. The only consolation was that her exile would probably last for years.
“Sir Roger is in command of the musketeers,” General Pollack said.
“My men and I are ready to fight and die in your defense,” Sir Roger assured her. “And to show the orcs what we can do.”
“Die, perhaps,” Lord Oswald sneered. “Your men couldn’t hit a castle wall!”
“But the sheer volume of fire we put out means that each bullet will hit something,” Sir Roger countered. He sounded amused, rather than angry. Emily rather suspected it was an old argument between the two. “And we are getting more and more accurate weapons.”
“My archers still have you beat,” Lord Oswald said.
Emily glanced at General Pollack, who appeared to be concealing a smile. The archers would have spent years honing their skills, everything from putting hundreds of arrows in the air within minutes to sniping at enemy commanders. Skilled archers took years to train. But guns ... it only took a few minutes to show a musketeer how to load, aim and fire his musket, then put him on the front lines. Lord Oswald’s men would be superseded as the years went on and guns became better and better. Emily couldn’t recall when archers had left the battlefield, but they hadn’t been able to stand up to gunmen.
“This is not the time for a debate,” General Pollack said. “Guns have proven their effectiveness.”
“So have arrows,” Lord Oswald said. “My men can stop a charging horde of orcs.”
“Unless there are so many that they just keep going, climbing over their own bodies, to get you,” Sir Roger said. “Cannons will tear any number of orcs to shreds.”
Emily frowned. She hadn’t known that much about guns, back when she’d been on Earth, but she’d learned a great deal in the years since. The muskets didn’t have the stopping power of modern rifles, let alone machine guns. Lord Oswald’s horde of orcs might just keep going, charging right at the musketeers. The Light Brigade had made its suicidal charge against far more capable enemies. She had the feeling that Sir Roger was being wildly optimistic.
And he was still on his knees. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said, indicating that he should rise. She’d have to read what Alassa had said about him in more detail. “I look forward to seeing your men in action.”
“I’ll arrange a demonstration for tomorrow,” Sir Roger promised her.
General Pollack cleared his throat, loudly. “Can you spare the powder?”
“We brought a vast supply,” Sir Roger said.
“Very good,” General Pollack said. He looked past Emily. She turned to see a pasty-faced man standing at the rear of the tent. “Sir Albright, my aide. He speaks with my voice.”
Emily followed him over to the large table. A map was open in front of them, showing Tarsier and the Desert of Death. Someone had drawn arrows on the map, indicating the enemy army’s passage into the kingdom. Dozens of towns and villages had been overrun, it seemed; hundreds more were under threat. A small heart, a dozen miles into the desert, marked Heart’s Eye. Dua Kepala made his home there.
It isn’t that far from the kingdom, Emily noted. He could have prepared his army there and then crossed the remaining desert.
“We are here,” General Pollack said. He tapped the map, indicating a position further into the kingdom. Emily leaned forward, surprised. She’d assumed they were much closer to the desert. “Once our remaining units arrive, we will advance southwards and take up position to engage the enemy. Ideally, we will be able to reach Farrakhan—” he tapped a city, roughly twenty miles to the south “—before the enemy. If so, we will turn it into a fortress.”
“A free city,” Lord Alcott muttered. “Will they fight?”
“They have no choice,” General Pollack pointed out. “The necromancer will not leave them in peace.”
“And their city is already heavily fortified,” Sir Roger added. He shot Emily an unreadable glance. “We can enhance their defenses.”
Emily nodded, slowly. Reading between the lines, she rather suspected that Farrakhan had fortified itself against the king, not the necromancers. Most free cities tended to be in easily defensible places — no outside army had ever succeeded in taking Beneficence — but Farrakhan was vulnerable. If nothing else, an outside army could probably lay siege to the city, devastating the surrounding fields and starving the population. She wondered, absently, why the king hadn’t taken control of the city. Perhaps a deal had been made, back in the past ...
“The surrounding land is already being stripped of everything an army can use,” General Pollack said. “Most of the peasants are being told to leave. The necromancer cannot hope to keep his army going without food.”
“An army marches on its stomach,” Emily quoted to herself.
“Very witty,” Sir Roger said. Emily felt herself flush. He sounded as though he genuinely meant it. “Orcs need vast supplies of food to keep them going.”
“But they also eat everything,” Lord Alcott snapped. “They’ll be eating the dead, after the necromancer has his fun.”
