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Beneath his beard, Dom grimaced. “We have until nightfall.”
Andry slowly shook his head. In his mind, he saw the great cavalry charging across the valley, spurred on by Taristan’s fury and Erida’s hunger.
His voice broke.
“Before nightfall.”
Quiet, cold Tíarma was no more. The marble halls of the Elders rang with noise, filled with boots trailing mud and mortal soldiers alongside Elder lords. It felt more like a military fortress than a grand castle, given over to the messy business of war.
Andry knew the many precautions taken to fortify the castle againstattack. Hammers still sounded as the last wood planks were nailed into place, covering up the delicate glass windows or open archways. Provisions filled the vaults below the castle, tucked away for long weeks of siege. And the feasting tables barricaded all but one way into the castle, forming another funnel point. Andry even had caches of weapons stowed throughout the city, strategically placed to aid a slow retreat up the ridge. Bows and quivers of arrows, spears, sharpened swords, daggers, shields. Alongside food and water, bandages, herbs, whatever medicines the Elders had.
The last defense, Andry thought darkly as he entered the great castle, close on Dom’s heels. Shadows rose up to meet them, the sun filtering through the boarded windows in weak shafts of light.
The Ibalets argued with Elder commanders, bickering over formations. Isadere looked on in golden chain mail, while the eagle knights waited, their armor donned, gleaming in white steel with their spears in hand.
Andry’s heart rose up in his throat as he passed by. He wondered if it would be the last time he saw any of them alive.
None dared stand in Dom’s way. The hall cleared before him as he walked, allowing the Prince of Iona to sweep through without issue. Andry stalked along in his wake, eyes downcast. Too many faces swirled around them, faces he might never see again after sunset.
Despite the disarray of the halls, the castle armory was far more organized, thanks to days of Andry’s careful preparation. The Companions were already there, waiting as instructed in days past.
In the center of the chamber, Sorasa inspected an array of swords, her nose wrinkled despite the good quality of the Elder steel. She sneered at everything, but even her mask of disdain could not hide the fear beneath.
“Are the riders away?” she called out, meeting Dom’s eye.
The Elder gave a silent nod and threw off his gray-green cloak. His suit of armor lay waiting in the corner, polished to a mirror shine. It had a pale green hue.Like his cousin’s armor, Andry realized, remembering the Elder princess who died in Gidastern.
Corayne already wore armor of her own, a combination of steel plate and chain mail so as not to weigh her down too much. Her spiked vambraces were laced tightly over her forearms, patterned in scales. Like Dom, she wore no cloak, the Spindleblade strapped to her back instead. She gave Andry a shrug, indicating the helmet tucked under her arm.
“I look ridiculous,” Corayne muttered, testing her range of motion. She clanked horribly as she reached for the sword belted at her hip.
“Well, I look marvelous,” Charlie said from across the armory. Like Corayne, he did not suit the armor. The man was already red in the face, sweating above the gorget around his throat.
Sorasa gave them both a withering glance, before going back to the weapons, running her hands over a selection of spears.
“I don’t see you stuffing yourself into a steel coffin,” Charlie shot at her.
Over his shoulder, Garion snickered into his hand. He too wore a light suit of armor, good steel buckled over his leathers.
Shaking her head, the Amhara woman went to another table, this one laid out with daggers. Andry did not miss the way she pointedly put her back to Dom, her gaze anywhere but him.
“I move better without armor,” she said over her shoulder. Her fingers danced among the blades, testing the edges, spinning a few of them for good measure.
In the corner, Dom scoffed so low it could have been a growl. “Your leathers can’t turn an arrow, Sarn.”
“You know I won’t be anywhere near the archers, Elder,” she answered back hotly.
As they bickered back and forth, Andry maneuvered to Corayne’s side. She gave him a little smile, barely more than a curl of her lips. But enough.
“Where’s Valtik?” he asked, eyeing the chamber again. Red sunlight bled through the shuttered windows, giving the armory a bloody glow.
The old witch was nowhere to be found.
“She actually slept with us last night,” Corayne said, incredulous. “Right next to Sorasa on the floor.”
Andry raised an eyebrow. “Brave.”
“She giggles in her sleep. We almost murdered her,” she added. Then her eyes darkened, so black as to swallow the light. “Though I suppose we’ll have enough bloodshed tonight.”
