Tubal sat up, the movement wrenching a gasp from him. ‘Musket,’ he said. It was clear he would never be able to fire one.
‘Sir!’ the soldier repeated, more urgently.
She drew her pistol. Not cheaply. I will not sell myself so cheaply.
‘God damn it,’ Tubal coughed out. ‘Didn’t think . . . end like this! Stupid bloody way . . . earn a living!’
Emily looked up, levelled her pistol, seeing the grey of the enemy getting close now. One of the two soldiers arched backwards, mouth open but silent, and collapsed. She fired, saw a man fall because of it, then turned her attention to reloading as swiftly and cleanly as she could.
The swamp turned bright white for her, every thing in it searing into fierce and blinding light. She screamed, covering her face with her free hand. The one thought in her head: I am dead. This is it.
Then a wave of heat – heat as dry as the desert – blistered across her, and she knew.
She looked up, and a single figure in a white shirt was striding across baked hard mud, wreathed in steam. His hands were outstretched and fire blazed and lashed about him, roaring forward to force the Denlanders from cover and to drive them away, flames crackling about him in a frenzied halo. She barely recognized the face of Giles Scavian, so racked was it by the power that he was channelling.
She had never seen the glory of the King’s Warlocks before, not so close, not so fierce.
Scavian strode towards her. The Denlanders were firing at him directly now, and his mantle of fire spat and crackled, glowing white droplets arcing and dancing all around him.
God help us, that must be molten lead!
She fired her pistol – a meagre weapon it seemed now – and reloaded it again. The Lascanne line was advancing once more, or at least it was where it was near Scavian. The Leopard Passant was still not to be seen.
‘Help me!’ she called out to Scavian, and he dropped down beside her. He looked exhausted, his face drawn and lined, ten years older.
‘Tubal, he needs . . .’
Scavian just nodded. On either side of them were red-clad soldiers pushing forward, the enemy shot still tearing through them.
*
The night before, at the Survivors’ Club.
There was an attempt at a few hands of cards, but the real play had been in the looks thrown about the table. Brocky sat with haunted eyes, thinner now than he had been, the wound taking its toll out of him. He played with abandon, seeming most cheered whenever he lost, handing over the money like a man making his farewell gifts.
There was Tubal, making jokes, his grin broad, taking needless risks with the cards, losing and winning with equal equanimity. His laughter pealed across the table: ‘Hell and fire, what’s a tomorrow for, anyway?’ And then, more soberly: ‘Tomorrow’s for others to worry about.’ And in his mind, surely, were Mary and his son.
Emily herself was calculating, playing like a professional, as if each hand meant life or death to her. No second chances, she told herself; no time to correct any mistakes. Everything had to be right – and absolutely right first time over. She won but took no joy in it. There was always another hand to stake everything on.
Daffed Mallen was curiously relaxed: his fear, his trepidation, all lying dismantled inside him. Perhaps he had sacrificed to whatever swamp gods he really worshipped. He played as though the outcome of each hand was known to him. He showed no disappointment, no triumph, no surprise at all.
And Giles Scavian was angry still: angry with Justin Lascari, and angry with the war, and with himself. Each hand he lost – and he lost often – only served to fuel the fires inside him. Emily half fancied she could see the King’s handprint glowing out through the covering of his shirt.
Later that evening, Brocky excused himself earlier than usual. ‘I promised Marie I’d . . .’ Leaving the sentence unfinished, he shambled away from the hut.
‘Not like Brocky to go while there’s still wine in the bottle,’ Tubal joked, grinning hard.
Mallen poured out the dregs into their glasses. ‘To tomorrow.’
Scavian shook his head stubbornly. ‘To the King.’
‘To the Survivors,’ came from Emily, and they drank, the wine tasting like ashes on the tongue.
*
The redjackets advancing past them now had Stag Rampant patches sewn on their sleeves. The Denlanders had pulled back, but she