“Under such circumstances and with such promised consequences, how many of your men will join you in treason? Even if all of them do, the Chromeria still has power enough to destroy you. We will, utterly. This we swear. And then we will attempt to colonize Paria, and hold our defense against the Color Prince in your—our—mountains. This strategy will likely mean our death. We are willing to risk it. For us, it is a likely death against a certain one.

“Now Blessed under the Light, Guardian of Truth, Arbiter of Mercy, Holy Nuqaba, your choice is simple: fight us or delay us and certainly die, or join us and likely die. Signed, Orholam’s Humble Servants, the Iron White, Promachos Andross Guile, and the Holy Spectrum of the Seven Satrapies.”

Chapter 55

Kip moved expertly through the undergrowth to his vantage, blinking between sub-red and visible light in the darkness, eyes searching for Sibéal Siofra’s body. The forest air between the old giant spruces was cool and soft with thick curtains of fog.

The fog was welcome. It dampened vision and noise both, so it would make Kip’s superviolet signal flares visible only within a small range, thus limiting the dangers his men faced.

They were deep in enemy-held territory, attacking a supply train full of black powder mined and refined in Atash heading to resupply the White King’s Blood Robes besieging Green Haven. Destroying it would be good. Seizing it would be much, much better.

Through all their recent months of raiding, Kip had carefully been building a profile for his Nightbringers. Unless they had an overwhelming force, they attacked during the day, often just before dark so they could melt away into the night, relying on their superior woodscraft. That identified them as a force that relied on drafting, and as raiders, glorified bandits. Where other guerrilla forces traditionally exaggerated their numbers, Kip consistently understated his own, even when procuring food and supplies from merchants and friendly towns. He relied on Eirene Malargos’s quiet largesse to cover the shortfalls.

It had been another of Tisis’s victories, mollifying her furious sister for turning Antonius and refusing her orders to come home by making promises she and Kip would someday regret if they lived so long. They’d also had to trade intelligence for food—Eirene was a merchant to the core.

On the other hand, the woman wasn’t going to let her only sister and favorite cousin starve or die out here because they lacked supplies.

A further part of Kip’s stratagem was that fire was usually a big part of their attacks, used with only the crudest drafting—first from necessity as the Ghosts learned Chromeria-style drafting, and later to hide how effective the Mighty had been at training their new compatriots. The Cwn y Wawr Kip used everywhere. The Ghosts’ will-casting he used more judiciously, mostly for scouting and for tracking and killing the Blood Robes’ scouts.

But the Nightbringers’ ranks had swelled as their fame grew, and keeping secrets amid a growing army was a losing game—especially when your army included the giant grizzly Tallach that was partnered with Conn Arthur.

Still, Kip’s attempts at secrecy and the lightning-fast relocation that the skimmers allowed had borne fruit. Now it was time to push into the next stage of the war.

Kip hoped that all meant the Blood Robes wouldn’t be ready for a night attack of this magnitude.

He found Sibéal lying under some bushes at a good vantage point, her skin flushed the adrenal war blue of her people. He lay down beside her and clicked his tongue softly. Two mastiffs in heavy armor came up on either side of him. The Cwn y Wawr—the Dogs of Dawn—hadn’t chosen their name at random. They’d kept war dogs for centuries. Getting the dogs’ handlers to agree to let will-casters close to those beloved hounds had been beyond Kip’s persuasive powers.

But somehow, someone in the will-casters’ ranks had convinced the Cwn y Wawr that they cherished the animals they partnered with, and that the dogs would be safer with a human partner than without. Perhaps it had been that simple. Kip didn’t know how it had happened.

That was what it was to be part of a team. Others were out there, doing things you never heard about to try to achieve the same goals you had.

There was a sound low in the bushes, and a hound with droopy ears emerged. Sibéal Siofra woke and the hound shook itself as if it had been wet. Then it licked her as she reported, “Sixty oxen. Somewhere around one hundred men. Sarai’s not good at counting that high and their scents are all on top of each other. Sixty-two horses. A blue drafter. Four red drafters. Red luxin. Two greens. And, um, freshly dug earth?”

“From fortifications, I’d guess. War dogs,” Kip announced, “those are on you. Clear a path for us.”

Kip gave a few moments for the word to filter down his lines. Men were making the sign of the three and the four, praying. Kip looked back at the massive hillock behind him that was Conn Arthur’s giant grizzly Tallach. He really needed to have that talk with the conn about his brother. Not tonight, though.

The giant grizzly was lying down so as not to upset any of the other animals more than necessary. Its head, helmed with blackened steel and yellow luxin over the eyes, bobbed in assent. That and a small breastplate (well, small relative to a mountain) were all the armor the great bear would tolerate.

Kip threw up a superviolet flare to signal the drafters to fill themselves with their colors, sharing lux torches and shielding them under blankets. The lux torches’ flaring made for a lot of night-blind drafters—not all of them had at-will pupil control yet—but it couldn’t be helped.

He studied the trees for reflections of light from the torches and was pleased to see none.

“Wolves,” Kip said quietly. “Go!”

They tore off with the unnerving speed of the predators they were. They were to hit the camp first, silently, and take out as many sentries as possible.

“War dogs. Go.”

The mastiffs were off only slightly slower, all big shoulders and spiky armor, and terrifying mass. If the wolves didn’t raise an alarm, the war dogs definitely would.

“Night mares. Go.”

It had been a joke at first. It wasn’t a joke. Most of the night mares were actual woodland ponies. Some were warhorses. Some were great elk. All were will-cast and carried Cwn y Wawr drafters on their backs. A will-cast horse knew when you needed it to be silent, and the union of its animal dexterity with full human intelligence and discipline—discipline not to bolt despite the pressures of battle and magic and snarling animals on every side—meant every one of them was at least the equal of a well-trained veteran warhorse.