Only Aelin had the authority to do so, or Darrow and his council, but Aedion didn’t care.
Ren halted, and Aedion paused with him, well aware of the soldiers within earshot. Of the Fae hearing many possessed. Endymion and Sellene already stood by the front line of the left flank, their faces grave and weary. A home—that was what they’d lost, what they now fought to gain. If any should survive this. What would his father make of his son, fighting alongside his people at last?
“Will anyone come?” Ren asked, aware of those listening ears, too. Aware of the grim faces that remained with them, despite the death that marched at their backs.
Aedion fitted his helmet onto his head, the metal bitingly cold. “None came ten years ago. But maybe someone will bother this time.”
Ren gripped his arm, tugging him close. “There might be nothing left to defend, Aedion.”
“Send out the call anyway.” He jerked his chin to the lines they’d passed through. Ilias was polishing his blades amongst a cluster of his father’s assassins, his attention pinned on the enemy ahead. Preparing to make a final stand on this snowy plain so far from his warm desert. “You insist I’m still your general? Then here’s my final order. Call for aid.”
A muscle feathered in Ren’s jaw. But he said, “Consider it done.” Then he was gone.
They didn’t bother with good-byes. Their luck was bad enough.
So Aedion continued, alone, to the front lines. Two Bane soldiers stepped aside to make room, and Aedion hefted up his shield, seamlessly fitting it between their unified front. The metal wall against which Morath would strike first, and hardest.
The snows swirled, veiling all beyond a hundred or so feet.
Yet the bone drums pounded louder. Soon the earth shook beneath marching feet.
Their final stand, here on an unnamed field before the Florine. How had it come to this?
Aedion drew his sword, the other soldiers following suit, the cry of ringing metal cutting through the howling wind.
Morath appeared, a line of solid black emerging from the snow.
Each foot they gained, more appeared behind. How far back was that witch tower? How soon would its power be unleashed?
He prayed, for the sake of his soldiers, that it would be quick, and relatively painless. That they would not know much fear before they were blasted into ashes.
The Bane didn’t clash their swords on their shields this time.
There was only the marching of Morath, and the drums.
Had they gone to Orynth when Darrow demanded, they would have made it. Had time to cross the bridge, or take the northern route.
This defeat, these deaths, rested upon his shoulders alone.
Down the line, motion caught his eye—just as a fuzzy, massive head poked between Prince Galan and one of his remaining soldiers. A ghost leopard.
Green eyes slid toward him, drained and bleak.
Aedion looked away first. This would be bad enough without knowing she was here. That Lysandra would undoubtedly stay until she, too, fell.
He prayed he went first. So he wouldn’t witness it.
Morath drew close enough that Ren’s order to the archers rang out.
Arrows flew, fading into the snows.
Morath sent an answering volley that blotted out the watery light.
Aedion angled his shield, crouching low. Every impact reverberated through his bones.
Grunts and screams filled their side of the battlefield. When the volley stopped, when they straightened again, many men did not rise with them.
It was not arrows alone that had been fired, and now peppered the snow.
But heads. Human heads, many still in their helmets. Bearing Ansel of Briarcliff’s roaring wolf insignia.
The rest of the army that she’d promised. That they’d been waiting for.
They must have intercepted Morath—and been obliterated.
Shouts rose from the army behind him as the realization rippled through the ranks. One female voice in particular carried over the din, her mournful cry echoing through Aedion’s helmet.
The milky, wide eyes of the decapitated head that had landed near his boots stared skyward, the mouth still open in a scream of terror.
How many had Ansel known? How many friends had been amongst them?
It wasn’t the time to seek out the young queen, to offer his condolences. Not when neither of them would likely survive the day. Not when it might be the heads of his own soldiers that were launched at Orynth’s walls.
Ren ordered another volley, their arrows so few compared to what had been unleashed seconds before. A spattering of rain compared to a downpour. Many found their marks, soldiers in dark armor going down. But they were replaced by those behind them, mere cogs in some terrible machine.
“We fight as one,” Aedion called down the line, forcing himself to ignore the scattered heads. “We die as one.”
A horn blared from deep within the enemy ranks. Morath began its all-out run on their front line.
Aedion’s boots dug into the mud as he braced his shield arm. Like it could possibly hold back the tide stretching into the horizon.
He counted his breaths, knowing they were limited. A ghost leopard’s snarl ripped down the line, a challenge to the charging army.
Fifty feet. Ren’s archers still fired fewer and fewer arrows. Forty. Thirty.
The sword in his hand was no equal to the ancient blade he’d worn with such pride. But he’d make it work. Twenty. Ten.
Aedion sucked in a breath. The black, depthless eyes of the Morath soldiers became clear beneath their helmets.
Morath’s front line angled their swords, their spears—
Roaring fire blasted from the left flank.
His left flank.
Aedion didn’t dare take his focus off the enemy upon him, but several of the Morath soldiers did.
He slaughtered them for it. Slaughtered their stunned companions, too, as they whirled toward another blast of flame.
Aelin. Aelin—
Soldiers behind him shouted. In triumph and relief.
“Close the gap,” Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and safe at last—
It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank.
