Reunion Vale Read online

  Reunion Vale

  Of Duty and Silver, Volume 4

  J.S. Mawdsley

  Published by J.S. Mawdsley, 2021.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  REUNION VALE

  First edition. January 27, 2021.

  Copyright © 2021 J.S. Mawdsley.

  ISBN: 978-1393957485

  Written by J.S. Mawdsley.

  Also by J.S. Mawdsley

  Of Duty and Silver

  The Queen's Tower

  For Her Own Good

  Royal Obligation

  Reunion Vale

  The Last Bright Angel

  Of Duty and Silver: The Complete Series

  Reign of the Eagle

  Black Eagle Rising

  Siege of Kings

  Unspeakably Wooed

  Standalone

  A Fatal Humor

  One False Step: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  Above His Station: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  Every Count Votes

  A Fine Distinction: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  The Changing of the Guard: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  The Metal of Victory

  The Web in the Palace: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  Gilding the Lily: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  The Night Nothing Happened: And Other Stories of Myrcia

  Watch for more at J.S. Mawdsley’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By J.S. Mawdsley

  Reunion Vale (Of Duty and Silver, #4)

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

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  Also By J.S. Mawdsley

  About the Author

  Reunion Vale

  Map

  Northeastern Myrcia and Surrounding Lands

  Prologue

  344 M.E.

  As Grigory reached the crest of the hill, a sudden, savage gust came down off the mountains and sent up a swirl of ice and snow to block his view. He pulled his thick, black bearskin cloak tighter and waited for the wind to die down. And when it did, in the gray predawn light, he could finally see down into the enemy camp.

  The Myrcian soldiers were just starting to stir. Now that the air was still, Grigory could smell their cooking fires—hot metal and bacon with a hint of coffee mixed in, too. He saw yawning men mustering for the morning roll call. He saw the sentries riding in with snow-dusted cloaks and helmets, coming off duty. These men were no doubt glad for a chance to rest, completely unaware that a thousand Loshadnarodski troops now stood on their flank, ready to destroy them.

  At the far end of the camp, above the largest tent, Grigory saw a bright blue flag. A tiny breath of wind stirred it, revealing the figure of a white bird in profile. A sparrow, in fact. Those were the arms of the Dukes of Leornian. Grigory let out a long, misty sigh. It seemed so long ago now, those carefree days under that flag. It almost seemed like a different life, lived by someone else. He thought of the university and the little apartment on Docent Lane and the man he had loved there. Grigory wiped his eyes, telling himself the biting cold or the smoke of the campfires made them burn.

  He heard crunching footsteps in the snow, coming up the slope behind him, and he turned quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword. To his relief, it was a friend. Daryna Olekovna, the great hillichmagnar, emerged from the gloom of the bare forest, smiling beneficently out at all the world from under the fur-lined hood of her great gold-embroidered cloak. Grigory bowed low.

  “Please, you don’t need to bow to me,” she chided gently. But when he offered his Ptitska, she took the little painted figurine of a bird and blessed it, like she always did.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, my lady,” he said, as he took back the Ptitska from her soft, velvet-gloved hand.

  “I have to be able to see the Myrcians. If I can’t see it, then I can’t spell it. Remember?” She stepped around him and looked down into the enemy camp. “I must say I’m surprised to see you up here. I thought you’d still be with the carts and those clever little bridges of yours.”

  Ah, the bridges. The whole reason he had come on this mission. The reason the Loshadnarodski army had been able to flank the Myrcian camp, despite the almost impenetrable ravines and gullies in these hills. Grigory blushed, knowing he ought to be down at the bridges, supervising his engineers, watching to make sure nothing went wrong as hundreds of horsemen crossed. Checking to see that the pullies and gears and delicate latching mechanisms were alright, and everything could be packed up and carried away again after the attack. That’s what he would be doing if he were responsible. But instead he had come up here.

  “I...I’m sorry, my lady,” he whispered. His eyes were drawn to the blue and white flag again.

  “Ah, of course,” she said. With her unerring sense of empathy, she seemed to know instantly where he was looking, and why. “That’s the Duke of Leornian’s camp down there, isn’t it?” Her tone softened. “The new duke, of course. Duke Robert. Not his father, who played host to us all those years ago, may Earstien take him to the Light. Even so....”

  Grigory let out another misty sigh. “Even so, my lady, we do what we must.”

  “True, but there is no reason to be cruel.” She patted his arm. “Perhaps, if I make my first spell truly spectacular, the survivors will surrender immediately. A small act of mercy, in memory of old Duke Brandon.” With a grim smile, she took off her gloves and began rolling up the heavily-embroidered sleeves of her green velvet tunic.

