The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

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The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court) Page 34

by M. A. Grant


  “No armor?” I ask him, holding out a strip of venison.

  He gives me a wan smile and shakes his head against my offering. “It’s easier to sneak out and avoid notice. The plate’s a fucking nightmare. So noisy.”

  We all nod and I suggest, “You should try chain instead. Why did you have to sneak out?”

  He hands the rolled parchments to Keiran as he answers me. “Goodfellow’s forces are still on the beaches, but they’re awake. It won’t be long now until they start their march.” When I don’t press him further, he glances toward Keiran, who’s already unrolling the documents and inspecting them. Voll and Resnik huddle behind his shoulders, examining Roark’s precise handwriting with growing stoicism. “Is this all you need? Roark said he thought it would be, but I wanted to check. Once I go back to the sídhe, I’ll be needed at Mab’s side until it’s over.”

  “You’re staying behind the sealing?” Keiran asks.

  Smith nods. “For as long as it will hold. Goodfellow has too many troops for us to give up our best defense. And with all the iron...” He trails off and exchanges a knowing look with Keiran. They’re human and, like the Sluagh, immune to the iron’s effects. Me, the Hunt, my family, the rest of our Winter Court... It takes so little to destroy us.

  Keiran frowns. “How do you intend to counter that?”

  “Armor. The smiths started preparing before Samhain. And if that doesn’t hold, I’ll defend him alone if necessary. I managed to burn iron out once, but I’d prefer to not do it again. How about you?”

  “We fight together. Always have. Always will.”

  Smith gives him a faint grin. “And if you’re separated?”

  Keiran shrugs. “Armor.”

  Wait. This conversation has nothing to do with the battle plans. They’re talking about me and Roark. Listening to them commiserate over their plans to prevent our deaths, I learn how much that deep-seated, shared fear of loss has shaped their outlook on the war. I can’t let Keiran go into this battle distracted with worries about my safety.

  “You know I can hold my own in a fight,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

  Keiran doesn’t respond. He gives Smith another look instead and is rewarded with Smith’s sigh and rolled eyes. “Yeah, now I see it. Definitely brothers.” He pretends not to hear my indignant complaint and gestures to the plans. “Anything else?”

  “No. Tell Roark we’ll be ready. Gods willing, you won’t need us.”

  “Gods willing,” Smith echoes, looking far, far older than he should. “But I don’t know if they’re listening today.”

  He starts to walk away, only to pause when I call out, “Tell Roark I’ll see him after.”

  His gaze is warm when he looks back at me and nods. “I will. Good luck.”

  There’s no time to watch him disappear beyond the edge of our camp. The five remaining huscarls move closer to Keiran, who hands off different papers for them to peruse. He keeps the largest and crooks a finger toward me. “Lugh, I need you.”

  The next hour is a blur. Roark’s revised plans are as detailed and exacting as I remember from our meeting when he first sent me to gather the Sluagh. There are a few changes. Mother has finally added the few Seelie soldiers Sláine brought with him into the battle plans. Sláine’s troops are a pittance against the might of the Mainland armies, a testament to how utterly Goodfellow destroyed the Summer Court. Even with combined forces, the Courts are badly outnumbered by the number of Mainland Sluagh. The addition of Keiran’s remaining army—the few hundreds of warriors brought from Jensson, Voll, Jokinen, Resnik, and Olofsdotter’s territories—doesn’t bring us much closer to an easy victory. Still, some aren’t put off by the obvious risks.

  “Good odds for any warrior,” Voll says as she traces her finger down the neat column of figures Roark marked on one of the pages. “We should tell our fighters.”

  Jensson nods and hands his page back to Keiran. “It’ll give them a goal for the day. Three kills each, or no glory. Maybe no dinner?” He grins when Keiran gives a curt shake of his head. “Fine. No mention of dinner. We’ll go spread the word.”

  Keiran doesn’t bother looking up from the rendered battlefield. Instead, he waves a hand in the Hunt’s general direction. “They’ll come with you. We need to move to our position. I don’t want to risk Goodfellow spotting movement in the trees and turning his full attention to us first.”

  “I had an idea about that,” I offer. “There’s one sure way to keep him from thinking you’re here.”