Emily shuddered. The average peasant wouldn’t notice any real difference if one king was overthrown and replaced with another — they’d still be trapped in the fields, trying to eke out a bare existence — but the necromancer would see them as nothing more than a source of power for his magic. He’d round them up for sacrifice, then feed the bodies to his army.
“He’ll have to keep going,” she said, out loud. “He’ll run out of victims to sacrifice.”
“Quite,” General Pollack said. “And that is another reason to move to Farrakhan. The city represents the largest source of power.”
Of lives, Emily thought, numbly.
“The city cannot be held,” Lord Fulbright said. “Pinning our forces down will not save the kingdom.”
General Pollack scowled at him. “And what do you suggest?”
“We harry the invaders,” Lord Fulbright said. His fingers traced out lines on the map. “Let us starve them, without a direct confrontation.”
“Very good,” Lord Alcott sneered. “A truly brilliant plan. A tactic worthy of Tacitus himself.”
Emily’s eyes widened. Tacitus?
Lord Alcott’s voice hardened. “Except, of course, for the minor detail of us being unable to move a whole city,” he added. “Farrakhan must be held. The necromancer must not be allowed to claim so many lives or there’ll be no stopping him.”
“We evacuate Farrakhan,” Lord Fulbright said.
Lord Alcott’s voice dripped contempt. “There are over thirty thousand people behind the walls,” he pointed out. “We force them to leave ... they’ll be strung out on the roads, vulnerable to enemy raiding columns. Not to mention we’d be giving up our best chance to impale them on our defenses.”
“Starving them isn’t an option,” Lord Oswald said. “Orcs eat everything.”
General Pollack tapped the table. “There is nothing to be gained from fighting each other,” he said, firmly. “The only person who benefits is the enemy.”
You can’t fight in here, Emily thought, wryly. This is the war room.
She kept that thought to herself as she studied the commanders. Lord Fulbright seemed quietly furious, although she wasn’t sure why. The Master of Horse would command the cavalry, she was sure. Did he want a bigger role for his men? The cavalry wouldn’t be that effective in cramped streets. She’d heard the horror stories from Swanhaven. Men on horseback, surrounded by peasants and commoners, dragged down and brutally tortured to death. And Lord Alcott ... it sounded, very much, as though Lord Alcott and Lord Fulbright were bitter enemies. Were they expected to work together?
Of course, she told herself. There’s a war on.
“Our best chance to stop the enemy lies in securing and holding Farrakhan,” General Pollack said. “The surrounding countryside will be stripped bare within weeks. They will have to attack the walls.”
“And what happens,” Lord Fulbright asked, “when the necromancer himself comes out to play?”
“Necromancers have been killed before,” Sergeant Miles said, quietly.
Lord Fulbright eyed Emily. “Can you defeat a third necromancer?”
“Yes,” she said, simply.
But she honestly didn’t know. Whitehall had been strongly warded. She didn’t need to know the exact details to understand that Farrakhan’s defenses were flimsy in comparison. There was no nexus point, no source of vast — and untainted — power. Shadye had been practically invulnerable. A necromancer could smash his way through the defenses, then send his army through the gap to finish the job. 
And yet, she needed to show confidence.
There were options, she knew. She — and the other magicians — could lure the necromancer into a trap, forcing him to drain his own power just to survive. Or the necromancer could be poisoned, if he hadn’t already passed beyond the limits of humanity. Or ... she thought about the nuke-spell and shuddered. Maybe, just maybe, she could lead the necromancer back into the desert and use the nuke-spell to kill him. If she was lucky, no one would be close enough to see what she’d done. 
Lord Fulbright didn’t seem impressed. Emily wondered just what he saw, when he looked at her. A schoolgirl, still too young to be a proper apprentice? A noblewoman, too isolated from the real world to understand it? A sorceress, too powerful to be trusted? Or the Necromancer’s Bane.
“Baroness Cockatrice has killed two necromancers,” Sir Roger said. He shot Emily an admiring look that made her feel uncomfortable. “And those are not even the greatest of her feats.”
“We shall see,” Lord Fulbright said. He looked at Emily. “It would be my very great honor to invite you and your fellow apprentices to dine with my staff, this evening.”
Emily thought, fast. It wasn’t exactly a request, no matter how it was phrased. Declining the invitation would be a grave insult. There was no way to get out of it, not unless General Pollack was prepared to offer an invitation of his own ... which he couldn’t, because Lord Fulbright had issued his invitation in front of the entire council.
