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  The next sentry, a hundred yards farther on, hears nothing. He is asleep, or close to it, and merely gasps softly as a dagger enters his chest.

  MATHILDE’S CHARGE

  Many times Thibault has sent men into battle on the backs of the great beasts from the Sonian but for him this is a first.

  He has ridden the greatjaws on many occasions, but never in anger. Never wearing the heavy steel armor of the cuirassier. It is different somehow, as if the animal knows and relishes what lies ahead.

  The battlesaur is the ultimate predator. It is a bringer of death and destruction under his guiding hand. He feels the surge of Mathilde’s muscles under the skin of her sides; he feels her unfettered power. The rise and fall of the beast is unlike the smooth flow of a four-footed horse. When walking, as now, it is a lurching seesaw of a ride; running is a wild, exhilarating frenzy, but that is not yet. For now, it is about silence. Stealth.

  He glances out to sea, where the storm shows no sign of approaching land. That is a shame. Rain dampens gunpowder and extinguishes linstocks. Muskets refuse to fire, artillery must be constantly sheltered and is hard to maneuver on soft, sodden ground. But the rain means nothing to the razor teeth of the battlesaurs, nor to the sabers of his cavalry, who remain just behind the gates of the fort, awaiting his signal.

  Rain would have been a blessing, but it’s not crucial. Dry weather will not save the British this night.

  Thibault passes the body of the first sentry, a narrow-faced young man without a throat, lying in a wedge of rock. Ahead he sees a slight movement and he is glad that the skirmishers are paving the way.

  The battlesaurs are great and powerful but not invincible, despite what he would like his enemies to believe. There have been casualties. Two at Waterloo, one at Berlin, and a rider killed at Rome.

  The armies of Europe learned quickly to use canister shot against the greatjaws. It was not usually fatal to the mounts, although it was to the riders. But the canister shot is only of use at short range. The guns take time to turn, aim, and fire, and the battlesaurs, when on the charge, are surprisingly fleet of foot. If he can get in among the enemy artillery before they can fire, the guns will be silenced.

  He guides Mathilde around another rocky spit just as the lightning makes an unexpected reappearance. There are glints of silver in the distance, a hint of light stabbing from a bayonet or from the blade of a sword. But this sentry is quicker, or perhaps just more nervous, than the others. The hard crack of a musketshot echoes off the equally hard rock of the shore before the body slumps to the ground.

  Thibault curses. The gunshot reverberates through the sudden shocking darkness, a distinctive sound, far different from the rolling rumble of the thunder. There are shouts as other sentries take up the cry.

  “The element of surprise is lost.” Montenot’s voice comes to Thibault from the battlesaur behind: Odette, the youngest of the three females. “We must retire or face their canister.”

  “If you turn back I will line you up in front of our own cannon and let you taste French canister,” Thibault calls back.

  Montenot says nothing, but when Thibault spurs Mathilde to greater speed he hears the heavy footsteps of Odette and Valérie close behind.

  They outpace the skirmishers, who move aside to let the battlesaurs through.

  Then they are past the final point and no longer following the curve of the headland but rising up the rocky slope to the meadows and furrows of Ballytigeen Farm beyond.

  * * *

  The four British artillerymen were playing cards when the first musketshot rang out across the fields of the farm. Unable to sleep despite the exhaustion of the previous day’s march, they were well into their third hour of three-card brag when the crack of the musket was followed by the cries of sentries, then screams.

  Now they are at their gun, with the other members of their crew. Along the cannon battery all the crews are likewise occupied, loading and ramming gunpowder cartridges and canister shot.

  They do not speak. There is no bravado. They know what has happened to other armies that have faced what they now face.

  Some of them glance toward the wide trench dug in front of their position, filled with kindling and oil-soaked wood. Others glance backward, toward the new soldiers. The ones not of the Irish Regiment. The rocketeers.