  They all look at me. All except Keiran. He keeps his eyes firmly on the map. Goddess, don’t let him think this is a betrayal.

  “I’ll stand beside my family during the initial charge,” I say. “If Goodfellow sees me with them, without Keiran beside me and with his belt hung under the Winter Court’s standard, he’ll assume Keiran died from his wounds.”

  “Why would he do that?” Jokinen asks, confused.

  “Because Keiran’s human,” I tell her. “And Goodfellow has modeled himself after my mother. She’s always underestimated Keiran. Goodfellow will too. I know it.”

  “What about us?” Drest asks.

  “You ride with me. If the sealing is broken, we make it look as though we’re fleeing.”

  “And meet up with our thegn instead,” Armel says slowly.

  “Yes.” I take a breath and focus my attention on Keiran. He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t raised his eyes. He sits like a carved figure beside the fire. “It’s the only way I’ll be able to see the whole battlefield. The only way I can look for shades that might be able to help us, since those in the sídhe have been lost for too long.”

  The huscarls look from me to Keiran, waiting for his command. The moment he issues it, the battalions will have the freedom to march and take up the best positions possible for the battle. But they can’t leave until their thegn gives permission.

  He knows it. He takes one final look at the plans, then tosses them into the fire and watches the pages curl and drift away as dark flecks of embers over the snow. Finally, he locks eyes with me.

  “No point in waiting,” he murmurs.

  “No,” I agree. “I have your blessing then?”

  “When have you led me astray, seidhr?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Of course you do.” He glances to his counselors. “Prepare the troops.”

  Everyone scatters, leaving Keiran and me alone.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” I promise him, stepping forward until we’re only inches apart. His chest rises and falls under my palm when I press it over his heart, and I smile despite the terror whispering at my back. “Don’t go rushing in without me.”

  He gives a dark chuckle and takes my face in his hands. “No heroics. No trying to save me or protect me,” he rasps. “We are not the prince or the berserkir, the seidhr or the thegn out there. We are who the gods meant us to be. Lugh and Keiran. And we face this together.”

  Warriors rush about us. The Hunt waits on me. Death stalks toward us from the beach. And I kiss him, timing be damned, because this is who we are. Standing in the snow, or drinking together in golden halls with fallen warriors, this is who we will always be.

  * * *

  Sitting astride Liath with the Hunt at my back, but without Keiran beside me, leaves the world disjointed. The fear of dying left me as I rode away from the Sluagh camp and returned to the sídhe to join my family. Mother was so surprised by my reappearance, so busy with the final preparations, she never questioned why I wanted Keiran’s belt back. One of Mother’s soldiers holds the standard of the Winter Court. Keiran’s belt hangs beside her crest, reminding me that the only way to celebrate his new freedom is through victory. I look away from it and back to the battlefield ahead of me. This moment starts and stops, burning unexpected images into my memory.

  Snow hangs in the air. The particles are so fine and light, they gl
itter as they fall, dancing when the wind picks up. Twisting, turning, billowing waves of snow blow and drift over the expanse of the field where we wait. Such beauty stands in stark contrast with the rest of the view. Battalions of redcaps line up in formation ahead of me. Far to my right, near Sláine and Seb, a small group of Seelie fighters—remnants of the guard Goodfellow tried to wipe out—prepare to defend that flank, a mirroring force to me and the Hunt here on the left.

  Mother holds the center, every inch the warrior queen. She wears the armor in which she won the final battle for the Winter Court’s freedom. The older troops remember it and stood straighter when they saw her striding out to take her place. She’s a vision of darkness and moonlight made flesh. Her black tunic, breeches, and shirt stand out against this white battlefield, highlighting the fall of her silver habergeon and the ancient Pictish crown she wears over her braided hair. The sword belted at her waist is the one she claimed from Oberon’s father. Roark and Smith flank her, their matching black armor declaring their union even as they stand together facing the end.

  If we were fighting any other foe, our appearance alone may convince them to turn tail and flee before the battle began. But Goodfellow has no intention of retreat, not after this many centuries of manipulating his own legend, of claiming the Green Man’s power. He will unmake the Winter Court to recreate Faerie in his own image, or die in the attempt.