“If my master has no objection,” Emily said, finally, “it will be our honor to attend.”
Sergeant Miles looked expressionless, but she could see a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I have no plans for you tonight,” he said, gravely. “But I suggest you check with your fellow apprentices before committing them to anything.”
“They’ll be delighted,” General Pollack predicted. His voice was unreadable. “Lord Fulbright sets a very good table.”
He glanced at the messenger. “Inform the other apprentices that Lord Fulbright has invited them for dinner,” he ordered. “The apprentice on night duty will not be able to attend, of course, but the others should be free. Unless their masters have plans for them too.”
“Yes, sir,” the messenger said.
General Pollack smiled at Emily. “We’ll talk more later,” he said, softly. “Until then, go find the apprentice tent and get yourself settled in.”
“Don’t unpack too much,” Sergeant Miles added. “We’ll be moving out soon.”
“Yes, Master,” Emily said.
She concealed her amusement as she watched the reactions running around the room. Lord Alcott seemed impressed; Lord Fulbright gave Sergeant Miles an odd look, respect mingled with relief. And Sir Roger seemed torn between taking offense on Emily’s behalf and outright hero worship. Emily resisted, barely, the urge to rub her forehead. She couldn’t help feeling that there was going to be trouble in the future.
Of course there is, she thought, sourly. This bunch hates each other more than they hate the enemy.
She bowed to General Pollack, then turned and made her way out of the tent. The heat struck her like a physical blow, the sun so bright that she had to cover her eyes until they grew accustomed to the light. Cat was waiting for her, leaning on a staff. There was no sign of his master. 
“I’m to show you to the tent,” he said, cheerfully. “Coming?”
“Of course,” Emily said. She cast a privacy ward as they slipped away from the command tent. “Is it always this disorganized?”
“Probably,” Cat said. He winked at her as they passed a couple of women. Emily couldn’t help thinking that they didn’t look like either whores or washerwomen. “But things will shape up when we go to war.”
Emily frowned. “Are you sure?”
“I hope so,” Cat said. “Because if they don’t ... we’ll all wind up dead. And that will be the end.”
Of everything, Emily finished.

Chapter Nine

“This is our part of the camp,” Cat told her, as they passed through a set of wards. “Don’t invite anyone who isn’t either a magician or part of the command staff to visit.”
Emily glanced at him. “We don’t host dinners?”
“We don’t have the staff,” Cat said. He waved a hand towards two tents. “Guess which one is ours?”
Emily had to smile. Both tents were large, but one looked new while the other was a little threadbare. “That one,” she said, pointing to the second tent. “The masters get the new tent.”
“Quite right,” Cat agreed. He smiled as they reached the flap. “Apparently, it’s meant to keep us humble.”
The interior of the tent was surprisingly roomy, Emily discovered as they stepped inside. A line of bedrolls lay on the ground, illuminated by a single light globe floating overhead; a small collection of bags and knapsacks were leaning against the canvas. She suppressed a shudder as she saw the chamberpots, knowing what they meant. There were no proper toilets in the camp. God alone knew what the common soldiers had to do.
There were three young men in the tent, two bent over a book while the third lay on his bedding. They looked up at her as she entered, staring at her in surprise. Emily realized, to her astonishment, that she knew one of them. Casper, Caleb’s older brother. She couldn’t help thinking that he looked more like a younger version of his father than ever. Caleb hadn’t warned her Casper would be there; his father hadn’t warned her Casper would be there ...
He’s still an apprentice, Emily realized, astonished. How long had Casper been an apprentice? Jade had graduated in barely a year. What is he doing here?
“Emily,” Casper said. He rose and bowed to her, just enough to avoid outright insult. “Come to help us win glory and crush the bastards?”
Emily gritted her teeth at his mocking tone. She was meant to share a tent with him? It certainly looked that way. Sergeant Miles had warned her she wouldn’t be allowed a tent of her own, nor would she be allowed to share with him. Combat sorceresses were held to the same standards as combat sorcerers. No one went easy on them because they were girls.
“I’ve come to help,” she said, flatly. She’d always had the impression Casper didn’t like her, although she had no idea why. Perhaps he just hated the idea of Caleb getting married before his elder brother. “If there’s something I can do to help, I’ll do it.”
“I know what you can do to help,” Casper’s friend said. “I have a ...”
