A Crown for Assassins. Морган Райс

the shore.

      Cannon sounded, the first shots echoing across the water, the crashes of their impact reverberating. Soon the air would be thick with smoke, so that he would be the only one able to see what was happening, thanks to his birds. Soon, his men would have to trust his orders absolutely.

      “Tell the third company to swing wider,” he said to one of his aides. “It will prevent anyone from escaping up the coast.”

      “Yes, my lord,” the young man replied.

      “Have a landing boat prepared for me as well.”

      “Yes, my lord.”

      “And remind the men of my orders: those who resist are to be killed without mercy.”

      “Yes, my lord,” the aide said again.

      As if the Master of Crows’ captains needed to be reminded. They knew his rules by now, his wishes. He sat on the deck of his flagship, watching cannonballs strike flesh, and men falling beneath the barrage of musket fire. Finally, he decided that the moment was ripe, and he made his way to the landing boat that was being lowered, checking his weapons as he went.

      “Row,” he commanded the men there, and they strained against the oars, striving to get him to the shore along with his troops.

      He held up a hand as his crows warned him, and the men stopped rowing in time for a ball shot from an aging cannon to strike the water in front of them.

      “Continue.”

      The landing boat slid through the waves, and, in spite of the overwhelming force of the New Army’s numbers, some of the waiting men leapt to attack it. The Master of Crows hopped onto the quay to meet them, his blades rising.

      He thrust through the chest of one, then stepped aside as another swung at him. He parried a blow and cut another man down with the casual efficiency of long practice. It was so foolish of men like this to think that they could hope to defeat him, even hurt him. Only two people had managed that in a long while, and both Kate Danse and her detestable brother would die for that in time.

      For now, this was not so much a fight as a slaughter, and the Master of Crows reveled in it. He hacked and he thrust, bringing down foes with every movement. When he saw a young woman trying to run, he paused to draw a pistol and shoot her in the back, then continued about his more pressing work.

      “Please,” a man begged, throwing down his sword in surrender. The Master of Crows gutted him, then moved onto the next.

      The slaughter was as inevitable as it was absolute. A scattering of badly armed militia couldn’t begin to hope to defend against this many foes. It was done so quickly that it was hard to imagine what they had been trying to achieve by standing at all. Presumably something to do with honor, or some other nonsense.

      “Ah,” the Master of Crows said to himself as he looked through the eyes of one of his creatures and saw a knot of people fleeing into the nearby hills, heading south. He came back to himself and looked over to the nearest of his captains. “A group of villagers is fleeing along a trail not far from here. Take men and slaughter them all, please.”

      “Yes, my lord,” the man said. If the work of killing the innocent bothered him, he did not show it. But then, if he had been a man to balk at such things, the Master of Crows would have killed him for it long ago.

      The Master of Crows stood in the wake of the battle, listening to the kind of quiet that only came with death. He listened to the crows as they landed to begin their work, and felt the power start to flow in as they consumed their share. It was a pitiful trickle compared to some of the battles that had gone before, but there would be more to follow.

      He sent his awareness out into his creatures, letting them speak with his voice.

      “This town is mine,” he said. “Submit or you will die. Deliver up all those who have magic, or you will die. Do as you are commanded, or you will die. You are nothing now, slaves and less than slaves. Obey, and you will stave off being food for the crows for a while. Disobey, and you will die.”

      He sent his creatures up into the air, surveying the land that he had taken in this first advance. He could see the horizon stretched out far from him, with all the promise of more land to conquer, more deaths to feed his pets.

      The Master of Crows did not normally receive visions. At best, his crows gave him enough to guess at what would happen. He was not the witch of the fountain, to pluck at the strands of the future, and even she had not been able to foresee her death. Now, though, the vision came rushing in to him, borne on the wings of his pets.

      He saw a child, cradled in its mother’s arms, and he recognized the kingdom’s newly crowned queen instantly. He saw danger behind the child, and more than danger. The death he had staved off so long with the lives of others stalked in this babe’s shadow. It reached out for him, with the innocence of a child, and the Master of Crows recoiled from it, fleeing back to himself.

      He stood there in the middle of the town he had taken, shaking his head.

      “Is everything all right, my lord?” his aide asked.

      “Yes,” the Master of Crows said, because if he admitted to weakness he would only have to kill the man. If any hint of the fear that rose within him got out, then all who saw would die. Yes, that was a thought…

      “I have changed my mind,” he said. “We will save conquest for the next town. Raze this one. Kill every inhabitant, man, woman or… babe in arms. Leave no two stones together.”

      The aide did not question that any more than his captain had questioned hunting down those fleeing.

      “It will be as you command, my lord,” he promised.

      The Master of Crows had no doubt that it would be. He commanded, and people died in response. If there was meant to be a child who was a threat to him… well, that child could die as well—along with its mother.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Emeline stood at the heart of Stonehome and tried to contain some of her frustration as she looked around the stone circle at all the inhabitants. Cora and Aidan stood beside her, which was some support, but when everyone else there was so set against them, it didn’t seem like enough.

      “Sophia sent us to persuade you to come back to Ashton,” Emeline said, focusing on the spot where Asha and Vincente sat. How many times had she had this argument there now? It had taken all this time just to get to the point where they would discuss this together at the circle. “There was no need for you to return to Stonehome after the battle. She is building a kingdom where our kind are free, and have nothing to fear.”

      “There is always something to fear while those who hate us exist,” Asha retorted. “She could have ordered the Masked Goddess’s churches shut down. She could have seen their butchers hanged for their crimes.”

      “And that would have restarted the civil war,” Cora said from beside Emeline.

      “Better to have a war than to live beside those who hate us,” Asha said. “Who have done such things to us as can never be forgiven.”

      Vincente put it in more measured terms, but wasn’t much more helpful. “This is a place where we have built a community, Emeline. This is a place where we can be sure we are safe. I have no doubt that Sophia has good intentions, but that is not the same thing as being able to change things.”

      Emeline had to fight back the urge to shout at them for their stupidity. Cora must have seen that, because she put a hand on Emeline’s arm.

      “It will be fine,” she whispered. “They’ll see sense eventually.”

      “What you call ‘sense,’” Asha snapped from the other side of the stone circle, “I call a betrayal of our people. We are safe here, not out in the world.”

      Emeline shot her an angry glance. Asha couldn’t have heard Cora’s whisper from there, which meant that she’d read Cora’s mind. That was more than rude; it was dangerous, especially when Asha had been the one to teach Emeline how to pull memories out of someone.

      “People