It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.
Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.
But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.
Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians.
Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.
Firelances.
A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.
Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.
As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.
Morath turned and ran.
Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!
The fools did not realize that there was no magic—none beyond pure luck and good timing.
Then a familiar voice rang out. “Quickly! On board, all of you!” Rolfe.
For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.
Aedion wasted no time. “To the river! To the fleet!”
Their soldiers didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and me
ssy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn’t care.
Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.
Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.
And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe’s Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.
Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.
And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, “Fall back, all of you!”
The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.
Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.
But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe’s ship, the river deep enough that they’d been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind. Only the dead.
Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship’s helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born.
Rolfe, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back.
Aedion reached them, panting and so relieved he might vomit upon the shining planks.
Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, “You looked like you were in need of a rescue.”
Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe’s gloved hands. “I assume we have that map of yours to thank.”
“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”
Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.
Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. “We surprised them, but it won’t hold them off for long.”
Lysandra stepped to Rolfe’s side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. “We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup.”
“I can’t carry your entire army to Orynth,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. “But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare.” The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. “She’s not here, is she.”
Lysandra shook her head. “No.”
“Then we’ll make do,” was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship’s rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.
None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.
Aedion murmured, “Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we’ll sail for the city.”
“I’ll do it,” Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn’t bother to say anything else. Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.
Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.
In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen’s armored shoulder. Ansel didn’t so much as glance up.
Aedion asked Rolfe, “How many of those firelances do you have?”
The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. “Not enough to outlast a siege.”
And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth’s walls.
CHAPTER 64
Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.
At the disaster they’d narrowly avoided, at the deaths she’d witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.
Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.
All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.
A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.
Yrene knelt over a ruk rider, the woman’s chest slashed open from a sword blow, and held out her bloodied, glowing hands.
Magic, clean and bright, flowed from her into the woman, mending torn skin and muscle. The blood loss would take time to recover from—but the woman had not lost so much of it that Yrene needed to expend her energy on refilling its levels.
She needed to rest soon. For a few hours.
She’d been asked to inspect the queen when she’d been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn’t been able to stop her hands from shaking as she’d hovered them over Aelin’s unconscious body.
There had been no sign of harm beyond a few already-healing cuts and slices from the battle itself. Nothing at all beyond a sleeping, tired woman.
Who held the might of a god within her veins.
Yrene had then inspected Prince Rowan, who looked in far worse shape, a sizable gash snaking down his thigh. But he’d waved her off, claiming he’d come too near a burnout, and just needed to rest as well.
So Yrene had left them, only to tend to another.
To Lorcan, whose injuries … Yrene had needed to summon Hafiza to help her with some of it. To lend her power, since Yrene’s had been so depleted.
The unconscious warrior, who had apparently tumbled right off Farasha as he and Elide had passed through the gates, didn’t so much as stir while they worked on him.
That had been hours ago. Days ago, it felt.
Yes, she needed to rest.
Yrene aimed for the water station in the back of the hall, her mouth dry as paper. Some water, some food, and perhaps a nap. Then she’d be ready to work again.
But a horn, clear and bright, blared from outside.
Everyone halted—then rushed to the windows. Yrene’s smile grew as she, too, found a place to peek out over the battlefield.
To where the rest of the khagan’s army, Prince Kashin at its front, marched toward them.
Thank the gods. Everyone in the hall muttered similar words.
From the keep, an answering horn sang its welcome.
&
nbsp; Not just one army had been spared here today, Yrene realized as she turned back to the water station. If that wave had reached Kashin …
Lucky. They had all been so, so very lucky.
Yet Yrene wondered how long that luck would last.
If it would see them through the brutal march northward, and to the walls of Orynth itself.
Lorcan let out a low groan as he surfaced from the warm, heavy embrace of darkness.
“You are one lucky bastard.”
Too soon. Too damn soon after hovering near death to hear Fenrys’s drawl.
Lorcan cracked open an eye, finding himself lying on a cot in a narrow chamber. A lone candle illuminated the space, dancing in the golden hair of the Fae warrior who sat in a wooden chair at the foot of his bed.
Fenrys’s smirk was a slash of white. “You’ve been out for a day. I drew the short stick and had to look after you.”
A lie. For whatever reason, Fenrys had chosen to be here.
Lorcan shifted his body—slightly.
No hint of pain beyond a dull throb down his back and tight pull across his stomach. He managed to lift his head enough to rip away the heavy wool blanket covering his naked body. Where he’d been able to see his insides, only a thick red scar remained.
Lorcan thumped his head back on the pillow. “Elide.” Her name was a rasp on his tongue.
The last he remembered, they’d ridden through the gates, Aelin Galathynius’s unholy power spent. Then oblivion had swept in.
“Helping with the healing in the Great Hall,” Fenrys said, stretching out his legs before him.
Lorcan closed his eyes, something tight in his chest easing.
“Well, since you’re not dead,” Fenrys began, but Lorcan was already asleep.
Lorcan awoke later. Hours, days, he didn’t know.
The candle was still burning on the narrow windowsill, down to its base. Hours, then. Unless he’d slept so long they’d replaced the candle altogether.
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