Thick in the cover of summer-heavy trees, the general cut left. Her vision cycled through the range of her periphery over and over and she scanned the trees for movement. Five horse lengths beyond the outermost tents of her camp, her vigilance and instincts were rewarded with the distinct shape of three men.
They’d blended with the trees and would likely have escaped notice of anyone but Koldo, sticking as they did to the inky swell of mature pines and southern junipers. The soldiers were clustered together, quietly conferring. Reconnaissance. A report back. Which, depending on the information, may mean action.
Not. Yet.
Koldo turned her sword blade out, making the thinnest line possible in their vantage—she wouldn’t have the light catch it and give her away. But she wouldn’t lower it and be unguarded. She moved as swiftly as she dared—quiet steps, fluid movements, eyes glued to her target.
These men thought they were shadows, but she actuallywas.
A new angle gave her cause for further alarm. One man held out a vial. Small. Dark. He held the cork stopped down with a gloved thumb as if he was fearful of what might escape. The two others—both men, because the other kingdoms still had yet to learn they would be stronger with women in uniform—leaned in, voices low. Though they were on the Myrcell side of the camp, these three wore rich brown tunics. Basilica.
“… a surefire way to get us killed. And if not, the horses who know not to stay away, or the fish we should be eating—”
“But if it works, we won’t be here long at all.” This from the man holding the vial. He was barely old enough to be a man, not even the hint of whiskers catching the light. “Ardenia will be defenseless and we’ll be on the move.”
“Yes, right after we wipe out this water source and every living creature around it.”
“That’s too destructive.”
“What do you think war is, Toma?” the soldier holding the vial snapped at the conservative one.
“A single dose in a kettle would be—”
“Death. It would mean death. Ardenia does not sleep. We’d be caught.”
As they continued to argue, something else tugged at Koldo’s mind. Not intuition but familiarity.
Sunset hair. Green eyes. A final gasp.
Two steps and Koldo was an arm’s length away, sword cutting down at the soldier closest, farthest to the left. The Basilican steel didn’t stutter as it drove through the meat of his neck, slicing through skin, muscle, windpipe, and spine, and back out the other side.
With a spray and thud, his head landed at the feet of the one in the middle—who held the vial and the most destructive ideals. The soldier looked into Koldo’s eyes a moment before Seme’s tip plunged through the soft meat of his belly. A whisper of canvasfrom his brown tunic grazed her sword hilt for a moment before she placed a boot to the boy’s chest for leverage to remove it.
Sword and boot heel released, the soldier’s legs gave way and he fell forward. As the man went down, she snatched the blasted vial from his stunned hands. His body hit awkwardly, spinning his partner’s detached head into a feeble roll toward Koldo. She stopped it with a boot toe and then relieved the fallen soldier of his head as well.
The third soldier stood there, mouth hanging open but no sound coming out. His eyes were saucer wide, the whites catching weak light from the Ardenian camp behind her. His whole being quivered, attention pinned on the two heads before him.
“Scream and you lose your life.”
The soldier’s lips snapped shut. His eyes met hers.
The general held out the vial. “Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?”
The soldier’s jaw worked. It was the man who’d shown mercy. She’d already forgotten the name the other soldier had used for him. Enemies didn’t have names.
“I—orders from our officer.” The soldier’s eyes didn’t waver. The truth, then.
Poison was one way to start a war. That much had been done. But to win one? That was a coward’s game.
Without a word, Koldo slipped the vial into her pocket.
The soldier seemed to relax, having expected a death blow the moment he answered.
A mistake.
Koldo grabbed each fallen soldier’s head with a gloved hand and tossed them both at the man, who bobbled the first and caught the second, his reflexes overcoming his surprise.
“Deliver a head to each camp as a warning. A preemptive strike is a declaration of war. And neither Basilica nor Myrcell can survive the Ardenian army.”
