The Storm Queen and her company sat their horses on the trade road outside the fortified wall of Mont Lille, at the embarrassing disadvantage of having been locked out of her own capital city.
The rebels had invaded by airship while the Storm Queen was a week’s ride away, gloating over her latest conquest. Now, archers lined the battlements, wearing the mismatched and tattered uniforms of a dozen defeated territories. Despite their advantage, the archers trembled at the sight of the Storm Queen of legend and the Queen’s Shield beside her, a woman whose name had been forgotten during the long years of peace. None even remembered her face. She aged, or didn’t, behind the ceremonial mask of war. Stories of the Queen’s Shield had grown into fantastical legends. The serpents on her mask, it was said, came to life and snapped poisoned fangs into enemies; songs were sung of foes turning to stone after looking into the mask’s blank eyes.
The mask’s face was impassive as ever as the iron gate rose and three riders emerged flying the flag of parley. The Storm Queen rode forward with only her Shield. The rebel parley consisted of a Gythian war mage, an elderly general of Lionne and a golden-haired young lady carrying a staff.
“Today, you answer for your war crimes,” announced the war mage. “The true queen has taken the throne of Mont Lille.”
A raven shifted on the Storm Queen’s shoulder and cocked its head. “Ah,” sighed the queen, “she is the image of her mother at that age. And just as short-sighted. Years of Gythian spying and politicking has resulted in … this? A motherless girl-mage and a rag-tag band of rebels?” The ravens overhead circled and cried out their rage as dark clouds rolled like waves across the sun.
“A girl-mage who has taken Mont Lille,” said the lady. The horses whinnied and stamped in fear of the stormclouds; the wind whipped away the queen’s black veil.
“You may inherit my throne, as is your right by law, when I am dead. It is a pity that you will not outlive me!” cried the Storm Queen, and a crack of thunder punctuated her threat as the lightning blasted down, ravens diving down with it like living spears. A hundred bolts, a hundred murderous birds.
The Queen’s Shield seized the young lady ’round her waist, lifted her away from her horse and held her close as she summoned a Stormguard force field around them both. Tongues of electricity stabbed at the bubble and reflected, striking back at the queen who had summoned them. Arrows, too, rained down in the chaos of the storm, striking the force field only to return and pierce into the archers. Ravens smashed into the crimson surface, squawking, feathers exploding in all directions.
The Storm Queen tumbled from her horse and lay on the road, shivering with electric jolts. She could not even scream her pain, held rigid by the charge.
The Queen’s Shield released the rebel mage and dismounted, standing over the moaning queen. The younger woman’s eyes narrowed at the Shield’s mask. “I was right to trust you, Catherine. Your crimes … are forgiven.”
“I have one more to commit,” said the voice behind the mask.
“But you are my Shield,” gasped the electrocuted woman.
“No,” said Catherine. “I am the Shield of the Queen.” The blade shot out from the arc shield, cleaving bone, rending in two the ruler’s cold heart.
“Long live the queen,” she whispered, and if she wept, no one kne