  Their guns still face the fort to the west. This is the direction from which an attack was expected to come. But now the danger, it seems, comes from the coast to the southwest. Lieutenants shout orders and gunners lift the trails of their cannon, swinging the heavy guns around.

  “Rocket flares!” is the cry, from behind them.

  The storm off the coast continues to rumble, but the lightning seems distant, concealed within the heavy clouds that hang low, almost to the surface of the sea.

  The storm does little to help visibility on the land, then one last flash, a last gasp of lightning, and the British stir at what may have been movement at the brow of the hill where the land falls away to the sea.

  It may be the result of an unsteady hand or a misheard command, but one of the cannon fires, sparking a barrage from the rest of the battery. The roar of the massed cannon is the curse of an angry god as flames belch from the cannon mouths. A pall of smoke drifts toward the ocean, mingling with the mist, intensifying it. The land remains in darkness, with no help from the sea storm.

  Now the rocket flares hiss vertically, spinning and spiraling as they climb. Three bursts of light create three new stars, swinging beneath small silk parachutes, burning brightly as they fall slowly back to earth.

  The British gunners are already in the middle of reloading. Worming the barrels, ramming the gunpowder cartridges and the canister shot. But there is no time. The flares turn the nighttime into a sinister, trembling twilight.

  There is a scream from somewhere down the line and now raging up out of the low ground, wreathed in shadow, through the mist and the smoke, storm the devil’s creatures. Great demons with armored breastplates and sinister hooded eyes.

  “Retire!” is the order, screamed by their officers. The loaders drop their shells, the firers throw down their linstocks, the gun crews scatter, running back through the lines as the three beasts bear down on them, huge clawed feet tearing up the dirt.

  A burning brand is thrown into the trench in front of the cannon and a flicker of flame spreads and grows.

  * * *

  Thibault pulls gently on one of the steering reins, guiding his huge steed a little to avoid a stunted tree in the middle of the farm field. In front of him the ground has erupted in flames. It seems the entire field is on fire.

  The cannon crews flee in terror, but the line of troops behind them remains.

  “Why aren’t they running?” comes a shout from beside him, Montenot’s voice. The other two battlesaurs have caught up with Thibault’s to form an assault line. Three battlesaurs, charging side by side. Thibault on the right, Montenot riding Odette in the center, and Major Campagne, their most successful battlesaur rider, on Valérie at the left.

  In every battle since Waterloo the enemy has broken and run at this sight. But here a wide line of soldiers stand firm.

  The leaping flames imprint on Thibault’s vision, making it hard to see beyond.

  Something is wrong here, but Thibault is not sure what. The soldiers should be running and screaming. It worries him and he briefly considers turning back, but dismisses the thought almost instantly. Victory is so close.

  “Signal the cavalry attack,” he orders instead.

  “Why aren’t they running?” Montenot shouts again.

  Musketballs cut holes in the smoke and flames, peppering the armored breastplates of the greatjaws, ricocheting off the thick steel. Thibault crouches low, protected by the neck of his mount.

  “Muskets against battlesaurs,” he scoffs. “Old weapons against new.”

  A bright light behind the British lines is followed by a finger of fire stabbing out at them from behind the leaping f
lames of the trench. It hisses past Thibault’s right ear, so close that he can feel the heat of its passage. It is followed by another and another.

  “Rockets!” Campagne cries.

  This is why the British did not run.

  The battlesaurs slow, distracted by the streams of fire.

  Still Thibault presses forward, charging into a maelstrom of fiery, crisscrossing trails. The rockets fly past him, around him, explode in the dirt at the battlesaurs’ feet, in the air above them, but the fingers of fire do not touch him. Nor will they, he knows. Death cannot touch him.

  They approach the flaming trench and Thibault narrows the blinders that control his beast, spurring her forward, past her own instinctive fear of fire, over the trench, into the line of deserted cannon. Mathilde knocks one aside with a casual flick of her head. Wooden wheels shatter. The heavy iron cannon embeds itself in the earth.

