Gods, he loved her.
Fenrys winked at Elide. “I won’t tell if you don’t, Lady.”
Elide blushed, then waved them onward. “Collect your earnings, then.”
Rowan did. He and Fenrys found armor that could fit them—in certain areas. They had to forgo the entire suit, but took pieces to enforce their shoulders, forearms, and shins. Rowan had just finished strapping greaves on his legs when Fenrys said, “We should bring some of this up for Lorcan and Gavriel.”
Indeed they should. Rowan eyed other pieces, and began collecting extra daggers and blades, then sections from another suit that might fit Lorcan, Fenrys doing the same for Gavriel.
“You must charge a great deal for your services,” Elide muttered. Even while the Lady of Perranth tied a few daggers to her own belt.
“I need some way to pay for my expensive tastes, don’t I?” Aelin drawled, weighing a dagger in her hands.
But she hadn’t donned any armor yet, and when Rowan gave her an inquiring glance, Aelin jerked her chin toward him. “Head upstairs—track down Lorcan and Gavriel. I’ll find you soon.”
Her face was unreadable for once. Perhaps she wanted a moment alone before battle. And when Rowan tried to find any words in her eyes, Aelin turned toward the shield she’d claimed. As if contemplating it.
So Rowan and Fenrys headed upstairs, Elide helping to haul their stolen gear. No one stopped them. Not with the sky turning to gray, and soldiers rushing to their positions on the battlements.
Rowan and Fenrys didn’t have far to go. They’d be stationed by the gates at the lower level, where the battering rams might come flying through if Morath got desperate enough.
On the level above them, Chaol sat astride his magnificent black horse, the mare’s breath curling from her nostrils. Rowan lifted a hand in greeting, and Chaol saluted back before gazing toward the enemy army.
The khaganate would make the first maneuver, the initial push to get Morath moving.
“I always forget how much I hate this part,” Fenrys muttered. “The waiting before it begins.”
Rowan grunted his agreement.
Gavriel prowled up to them, Lorcan a dark storm behind him. Rowan wordlessly handed the latter the armor he’d gathered. “Courtesy of the Lord of Anielle.”
Lorcan gave him a look that said he knew Rowan was full of shit, but began efficiently donning the armor, Gavriel doing the same. Whether the soldiers around them marked that armor, whether Chaol recognized it, no one said a word.
Far out, the gray sky lightening further, Morath stirred to discover the khaganate’s golden army already in place.
And as a lone ruk screeched its challenge, the khaganate advanced.
Foot soldiers in perfect lines marched, spears out, shields locked rim to rim. The Darghan cavalry flanked either side, a force of nature ready to herd Morath to where they wanted them. And above, flapping into the skies, the rukhin readied their bows and marked their targets.
“Ready now,” Chaol called out to the men of his keep.
Armor clanked as men shifted, their fear stuffing itself up Rowan’s nose.
This would be it—today. Whether that hope remained or fractured.
Already, the awakening sky revealed two siege towers being hauled toward them. Right to the wall. Far closer than Rowan had last noted when flying overhead last night. Morath, it seemed, had not been sleeping, either.
The ruks would remain back with their own army, driving Morath to the keep. To be picked off here, one by one.
“We have minutes until that first tower makes contact with the wall,” Gavriel observed.
A scan of the battlements, the soldiers atop them, revealed no sign of Aelin.
Lorcan indeed muttered, “Someone better tell her to stop primping and get here.”
Rowan snarled in warning.
The clash of armored feet and shields was as familiar as any song. Morath’s foot soldiers aimed for the keep walls, spears at the ready. At the other end of the host, soldiers faced away, spears and pikes angled to intercept the khaganate’s army.
A horn blasted from deep in the khaganate ranks, and arrows flew.
The mass of Morath soldiers didn’t so much as flinch or look behind to see what became of their rear lines.