The third apprentice kicked him, none too gently. “Be quiet,” he said, firmly. “You don’t want to pick a fight with her.”
Emily blinked. “Gaius?”
“Apprentice Gaius of House Arlene,” Gaius said. He rose, smiling. “I’m flattered you remember me.”
Emily had to fight to keep her face expressionless. Gaius had been on the verge of marrying Melissa — an arranged marriage, of course — when Melissa had abandoned her family and eloped with Markus. Gaius had fought Markus — he’d also attacked Emily — and both families had been on the verge of going to war before Emily had managed to stop them. The batteries, buried at the bottom of her knapsack, were a grim reminder she’d cheated. She still didn’t know if the families believed she’d stopped them on her own or not.
“I couldn’t forget,” she said, finally.
“You saved me from being tethered to an old crone,” Gaius told her. “Fulvia ... would have used me, I am sure.”
Emily nodded. Fulvia had vanished, according to Melissa. No one knew where she’d gone or what she might be planning. Emily knew that Fulvia had sent Master Grey after Emily, but she hadn’t seen the old woman in person since that final night in Cockatrice. And yet, she had a nasty feeling she’d see Fulvia again.
“You said she broke up the match,” Casper said. He snorted, rudely. “Or have you changed your mind?”
“It was humiliating,” Gaius admitted. “But I have come to believe that it was for the best.”
He held out a hand to Emily. “I want to thank you,” he added. “You did me a vast favor.”
Emily took his hand and shook it, firmly. She hadn’t liked Gaius when she’d met him two years ago, but she had to admit she preferred the new version. Fulvia and his parents were no longer peering over his shoulder, urging him to marry Melissa and serve the Ashworth Family. Gaius might not even have survived, once he’d sired an heir. Fulvia hadn’t wanted any challenges to her power.
“Ending a marriage, disgracing you ...” Casper sneered. “Are you still part of your family?”
“Of course,” Gaius said. “Officially, it was Melissa’s fault.”
“Of course,” Emily murmured.
“She did choose to leave,” Gaius said. He shrugged, then nodded to the remaining apprentice. “This is Apprentice Sawford of No House. He was at Stronghold, so I’m afraid his social graces are lacking.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my social graces,” Casper said, quickly.
Emily frowned, then remembered that Casper had been to Stronghold too. He’d done well there, although Caleb had suggested that General Pollack — an old boy — had quietly smoothed his son’s path. Emily doubted General Pollack was the type, but she had to admit it was possible. And yet, he would have done Casper no favors if he had.
Sawford rose to his feet. He was the same height as Emily, with dark skin and darker eyes that reminded her of Aloha. His body was muscular, but scarred in a manner that suggested he was of common blood. Any magical or aristocratic family would have removed the scars long ago. Unless they were a token of honor ... she’d known several boys who’d kept their scars, just to show that they’d been wounded. She’d always considered that to be silly, herself.
“Lady Emily,” he said. His eyes lingered on her chest for a long moment. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
I stopped Robin, Emily thought. I can stop you too, if necessary.
“A pleasure to meet you too,” she lied. She shook his hand, feeling the magic curling around him. Common-born or not, Sawford was a capable magician. “I hope we can work together.”
She glanced at Casper. If they had to work together — and she was sure they would have to work together — they should try to get along. “What have you been doing here?”
“Preparing for war,” Casper said. “Leading men, training with swords, fighting with knives ...”
“Brewing potions, doing as we’re told,” Cat added, dryly. “Our masters have been keeping us busy.”
“I did go out on patrol,” Casper said. “We galloped up to the borderlands and back.”
“You didn’t see anything,” Gaius said. He sneered. “Did you?”
“No,” Casper admitted. “But we could smell them.”
Cat cleared his throat. “Emily, I think you should have the rear of the tent,” he said. He nodded towards an opened bedroll. “I’ll move my bedding to the front.”
“I should have it,” Casper said. “I got here second!”
“And I’m giving it up,” Cat snapped. He strode past Casper and started to roll up his bedding. “Put your bedroll here, then put your bag next to it. Make sure you ward it properly — it’s like being back at school here.”
“It’s not my fault you forgot to ward your bag,” Gaius said. He winked at Emily. “I was only trying to keep you alert.”
“Try explaining that to your master, next time,” Cat said. “And may the gods help any of you if you try to steal something.”