  “My lady, please do not strain yourself,” said Grigory. She had told him many times that she could only use so much magy before she would collapse. And he had seen her use many spells last night at the prince’s headquarters—cooking spells and detection spells. And more this morning—levitation spells to help lift some of the bridges into position. “My lady, please. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

  He gestured down the hill to his left, where the waiting Loshadnarodski riders were barely visible in the lingering twilight under the trees. Their horses stamped impatiently at the ground as they formed into long, straight lines for the charge. Four entire polkein of men and women in the first line alone; the Myrcians would have no chance at all. Here and there, officers with long horsehair plumes on their conical steel helmets turned toward the hill, watching for the signal. Waiting for the holy magy of the Blessed Matushka.

  “Don’t worry, Grigory,” she said, raising both her hands. “I confess I’ve always been curious what would happen if I tried this particular spell and really...let myself go. This is a spell that a certain someone used to be quite fond of.”

  Grigory had a feeling he knew who the “certain someone” was, but he didn’t dare say the name.

  “In any case,” she went on, chuckling, “you might want to take a few steps back.”

  She cleared her throat and muttered something low a
nd guttural in a language Grigory did not know. The wind began to blow again, at first a tiny breeze, but rising in seconds to a sudden gale that almost staggered Grigory. Ice and snow swirled around the hilltop, and for a moment, he couldn’t see the hillichmagnar at all. Then the air cleared, though the wind continued to roar faster and faster, and lightning flashed, bending and swirling into a giant glowing ball of flame that spun in midair, beyond Daryna’s outstretched hands.

  The sphere of fire burned brighter and brighter, until Grigory could scarcely stand to look directly at it anymore. He saw Daryna’s face, glowing in the flames like the rising sun, and she seemed wild and inhumanly beautiful in the light. Laughing now, she shouted something else, but her words were lost in the howl of the wind and flame.

  In half a second, before Grigory even had time to realize something had gone wrong, her expression turned from joy to terror. The bright, spinning globe wobbled and trembled and began to shake itself apart, like a broken clockwork mechanism. Jets of flame lashed out, tearing smoking holes in the turf all across the hilltop. Grigory dove to the ground, clutching his head as a high, piercing wail rose above the roaring wind. And it was only when he dared raise his head and looked back that he knew the sound was Daryna screaming.

  She floated up, and all the flames swirled into her body, like water down a drain. She spasmed and shook violently, clawing at the air. When she threw back her head to scream again, no sound came out, but instead, jets of white-hot flame shot from her mouth and eyes, blasting high into the sky and parting the low, gray clouds. The hilltop where she had been standing shook and crumbled, leaving jagged cracks in the rock and soil.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the fire was out, and Daryna’s smoldering body fell, trailing ash. Grigory, still stunned, crawled toward her over the broken ground. His ears were ringing, and it took him a few moments to realize that he was hearing trumpets and bells—alarms in the Myrcian camp. And men shouting, both in Myrcian and Loshadnarodsk, their voices raw and breathless with panic.

  Grigory put all that out of his mind, though, when he reached Daryna. At first, all he saw were the charred remnants of her clothes, and he thought she had been burnt to cinders. Steam rose from the melted snow and ice where she had fallen, giving the impression that she was still on fire. To his surprise, however, she seemed entirely unharmed.

  His relief was short-lived. Her whole body shivered, and her flesh, where it was exposed, seemed red and raw, like she’d spent too long bathing at a hot spring. And...oh, Earstien. There was a great deal exposed. All the more so when he tried to modestly close her blackened cloak and it dissolved into cinders, along with much of her tunic.

  He felt the blush rise in his cheeks—probably making him as red as she was—and he immediately swept off his own cloak to cover her.

  She opened her eyes, shockingly clear and blue, in spite of all the flames. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “I...don’t think that went very well at all, Grigory.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said frantically. “I’ll go get my horse, and—”

  “I...I’m not sure I can ride,” she said. “In fact...I’m rather sure...I can’t.” Her eyes rolled back and she grew still again.

  “Holy Valamir! What happened up here?” cried a man’s voice. He spoke in Loshadnarodsk, fortunately.

  A scout officer in mail and leather armor approached, stepping carefully around the steaming rents in the earth. Grigory knew the man, whose name was Misha, from the royal camp.

  “I...I don’t know what happened, exactly,” answered Grigory. He felt as if his head was still spinning. “But help me get her ladyship down from here. We’ve got to get her back to the prince’s headquarters.”

  “She won’t be able to stay there,” warned Misha. “The Myrcians know we’re here. We’ve lost the element of surprise completely!”

  Together, Grigory and Misha carried Daryna down the hill and back into the sheltering darkness of the forest. They heard voices nearby and saw riders racing back and forth through the trees, carrying messages. Soon they reached the edge of one of the great ravines. One of Grigory’s mobile bridges spanned the gap, braced by wires and pullies. At the near end, by the big cart that carried half the bridge, stood Ippolit Voronin, Grigory’s engineering apprentice. He had one hand dutifully on the lever that worked the shining clockwork gear mechanism, because Grigory had told him, “Don’t let anyone else touch this.” Half a dozen other big and brawny men and women milled around looking anxious. They were all miners from Grigory’s own clan, recruited to help the engineering officers in the war.

