Free Shadowborn by Alison Sinclair

would not be expected to know. But if they do—”
    “In this flurry, we’re likely safe enough. But you’d be best t’take care not t’be alone, or with one or two. That includes Mycene’s men.”
    Balthasar’s expression changed again. “What is’t?” Ishmael said.
    “Something I noticed during last night’s ride . . . Something I—” His expression was frustrated. Plainly, Balthasar Hearne was not used to having his memory fail him. “You were about spent,” Ish said. “It’ll come t’you.”
    In the hall, an alarm bell clamored. “What—?” said Balthasar, as Ishmael moved.
    “Call t’arms,” Ishmael said, opening the door, and walking straight into the sonn of Mycene’s guards.

Balthasar
    To Balthasar’s relief, they were all spared finding out whether Ishmael was prepared to stop, or how far Mycene’s men were prepared to go in stopping him. Young Baronet Stranhorne arrived at a run. “My father’s compliments,” he gasped out. “You’re all wanted in the ballroom immediately.”
    A diplomat in larval form, Balthasar thought, since he was sure that Ishmael was the one truly wanted. They arrived in the ballroom at the same time as did Mycene himself, who sonned them with a scowl and gestured, with a taut flick of the hand, for Balthasar and Ishmael to precede them. The ballroom, busy when they passed through it on arrival, was barely controlled mayhem now. Balthasar smelled blood, despite the dense overlay of gun oil, gunpowder, wet wools, leather, and sweat. By the turn of his head and the narrowing of his lips, Mycene smelled it, too. From the far side of the ballroom, a man shrieked through clenched teeth, and sonn resolved a bucking figure on a table, with others holding him down. Balthasar started in that direction, but a hard hand on his shoulder jerked him back. “Stay,” the guard said.
    “I’m needed—”
    “Stay , ” growled Mycene. “I’m not having you take advantage—”
    “Sweet Imogene, Mycene,” Balthasar said, exasperated, “where would I go ?”
    A group of men and women wearing the uniform and livery of house staff thrust past them in disregard of Mycene’s temper and rank. Most carried long-barreled guns, some more than one. Ishmael had explained that the south and west sides of the manor overlooked ground cleared, leveled, and strewn with gravel and the brittle shells of dried nuts, and cross-webbed with trip wires strung with rattles. Nothing could approach unheard. The narrow upstairs windows served as sniper posts. Mycene allowed the reservists to pass with no more than a grunt of sour approval. From within milling bodies and pulsing sonn, Balthasar could hear Laurel’s clear voice issuing orders.
    A man with one arm directed them to the side gallery, where they found Baronette Lavender, her father, and as grim, weary, and battered a group of men as Balthasar had ever managed after a brawling night in the Rivermarch, where he worked intermittently as a physician. They were gathered around a large relief model, which Balthasar recognized as being of the immediate area.
    Mycene thrust forward. “What’s happening?”
    Stranhorne sonned him, nodded curtly, acknowledging him as a peer, but spoke as much to Ishmael as to Mycene. “Shadowborn, in force. Scavvern, balewolves, some kind of winged Shadowborn—no one’s given a clear description. Ensorcelled animals—attacks by dog packs, horses, cattle, and goats, even mobbing by sheep . We’ve got envenomations, reports of beetles of some kind. . . .” He jerked his head toward the door, where the shrieks from the man on the table had diminished to a muffled keen, with an intermittent strangulation that Balthasar read as convulsions.
    “Stonebridge”—Stranhorne pointed to a marker—“has been overrun.” The bell tolled, a slow, steady knell beneath his words. “We’ve got survivors pouring in the gate as we speak. Laurel is marshaling sweeps to bring in all those we can rescue, because