Emily made a face as she stepped past Casper. Students at Whitehall were practically encouraged to try to break into protected rooms, just to teach them how to do it. But those who actually stole were in big trouble, when they were caught. She made a mental note to protect the knapsack carefully enough to keep out everyone, even a trained sorcerer. Sergeant Miles would not be pleased if she had to go to him and admit that something had been stolen.
“There’s a peg missing from the outside,” Cat said, jabbing a finger at the canvas. “If you need to leave in a hurry, lift up the hidden flap and crawl underneath. Don’t stop for anything.”
Emily glanced at him. “You think we’ll have to run?”
Casper snorted. “If I happened to be a necromancer, and if I happened to know there was an army assembling here, I would launch an immediate attack and slaughter the army before it had a chance to get organized.”
“Good point,” Emily conceded.
“We’re a very long way from the border,” Gaius objected. “And we have pickets everywhere, don’t we? We’d see an army coming at us.”
Not that far, Emily thought.
“But we would have to get ready to face it,” Casper pointed out. “Do we have the time? I don’t think so.”
Emily tended to agree. Orcs were stupid — the average orc was barely smart enough to keep going in the same direction — but they were literally made for combat. They could move at terrifying speeds, if necessary. Covering twenty miles wouldn’t take them that long and they’d still be in fighting form when they arrived. And the camp wasn’t designed to stand off a charging horde. The magicians might be the only thing standing between the orcs and the unprepared army.
“It’s a wise precaution,” Cat said. “And besides, it lets some of us sneak out when the masters aren’t looking.”
“There’s a brothel for officers,” Sawford added. “We’re allowed to go there too.”
Emily sighed. It was just like school.
She unfurled her bedroll, then started to poke through her knapsack. There was nothing she needed immediately, save for the chat parchments. Sergeant Miles would have something for her to do soon enough, she was sure. As soon as she’d finished checking the bag, she started to cast a series of wards over her bedding. She didn’t think anyone would actually steal from her, but she wouldn’t put it past some of them to either fiddle with her possessions or try to hex them. And they’d argue it was for her own good.
“Make sure you keep your water bottle filled,” Cat advised, from his corner. “Drink all the time. You don’t want to get dehydrated out here.”
“He’s only saying that because he had terrible headaches his first day out here,” Casper said, darkly.
“It’s a valid point,” Gaius said. “Shortages of food will hurt, but shortages of water will kill.”
“Keep the bottle by the bed,” Cat added. “You’ll get thirsty at night.”
Emily nodded, removing her water bottle from the knapsack and hanging it from her belt. It looked undignified, but she had a feeling she’d do well to forget dignity for the next few weeks. She was going to have enough problems bedding down with five apprentices ... five male apprentices. And yet ... she’d only seen four.
“Apprentice Cyprian is currently on duty,” Sawford said, when she asked. “Or ...”
“That’s Apprentice Cyprian of House Crispus to you,” Gaius reminded him. “Don’t drop the family name when you introduce him.”
“Snob,” Sawford said.
“It’s important,” Gaius said.
“Merit counts more than family name,” Casper said, waspishly.
“Says the boy who has a general for a father and a sorceress for a mother,” Gaius snorted. “I don’t think you got this post on merit.”
Casper bunched his fists. “You take that back!”
“Or what?” Gaius asked. “You’ll report me to daddy?”
Emily sensed the magic building around Casper, threatening to break loose. His voice was angry. “You ...”
“Enough,” Cat said. His magic billowed, warningly. “This isn’t a place to fight. If you want to settle your differences, go do it in the dueling ring. Or go around the back and exchange fisticuffs.”
“He’s right,” Sawford said. “The masters will kill us if we burn down the tent.”
“Of course he’s right,” Casper snapped. “Kitty Cat is always right.”
Emily shook her head, then pulled out one of the chat parchments and started to write, doing her best to ignore the argument. Casper was angry and frustrated ... Gaius seemed to like pushing his buttons. She hoped Caleb would see her message and reply at once, but it seemed she was out of luck. He was probably in class. It had been early morning when they’d left and it would be mid-afternoon now. She hoped he knew why Casper hadn’t graduated yet. It wasn’t as though he was stupid.
“Hey,” Gaius said. He stepped through the basic wards and sat, facing her. “I understand that we have you to thank for our dinner invitation.”
“Lord Fulbright invited us all,” Emily told him. “I didn’t ask him.”
“It’s always a good bash,” Gaius said. He rubbed his hands together with a smile. “Good food, good drink ... what more could we ask for?”