  “Clear the cart!” said Grigory. “Put her in there.”

  It wasn’t until they had Daryna arranged on the rough boards of the cart that Ippolit and the miners recognized her. Two of them—younger than Ippolit—burst into tears. Others started wailing prayers; they pulled out their Ptitskas and clutched them to their chests. Grigory pushed them impatiently out of the way and climbed up to the front seat of the cart.

  “I’m taking her to headquarters,” he said, grabbing the reins.

  Misha, who had left his horse at the bridge, jumped into the saddle and rode ahead, saying that he would find the prince’s own physician and bring her to meet the cart.

  Ippolit reached up and put a hand on Grigory’s arm. “What do we do about the bridge?”

  “Leave it. Get yourselves out of here.” Grigory started the carthorses forward, accelerating over the bridge and setting the support cables humming.

  More and more riders passed as the cart weaved and rattled through the woods. One of them called out, “Have the Myrcians broken through yet?”

  “Not yet,” answered Grigory. Then he muttered a prayer under his breath.

  The prince’s headquarters was in complete chaos as he arrived. Servants and thralls were hurriedly tearing down the tents and the silken tapestry dividers, even as the king and his senior commanders still leaned over a map table, barking out orders at message riders.

  Misha shuffled over and whispered something in the ear of Prince Vadik. His royal highness turned, scowled at the cart, and then stalked up with old General Ivan Ivanovich, his chief military advisor, in tow. An hour earlier, Vadik had been resplendent in the captured gold armor of an Immani legate and a green velvet cape. Now the cape was gone, and he had the gold breastplate, with its embossed images of pagan Immani gods, half-unbuckled. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and lank strands of black hair stuck to his cheeks.

  “What in the Void happened to her?” The prince climbed up so he could look at Daryna. “Is she...?” His voice broke, and in a softer tone, he tried again. “Will she recover?” Before anyone could answer, Vadik snapped his fingers in General Ivan’s face. “Summon my physician immediately.”

  Daryna stirred under Grigory’s cloak and in a hoarse whisper, she said, “I don’t need...a physician. Just time. And rest. Take me to...the troops. Let.... Let me talk to them.”

  Vadik looked around, wide-eyed, at the others, shaking his head. “We can’t let her go out there again.”

  The general took the prince aside. Grigory could still hear them, although he didn’t think Daryna could.

  “We can’t let the soldiers see her like this,” said Ivan. “We’re going to have to retreat; the Myrcians will be on us in minutes. If our people see the Blessed Matushka is...is indisposed.... If they think Earstien will take his greatest Blessing from us, then a retreat will become a rout.”

  Vadik whipped around and glared at Grigory. “Is there somewhere you can take her? Somewhere other than the royal camp, I mean. At least,” he cleared his throat, “until she’s more...presentable?”

  Grigory almost pointed out that he was the Minister of Mines and the chief of the royal engineers. He belonged with Ippolit and the other men of his command, not with the wounded hillichmagnar. But even before he could open his mouth to say that, he knew it wasn’t true. Daryna served as spiritual leader of the whole Loshadnarodski nation. She was his guide and protector.
And more than that, she was his friend.

  “I’ll take her to the mines,” he said. “That’s as secure as anywhere I can think of.”

  Vadik nodded curtly. “Good. Do it.”

  Misha went to help Ippolit and the other engineers find horses for the retreat. Four of the royal guards were detailed to escort Grigory and Daryna, and in minutes, they were riding away from the army and the frantic sounds of battle just starting. Grigory said another prayer under his breath, this time for the soldiers back there. He prayed Earstien would protect them all and help them get away without too much blood being spilled.

  “Remember,” he muttered, “this all happened because she wanted to be merciful.”

  “Merciful?” It was Daryna’s voice, weak and wavering. “Who’s been merciful? What’s going on?”

  He turned to look at her, shivering under his cloak.

  She looked up and met his eyes with a dreamy smile. “Are we...are we going back to Leornian, Grigory?”

  He had to swallow past a lump in his throat before he could answer. “No, my lady. I’m taking you to the mining camp of the Sobol clan. I’m taking you home with me.”

  Chapter 1

  “Will it hold, do you think?”

  Grigory gripped the replacement slat on the waterwheel and tugged it back and forth. It seemed to be holding. He stifled a yawn and pointed at the forewoman of the pump station, who happened to be one of his second cousins. “Go on. Lower away.”

  The girl pulled the lever. The gears turned with sharp, ratcheting clicks. The arm swung down with a sharp hiss of ropes running fast through pulleys. And the wheel settled into the wide, tile-lined channel, where it quickly began to dam the flow, sending it spilling over the slatted wood floor. The water was bitterly cold, diverted from a high mountain stream that almost never froze, even in the depths of winter. Another gesture from Grigory, and a young man (also a cousin of some sort) released the brake. With a shudder and a groan, the great wheel—five times taller than a man and twice as wide—began to turn.