  We hear his forces approaching before we see them. His army crests the far hill and fills the horizon, marching closer to the line of the sealing. We stand in paltry defense by comparison. The blistering tinge of iron catches on the wind, rising and falling with the gusts, making my throat ache. At least my head is clear. The draugr lies in wait, eager to claim Goodfellow’s life for its own. It’s the only way I’ll be able to lay it to rest. No other shades drift over the field, or form a macabre gallery at Mother’s or Goodfellow’s backs. Even they have abandoned this place.

  “Roark,” Mother says, her gaze fixed on Goodfellow, who watches us from horseback in the middle of his forces.

  Roark steps forward and calls loud enough for the redcaps in the front rows to hear, “Until the sealing falls.”

  A sharp call of obedience goes up and fades. The battlefield falls silent once more. One of Goodfellow’s Sluagh moves forward when we hold our position. His lance outstretched, he tests for the boundary of the sealing spell. The moment the weapon touches the invisible wall, it’s encased in a fractal wave of ice, which spreads too quickly for him to escape. He turns, takes a failing step forward, and collapses to the ground; his body shatters into frozen chunks on impact.

  Goodfellow rides forward, his troops parting before him without a single word uttered. Now, as he approaches, the draugr begins to stir. Goodfellow pauses at the edge of the sealing and looks down at the body of his fallen soldier before turning his attention to Mother. His voice carries when he turns back to his army and speaks.

  “This is the queen you fear. A relic hiding behind her magick. A fading emblem of a dying era.” He wheels his horse back to face us and his defiance infects every grandiose gesture, every carefully planned phrase. “If you could reach her, could any force keep you from claiming your natural right?”

  “No!” his army roars.

  The earth rumbles and trembles under our feet.

  “Then allow me to open the door,” Goodfellow says, and gestures toward us.

  A wall of vines explodes up through the snow, towering thorned stalks moving with eerie, lethargic swings, cresting higher and higher into the sky above us. They unfurl for an endless moment, only to crash down against the sealing. Smith makes a pained yelp when the vines freeze from the violent surge of the spell’s defenses. Mother pales and reaches toward him wordlessly. Her hand clamps down on his shoulder and they both flinch as the icebound vines fall forward, crushing the sealing under their weight, ripping through the spell as if it were nothing more troubling than wet paper. A cascade of ice scatters across the empty expanse between armies, and the magick in the air buckles and warps before drifting away at last on the wind. Our last protection has fallen. Defenseless fae hide behind us in the sídhe, trusting us to protect them. Ahead of us, death waits.

  Roark strides forward with his rapier drawn. “Archers,” he calls as he nears the front line.

  Smith and Mother aren’t the only ones reeling from the sealing’s failure. Goodfellow sways in his seat and struggles to draw his sword. The iron blade glitters and trembles in the broken light as he lifts it. I was watching for any sign of his remaining power. He hides his weakness quickly enough, but it was there. How quickly can we finish draining his reserves?

  “Nock,” orders Roark.

  Mother follows him, her glamour forging a glittering pair of daggers from the moisture in the air. Smith, skin sparking with the ley line’s energy, stays tight to her right shoulder.

  “Hold.”

  Goodfellow’s blade drops and his army moves, rolling over the field, gaining speed. He remains, a boulder standing fast in a swirling flood.

  “Range.”

  The farthest redcap battalions lower their lances as Roark, Mother, and Smith draw even with them. They move with their leaders. Goodfellow’s army will break against their pointed wall of lances. It’s a final effort to keep the tide of battle from reaching those who have taken refuge inside the sídhe.

  Roark’s last command lifts over the din of approaching death, even as he adjusts his grip on his rapier. “Loose.”

  Bowstrings hum, sending arrows arcing up into the sky. They cast shadows at the peak of their arc before whistling down toward the Sluagh. The first lines fall, and Unseelie field commanders take up the orders for the archers, who continue to cull what numbers we can from a distance. Of course Goodfellow’s prepared for such an attack. From my spot in the rear, I watch the advancing army split into three. One of the traitorous huscarls leads the charge to the right flank; Boros, the charge to the left, where the Hunt and I wait.