  Still musketballs ring and zing off Mathilde’s armor, and now before them Thibault can see the source of the rockets. A long row of metal frames. A troop of rocketeers, reloading, seemingly unafraid of the battlesaurs, focused only on their work.

  Another rocket trail heads straight for his face at point-blank range. He twists to one side and it passes by, so close that it sears the skin on his neck, but he ignores the pain. Pain is to be savored later, when he has time to enjoy it.

  Campagne is the first to reach the rocketeer line. He is firing one of his pistols as he approaches, although without result. He replaces the used pistol in its saddle holster and takes up another.

  There are three pistols strapped to each side of Thibault’s saddle also and he takes the first as he too approaches the line.

  In the light of the parachute flares he sees a British rocketeer step forward, aiming a pistol at the head of Campagne’s saur, Valérie. Thibault has time to laugh—a pistol against a battlesaur!—before the British officer fires. The sound is different from the crack of a pistol ball and a dark cloud envelops Valérie’s head for a brief second.

  Valérie screams and bellows, lifting and shaking her head. Campagne is thrown to the ground and before he can rise he is crushed under a colossal foot. Valérie runs in a circle, screaming, shaking her great head from side to side, then charges off at an angle through the British ranks, which fall back or are trampled as she bursts through.

  In front of Thibault another officer stands, pistol raised, and without thinking, Thibault hauls on his reins, slamming shut the leather blinders and nostril flaps on his battlesaur just as the man fires. The great saur, with neither sight nor smell, slows to a stop. A waft of bitter pepper drifts past Thibault, but already he is reopening the blinders and the nostril flaps and has the satisfaction of seeing the mangled body of the officer tossed to one side as the battlesaur’s great mouth closes once, then spits him out.

  Another man with a pistol faces Montenot’s saur and Thibault grabs for one of his own pistols, drawing it and cocking the hammer in one motion. He fires and the man drops just before Montenot comes within range.

  Pepper! Thibault fumes. Another trick from the British and another saur-rider lost. In truth he worries less about losing Campagne than he does about his battlesaurs losing their reputation for invincibility.

  Still the rocketeers load and light their rockets. The rocket frame in front of Thibault fizzles with just-ignited flame. He charges his beast into it, knocking it over just before the rocket fires. It skitters across the ground leaving a line of flame in the dirt, leaping up into an ammunition caisson loaded with more rockets. That explodes in a porcupine bristle of fire, rockets shooting in every direction, into the ground, into the sky, and into the massed squares of British infantry behind them.

  Now the surviving rocketeers break and run, their last hope of defense extinguished.

  Behind him, Thibault hears the cries of the French cavalry on the charge, and he spurs his own great steed toward the nearest infantry square. The greatjaw plows through it like a scythe through weeds and the cavalry are right behind him, sabers whirling.

  Campagne’s saur will be found the next day, red-eyed and indignant, resting in the muddy banks of a nearby pond.

  AMBITION

  Nicole waits at the castle gate for Thibault and covers her mouth with a hand as she sees the new blackened wound on his neck. Thibault waves away her concern.

  “The battle for Ireland is over,” he says.

  “And if the British return?” she asks.

  “They have been well beaten,” he says. “They will not try again. I must leave now for France.”

  “Then I will come with you,” she says.

  “You must stay here where it is safe,” he says. “The journey is risky. We must sail under the noses of the Royal Navy.”

  “Then you stay here also,” she says.

  “That I cannot do,” Thibault says. “The battle for Ireland is over. The battle for Britain is about to begin.”

  “And what of Napoléon?” she asks in a hushed voice, glancing around to ensure nobody is within earshot. “You said he would meet his death on the battlefield, but I have heard that he is no longer the fearless leader, riding at the head of his army.”

  “It is true. He now commands from the safety of the rear, in Calais,” Thibault says. “He is not the man he was before Elba.”

  “Then how can he die heroically in battle? You cannot be the emperor of France, and I cannot be the empress, while Napoléon still breathes!”