Emily shrugged. She could think of several answers to that question, but most of them were impractical or impossible. Instead, she put the chat parchment away and met his eyes. Gaius could answer some of her questions.
“What happened to you?” She asked. “I mean ... afterwards.”
Gaius looked oddly amused. “Oh, I was in bad odor for a while,” he said. “My family — we’re a cadet branch, you know — wasn’t too pleased with me. Melissa might have been the one to end things, but ... well, they thought I should have tried harder to court her. So I went back to Master Bone and continued my apprenticeship. The family calmed down after a few months.”
Emily nodded. “Are you happy?”
“I don’t have Fulvia as a grandmother-in-law,” Gaius said. He smirked, not entirely pleasantly. “So yeah ... I’m happy.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Emily said. “What happened to your friends?”
Gaius looked uncomfortable. “They deserted me,” he said, finally. “All our promises meant nothing in the teeth of family displeasure. I haven’t heard from them in months. They ... I hope they’re happy, wherever they are.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emily said. She’d been lucky. Alassa was still talking to her, even after Emily had humiliated her father and escaped his kingdom. “I hope you find better friends.”
“Cat’s not so bad,” Gaius said. “He thinks he’s in charge—” he winked “—because he got here first, but he’s otherwise not such a bad sort. Sawford isn’t too bad either. Casper is a pretty decent magician when he’s not sulking, which is most of the time. I’m surprised his father hasn’t taken a belt to his bottom yet. Twenty-six years old, and acts like he’s six.”
Emily had to smile, even though she knew it wasn’t funny. Twenty-six years old ... Casper had to consider himself an adult by now. But he still hadn’t completed his apprenticeship, while Jade had completed his at twenty-three. Hell, Cat would be ... she paused for a moment to work it out. Assuming he was a straight four years older than Emily, he’d be twenty-four or twenty-five. Somehow, she doubted Cat would remain an apprentice for another year. 
She leaned back, feeling one of the chat parchments grow warm. “What have you been doing here?”
“Training, mainly,” Gaius said. “We’ve been brewing potions — those of us with some training in healing have been helping the Healers and Chirurgeons. And we’ve been practicing with our swords. I hope you’ve been keeping up with your swordplay.”
Casper would have turned that into a crude joke, Emily was sure. Gaius didn’t seem to notice the double meaning. “I’ve been letting it slide,” she admitted. Sergeant Miles had drummed basic swordplay into her head, but she hadn’t had the time to practice. “I’ll have to catch up.”
“Yes, you will,” Gaius said. “Try not to face Master Grave. He’s the toughest swordsman in the army. A training session with him will leave you covered in bumps and bruises. He’s so good that he uses a real sword to train.”
Emily made a face. Gaius sounded admiring, but she wasn’t impressed. Protective charms or not, using a real sword in training was dangerous. Sergeant Miles had insisted they use wooden blades, charmed to resemble a real sword. A student could get a nasty bruise, but nothing worse. Master Grave was either very confident in his swordsmanship or a complete idiot. She hated to imagine what a dead or injured student’s relatives would say if there was a terrible accident.
“I’ll try not to face him,” she said. Sergeant Miles had made it clear that she would be expected to train hard. “Do we really lead men?”
Gaius glanced at Casper, who had gone back to his book. “Of course not,” he said. “We’re only apprentices. We have some authority, but not that much.”
He leaned closer. “He wasn’t joking about going on patrol, though,” he said. “The masters have been trying to send a magician out with every patrol. You’ll get a chance soon.”
“Great,” Emily lied, sarcastically. Being on horseback was bad enough, but being on horseback with men who would expect her to be an expert horsewoman would be worse. Knowing her luck, they’d probably run into the vanguard of the invading army and have to flee for their lives. “I look forward to it.”
“You will,” Gaius said. “By the time you go on your first patrol, you’ll be desperate for something — anything — that will get you out of the camp.”
Emily looked around the cramped tent and sighed. She had a nasty feeling he was right. The tent wasn’t that bad, but after several days of enduring such close quarters she’d probably volunteer to walk to the Blighted Lands if it got her out of the tent. And the camp wasn’t much better. She was going to have a long and uncomfortable time. 
“Get some sleep,” Gaius advised. He rose. “We’ll be up late tonight.”
I’m too wired to sleep, Emily thought. But at least he seems to have reformed himself.

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