“Ladders,” Fenrys murmured, pointing with his chin toward the ripple through the lines. Massive siege ladders of iron parted the crowd.
“They’re making this their all-out assault, then,” Lorcan said with equal quiet. All of them careful not to let the nearby men hear. “They’ll try to break into the keep before the khaganate can break them.”
“Archers!” Chaol’s bellow rang out. Behind them, down the battlements, bows groaned.
Fenrys unslung the bow across his back and nocked an arrow into place.
Rowan kept his own bow strapped across his back, the quiver untouched, Gavriel and Lorcan doing the same. No need to waste them on a few soldiers when their aim might be needed with far worse targets later in the day.
But one of them had to be noted felling soldiers. For whatever it would do to rally their spirits. And Fenrys, as fine an archer as Rowan, he’d admit, would do just fine.
Rowan followed the line of Fenrys’s arrowhead to where he’d marked one of the bearers of a siege ladder. “Make it impressive,” he muttered.
“Mind your own business,” Fenrys muttered back, tracking his target with the tip of his arrow as he awaited Chaol’s order.
If Aelin didn’t arrive within another moment, he’d have to leave the battlements to find her. What in hell had held her up?
Lorcan drew his ancient blade, which Rowan had witnessed felling soldiers in kingdoms far from here, in wars far longer than this one. “They’ll head for the gates when that siege tower docks,” Lorcan said, glancing from the battlements to the gate a level below, the small bastion of men in front of it. Trees had been felled to prop up the metal doors, but should a solid enough group of enemy soldiers swarm it, they might get those supports and the heavy locks down within minutes. And open the gates to the hordes beyond.
“We don’t let them get that far,” Rowan said, eyeing up the massive tower lumbering closer. Soldiers teemed behind it, waiting to scale its interior. “Chaol brought the tower down the other day without our help. It can happen again.”
“Volley!” Chaol’s roar echoed off the stones, and arrows sang.
Like a swarm of locusts, they swept upon the soldiers marching below. Fenrys’s arrow found its mark with lethal precision.
Within a heartbeat, another was on its tail. A second soldier at the siege ladder fell.
Where the hell was Aelin—
Morath didn’t halt. Marched right over the soldiers who fell on their front lines.
The pulse of human fear down the battlements rippled against his skin. The cadre would have to strike fast, and strike well, to shake it away.
The siege tower lumbered closer. One glance from Rowan had him and his friends moving toward the spot it would now undeniably strike upon the battlements. Close enough to the stairs down to the gate. Morath had chosen the location well.
Some of the soldiers they passed were praying, a shuddering push of words into the frigid morning air.
Lorcan said to one of them, “Save your breath for the battle, not the gods.”
Rowan shot him a look, but the man, gaping at Lorcan, quieted.
Chaol ordered another volley, and arrows flew, Fenrys firing as he walked. As if he were barely bothered.
Still, the whispered prayers continued down the line, swords shaking along with them.
Up by Chaol, the soldiers held firm, faces solid.
But here, on this level of the battlements … those faces were pale. Wide-eyed.
“Someone better say something inspiring,” Fenrys said through gritted teeth, firing another arrow. “Or these men are going to piss themselves in a minute.”
For a minute was all they had left, as the first siege tower inched closer.
>
“You’ve got the pretty face,” Lorcan retorted. “You’d do a better job of it.”
“It’s too late for speeches,” Rowan cut in before Fenrys could reply. “Better to show them what we can do.”
They positioned themselves on the wall. Right in the path of the bridge that would snap down over the battlement.
He drew his sword, then thumbed free the hatchet at his side. Gavriel unsheathed twin blades from across his back, falling into flanking position at Rowan’s right. Lorcan planted himself on his left. Fenrys took the rear, to catch any who got through their net.
The mortal men clustered behind them. The gates shuddered under the impact of Morath at last.
Rowan steadied his breathing, readying his magic to rip through Valg lungs. He’d fell a few with his blades first. To show how easily it could be done, that Morath was desperate and victory would be near. The magic would come later.