  The Hunt and I urge our horses forward, gaining speed for our charge.

  “Watch their weapons,” I tell the redcaps we ride past. “Show them no mercy.” The draugr growls its agreement.

  The redcaps try to keep pace with our horses, but it’s impossible. We are the Wild Hunt and we ride the storm’s edge. Liath obeys when I press my heels to his flanks, pushing harder, faster toward Boros’s forces. He leads their charge, sword drawn, teeth bared as he screams his defiance at me. I adjust my sword arm, keeping my eye on the narrow strip of his neck left unprotected by his armor.

  Boros’s scream dies in my ears when my sword separates his head from his body. I keep my seat despite the heavy shudder of bodies slamming into Liath. Most spin away when he continues the charge toward the open field ahead. I fight to keep a firm grip on my sword as I slash my way through this group. The blade bites in deep at times or deflects off armor. The Hunt stays behind me, focused on preventing the injured or unaffected from using their weapons to bring me down.

  An eternity later, the fields open up around me. I check for injuries or pain from the cut of an iron blade. I promised Keiran we would be together until the end and I can’t leave him now... I’m whole. No scratch of Sluagh weapons against my skin. The Goddess decided to bless me today.

  Liath trembles but obeys when I spin him to make another rout through Boros’s fighters. We don’t ride. Not when I finally see the whole of the battlefield.

  The redcaps following me work to exploit the hole the Hunt tore through the enemy. Their armor keeps them safe from most of the blows, though a few fall from errant strikes. They’ve lost sight of their position though, and push too hard into the gap despite my scream to fall back. Boros’s fighters close around them.

  Far on the right, the pale flash of Seelie armor marks the tight circle of Sláine’s troops. My brother sends up wall after wall of earth, which shatter as iron undoes his glamour’s work.
Vines and briars sprout and lash out through the air as Seb tries to secure fighting distance around them. But the Mainland force is too large. They fling themselves into the thorns, weighing down the conjured vines with their dead before scrambling up and over, claiming the right flank through sheer numbers alone.

  There, in the center of the battle, Smith acts as the iron breaker, wielding the ley line to cut a swath of space through the bulk of Goodfellow’s forces. I can’t see Roark, can only see the sudden explosions of ice he hurls to protect Smith. Mother’s daggers sparkle and her glamour rips at the Mainland Sluagh, carving them apart in an effort to open a path to Goodfellow for the redcaps behind her.

  And then the Sluagh surge forward. They fling themselves at Smith and he vanishes under a huddle of bodies. His scream cuts loud and clear through the furious battle noise. The ley line explodes out, burning all in its path to ash before collapsing in a golden fall of smoldering snow.

  Smith falls. Mother staggers. Goodfellow spurs his horse forward, Sluagh surrounding him, eager to make the kill for their false thegn.

  Mother’s guard is there in a moment, falling as they defend her retreat to the safety of the sídhe. A pair of redcaps drag Smith from the fray, hacking their way out of the mess to carry him in Mother’s wake. Goodfellow rides harder, faster toward them, prepared to claim his final prize as he mows down the soldiers trying to slow his progress.

  Roark, a dark spot in the midst of the fight, plants himself in the center of Goodfellow’s path. His rapier lifts, his hand stretches out, and a wall of ice spears jut out of the ground. Goodfellow can’t turn his horse away fast enough. It impales itself on the spears and sends Goodfellow flying. He manages to roll when he hits the ground, barely avoiding Roark’s blade.

  I’m too far away. Too far to help. Too far to make sense of what I’m seeing. Roark attacks with blade and glamour, making every effort to stall Goodfellow while avoiding his iron sword and the conjured vines Goodfellow tries to trip him with. After narrowly avoiding a vicious, frozen wave, Goodfellow offers a split-second opening. Roark seizes it and freezes his feet in place. He moves in for the killing blow, and Goodfellow uses his stolen magick in a furious burst. The ice shatters, thorned vines tangle around Roark, unable to get through his armor, but fully capable of stealing away his rapier and hurling him to the ground near the retreating redcaps. He hits hard. Too hard. His head snaps back against the ground and I stop breathing when he doesn’t rise.

 

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