  “Do not worry, my love,” Thibault says. “I will take opportunity when I see it.”

  AMBUSH

  The sentry post is a wooden tower silhouetted against the starry sky. Despite the appearance of their little fishing boat, there is no sign of activity at the tower. Lars and his men have done their job well.

  The Oostershelde slips behind them. There are no more patrol ships and the last glimpse Willem had of the Dutch brig she was low in the water, bow down, and slipping lower.

  Arbuckle had done a better job of stoving in the planks than he had realized. Willem can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. The ship and her sailors were Dutch, not French. But war makes enemies of allies and there was little use in feeling guilty about it.

  The estuary at night is a dark tunnel with no whitecapped waves to give contour to the shoreline. Just black land and black water beneath an almost-black sky.

  He is glad of this. He feels the boat is exposed and vulnerable and it is true, as shown by the incident with the Dutch brig.

  Another silent watchtower approaches and passes, blind to their passage. The Oosterschelde twists and turns, keeping the crew busy with the sails.

  “Krabbendijke,” Arbuckle says.

  He points out a small beach, white sand glimmering dimly under the faintest of moons.

  Willem stares at the beach intently. Krabbendijke was his suggestion, although he has never been here in his life. It is only a few hours’ ride from Waterloo, to the south, where he will try to gain an audience with Field Marshall Blücher. It is less than a day’s ride from Calais, to the southwest, where the saur-slayers will find and destroy Napoléon’s great battlesaurs. Krabbendijke is also far enough from Antwerp not to attract attention. It seemed like an ideal landing point and the others agreed. He hopes they are right.

  A light glows briefly on the beach as a lantern is uncovered and waved back and forth. Then it disappears.

  “Lars,” Willem murmurs.

  “I hope so,” Arbuckle says.

  Frost turns his head toward the beach, but his ears and nose cannot reach that far, Willem thinks.

  The little sloop anchors as close as it can to the beach and Arbuckle motions to Willem to remain on board while he and a handful of men, armed with sword and musket, row ashore in the longboat.

  All must be in order, for after a brief consultation with the figure on the beach, the longboat returns and Willem, Frost, Jack, and Héloïse climb on board and are rowed ashore.

  More longboats start the job of ferrying the rest of the Bri
tish soldiers and Willem thinks how daring this is. Landing a small army under the very noses of the French.

  He climbs out of the longboat in the shallows, stumbling and almost falling, clutching desperately at the side of the boat while his other hand lifts his satchel and its all-important contents as high as he can. The satchel cannot get wet, no matter what.

  “Willem!” A big voice sounds in front of him and he looks up to see the huge man, Sofie’s son, Lars. Lars has a rope in one hand, looped through the reins of a number of horses. He grabs Willem with his other arm and crushes him in a hug that squeezes all the air from his lungs.

  “It is good to see you, Willem,” Lars says. “And good to see someone taking the fight to the French, instead of the other way around.”

  “It is a small thing we do,” Willem says.

  “But one that could have great consequence,” Lars says.

  “These are all the horses you have?” Willem asks. There are clearly not enough for all the men.

  Lars laughs. “The rest are on a farm not far from here. I am afraid your men will have to march for an hour or so. But that is of little importance. I have news for you. It is of great consequence, if it is true.”

  “What news is this?” Willem asks,

  “You should prepare yourself,” Lars says with a great smile.

  “I am as prepared as I need to be,” Willem says, eyeing the big man curiously. “What is this news?”

  “That your father still lives,” Lars says.

  Willem finds himself sitting on the sand. The collapse is unintentional; all energy seems suddenly drained from his body. This cannot be true. He has lived most of his life with the knowledge of his father’s death. And yet …

  Even the faintest hope that his father could be alive fills him with an excitement that he struggles to control. It cannot be true. And to raise his hopes only to have them destroyed once again would be worse than knowing his father is dead.

  “I warned you,” Lars says, extending a hand and pulling Willem back to his feet.