The siege tower groaned as it slowed to a stop.
Just as the wall under them shuddered at its impact, Fenrys whispered, “Holy gods.”
Not at the bridge that snapped down, soldiers teeming in the dark depths inside.
But at who emerged from the keep archway behind them. What emerged.
Rowan didn’t know where to look. At the soldiers pouring out of the siege tower, leaping onto the battlements, or at Aelin.
At the Queen of Terrasen.
She’d found armor below the keep. Beautiful, pale gold armor that gleamed like a summer dawn. Holding back her braided hair, a diadem lay flush against her head. Not a diadem, but a piece of armor. Part of some ancient set for a lady long since buried.
A crown for war, a crown to wear into battle. A crown to lead armies.
There was no fear on her face, no doubt, as Aelin hefted her shield, flipping Goldryn in her hand once before the first of Morath’s soldiers was upon her.
A swift, upward strike cleaved the Morath grunt from navel to chin. His black blood sprayed, but she was already moving, flowing like a stream around a rock.
Rowan launched into movement, his blades finding their marks, but still he watched her.
Aelin slammed her shield against an oncoming warrior, Goldryn slicing through another before she plunged the blade into the soldier she’d deflected.
She did it again, and again.
All while heading toward that siege tower. Unhindered. Unleashed.
A call went down the line. The queen has come.
Soldiers waiting their turn whirled toward them.
Aelin took on three Valg soldiers and left them dying on the stones.
She planted her line before the gaping maw of that siege tower, right in the path of those teeming hordes. Every moment of the training she’d done on the ship here, on the road, every new blister and callus—all to rebuild herself for this.
The queen has come.
Goldryn unfaltering, her shield an extension of her arm, Aelin glowed like the sun that now broke over the khagan’s army as she engaged each soldier that hurtled her way.
Five, ten—she moved and moved and moved, ducking and swiping, shoving and flipping, black blood spraying, her face the portrait of grim, unbreaking will.
“The queen!” the men shouted. “To the queen!”
And as Rowan fought his way closer, as that cry went down the battlements and Anielle men ran to aid her, he realized that Aelin did not need an ounce of flame to inspire men to follow. That she had been waiting, yanking at the bit, to show them what she, without magic, without any godly power, might do.
He’d never seen such a glorious sight. In every land, every battle, he had never seen anything as glorious as Aelin before the throat of the siege tower, holding the line.
Dawn breaking around them, Rowan loosed a battle cry and tore into Morath.
This first battle would set the tone.
It would set the tone, and send a message. Not to Morath.
Impress us, Hasar had said.
So she would. So she’d picked the golden armor and her battle-crown. And waited until dawn, until that siege tower slammed into the battlements, before unleashing herself.
To keep the men here from breaking, to wipe away the fear festering in their eyes.
To convince the khaganate royals of what she might do, what she could do. Not a threat, but a reminder.
She was no helpless princess. She had never been.
Goldryn sang with each swipe, her mind as cool and sharp as the blade while she assessed each enemy soldier, their weapons, and took them down accordingly. She dimly knew that Rowan fought at her side, Gavriel and Fenrys battling near her left flank.
But she was keenly aware of the mortal men who leaped into the fray with cries of defiance. They’d made it this far. They would survive today, too. And the khaganate royals would know it.
Galloping hooves drowned out the battle, and then Chaol was there, sword flashing, driving into the unending tide that rushed from the tower’s entrance.
“To Lord Chaol! To the queen!”
How far they both were from Rifthold. From the assassin and the captain.
Arrows rose from the army beyond the wall, but a wave of icy wind snapped them into splinters before they could find any marks.
A dark blur plunged past, and then Lorcan was at the siege tower’s mouth, his sword swinging so fast Aelin could barely follow it. He battled his way across the metal bridge of the tower, into the stairwell beyond. Like he’d fight his way down the ramps and onto the battlefield itself.
