heard your own promises to one another, I ask you, Sophia of House Danse, do you take Sebastian of House Flamberg to be your husband?”
“I do,” Sophia said beside Kate.
“And do you, Kate of House Danse, take Will… son of Thomas the smith, to be your husband?”
“Didn’t I just say that?” Kate pointed out, trying not to laugh at the old woman’s inability to comprehend that someone born to a smith might not have a house name. “All right, all right, I do.”
“Do you, Sebastian of House Flamberg take Sophia of House Danse to be your wife?”
“I do,” Sebastian said.
“And do you Will take Kate of House Danse to be your wife?”
“I do,” he said, sounding happier than Kate suspected anyone had a right to be at the prospect of being joined to her for life.
“Then it is my pleasure to declare that you are one flesh, joined in the eyes of the goddess,” the priestess intoned.
But Kate didn’t hear her. By that point, she was far too busy kissing Will.
CHAPTER TWO
The Master of Crows watched his fleet with satisfaction as it sailed in to land on the northern coast of what had once been the Dowager’s kingdom. The invasion fleet was like a bloodstain on the water, the crows flying above in great flocks that seemed more like storm clouds.
Ahead lay a small fishing port, hardly a fitting start for his campaign, but after the time they’d spent at sea, it would be a welcome taste of things to come. The ships hung back, waiting for his signal, and the Master of Crows paused for a moment to appreciate the beauty of it all, the peace of the sunlit shore.
He waved a hand idly, and whispered, knowing that a hundred corvids would croak the words to his captains. “Let it begin.”
The ships started to move forward like the individual components of some beautiful machine of death, each one slotting into its allotted place as it moved toward the shore. The Master of Crows guessed that the captains would be vying to see who could perform their duties the most precisely, trying to please him with the obedience of their crews. They never seemed to learn that he cared about little except the death to follow.
“There will be death,” he murmured as one of his pets landed on his shoulder. “There will be enough death to drown the world.”
The crow cawed its agreement, as well it should. His creatures had been well fed in the last weeks, the deaths from the battle for Ashton still filling his coffers of power, even as fresh deaths flowed in from around the New Army’s empire every day.
“There will be more today,” he said with a grim smile as both soldiers and would-be soldiers lined up to defend their home on the shore.
Cannon sounded, the first shots echoing across the water, the crashes of their impact reverberating. Soon the air would be thick with smoke, so that he would be the only one able to see what was happening, thanks to his birds. Soon, his men would have to trust his orders absolutely.
“Tell the third company to swing wider,” he said to one of his aides. “It will prevent anyone from escaping up the coast.”
“Yes, my lord,” the young man replied.
“Have a landing boat prepared for me as well.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And remind the men of my orders: those who resist are to be killed without mercy.”
“Yes, my lord,” the aide said again.
As if the Master of Crows’ captains needed to be reminded. They knew his rules by now, his wishes. He sat on the deck of his flagship, watching cannonballs strike flesh, and men falling beneath the barrage of musket fire. Finally, he decided that the moment was ripe, and he made his way to the landing boat that was being lowered, checking his weapons as he went.
“Row,” he commanded the men there, and they strained against the oars, striving to get him to the shore along with his troops.
He held up a hand as his crows warned him, and the men stopped rowing in time for a ball shot from an aging cannon to strike the water in front of them.
“Continue.”
The landing boat slid through the waves, and, in spite of the overwhelming force of the New Army’s numbers, some of the waiting men leapt to attack it. The Master of Crows hopped onto the quay to meet them, his blades rising.
He thrust through the chest of one, then stepped aside as another swung at him. He parried a blow and cut another man down with the casual efficiency of long practice. It was so foolish of men like this to think that they could hope to defeat him, even hurt him. Only two people had managed that in a long while, and both Kate Danse and her detestable brother would die for that in time.
For now, this was not so much a fight as a slaughter, and the Master of Crows reveled in it. He hacked and he thrust, bringing down foes with every movement. When he saw a young woman trying to run, he paused to draw a pistol and shoot her in the back, then continued about his more pressing work.
“Please,” a man begged, throwing down his sword in surrender. The Master of Crows gutted him, then moved onto the next.
The slaughter was as inevitable as it was absolute. A scattering of badly armed militia couldn’t begin to hope to defend against this many foes. It was done so quickly that it was hard to imagine what they had been trying to achieve by standing at all. Presumably something to do with honor, or some other nonsense.
“Ah,” the Master of Crows said to himself as he looked through the eyes of one of his creatures and saw a knot of people fleeing into the nearby hills, heading south. He came back to himself and looked over to the nearest of his captains. “A group of villagers is fleeing along a trail not far from here. Take men and slaughter them all, please.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man said. If the work of killing the innocent bothered him, he did not show it. But then, if he had been a man to balk at such things, the Master of Crows would have killed him for it long ago.
The Master of Crows stood in the wake of the battle, listening to the kind of quiet that only came with death. He listened to the crows as they landed to begin their work, and felt the power start to flow in as they consumed their share. It was a pitiful trickle compared to some of the battles that had gone before, but there would be more to follow.
He sent his awareness out into his creatures, letting them speak with his voice.
“This town is mine,” he said. “Submit or you will die. Deliver up all those who have magic, or you will die. Do as you are commanded, or you will die. You are nothing now, slaves and less than slaves. Obey, and you will stave off being food for the crows for a while. Disobey, and you will die.”
He sent his creatures up into the air, surveying the land that he had taken in this first advance. He could see the horizon stretched out far from him, with all the promise of more land to conquer, more deaths to feed his pets.
The Master of Crows did not normally receive visions. At best, his crows gave him enough to guess at what would happen. He was not the witch of the fountain, to pluck at the strands of the future, and even she had not been able to foresee her death. Now, though,