Below, a boom began. Morath had brought in their battering ram.
Aelin smiled grimly. She’d bring them all down. Then Erawan. And then she’d unleash herself upon Maeve.
At the opposite end of the field, the khagan’s army pushed, gaining the field step by step.
Not helpless. Not contained. Never again.
Death became a melody in her blood, every movement a dance as the tide of soldiers pouring from the tower slowed. As if Lorcan was indeed forcing his way down the interior. Those who got past him met her blade, or Rowan’s. A flash of gold, and Gavriel had slaughtered his way into the siege tower as well, twin blades a whirlwind.
What Lorcan and the Lion would do upon reaching the bottom, how they’d dislodge the tower, she didn’t know. Didn’t think about it.
Not from this place of killing and movement, of breath and blood. Of freedom.
Death had been her curse and her gift and her friend for these long, long years. She was happy to greet it again under the golden morning sun.
CHAPTER 58
Elide wasn’t even on the battlements, and she already wished to never endure another war again.
The soldiers who were hauled in, their injuries … She didn’t know how the healers were so calm. How Yrene Westfall worked so steadily while a man was screaming, screaming, screaming as his internal organs poked through the gash in his belly.
The keep shook every now and then, and Elide hated herself for being glad she didn’t know what it meant. Even as it ate away at her not knowing how her companions fared. If the khagan’s army was close enough so that this nightmare could end soon.
It would be hours yet, the dark-skinned, sharp-eyed healer named Eretia had claimed when Elide had vomited upon seeing a man whose shinbone stuck clean through his leg. Hours yet until it was over, the terse healer had chided, so she’d better finish heaving and get back to work.
Not that there was much Elide could do. Despite the generous gift of power that ran through the Lochan bloodline, she possessed no magic, no gifts beyond reading people and lying. But she helped the healers pin down thrashing men. Rushed to get bandages, hot water, and whatever salves or herbs the healers calmly requested.
None of them shouted. They only raised their voices, magic glowing bright around them, if a soldier was shrieking too loudly for their words to be heard.
The sun was barely over the horizon, judging by the light at the windows set high in the Great Hall, and so many already lay inj
ured. So many.
Still they kept coming, and Elide kept moving, her limp becoming a dull, then a sharp ache. A minor pain, compared to what the soldiers endured. Compared to what they faced on the battlements.
She didn’t let herself think of her friends. Didn’t let herself think of Lorcan, who had not come to the chamber last night and had not sought them out this morning. As if he didn’t want to be near her. As if he’d taken every hateful word she’d spoken to heart.
So Elide aided the clear-eyed healers, held down screaming, pleading men, and did not stop.
Farasha did not balk from the Morath soldiers who made it onto the battlements. From the ones who emerged from the second siege tower that docked down the wall, or those who made it up the ladders.
No, that magnificent horse trampled them, fearless and wicked, just as Chaol had predicted. A horse whose name meant butterfly—stomping all over Valg foot soldiers.
Had his breath not been a rasp in his chest, Chaol might have smiled. Had men not been cut down around him, he might have laughed a bit, too.
But Morath was launching itself at the walls and gates with a furor they had not yet witnessed. Perhaps they knew who had come to Anielle and now hewed them down. Aelin and Rowan fought back-to-back, and Fenrys had plowed his way down the battlements to join Chaol by the second siege tower.
Chaol’s sword arm didn’t falter, despite the exhaustion that began to creep up as an hour, then two passed. Far across the sea of enemy soldiers, the rukhin and Darghan armies herded and smashed Morath between their forces, driving them toward the keep walls.
Morath, it seemed, did not think to surrender. Only to inflict destruction, to break into the keep and slaughter as many as they could before meeting their end.
His shield bloodied and dented, his horse a raging demon herself beneath him, Chaol kept swinging his sword. His wife lay within the keep behind him. He would not fail her.
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