I nod and think of those cursed trinkets the witch buried, biting back my anger at my own stupidity for allowing her to plant the talismans in the first place. I pray to the Fates now that it won't be our undoing.
Roan doesn't look as concerned about the witch’s involvement, his eyes narrowed as he stares up at Corym. A frown slowly grows between his brows.
“What is it?” I murmur in the old tongue, years of fighting alongside each other kicking in as I obscure our conversation from the other keen ears around us.
The old language is long dead to the majority of the high fae and those we rule over. Only a handful of princes and princesses still speak it, most of them trapped at Yris.
Well, and the witch.
Roan answers me, his frown growing deeper, “There are too many soldiers down here. If they take the wall, they take them as well. You need to move more archers to the inner wall.”
Tauron scowls and shakes his head. “They're not going to take the outer wall. A thousand soldiers from the festering pits of the Witch Ward aren't going to make it inside of Yregar. They only got Yrmar in the first place because we were caught unaware.”
Roan hisses at me, furious, “They caught us aware because of our arrogance. Do you really want a replay of that? I took two arrows to the chest because I was sure I could read the snow of the Outlands better than they ever could. Listen to me, Soren—you can’t underestimate them.”
Even as the soldiers on the wall above us call down their descriptions of what’s coming, I feel for the tug of the Fates within my chest. No matter the twisting and winding path they’ve put me on, they’ve still promised that my kingdom will flourish under my rule, the crown rightfully mine but also better off in my hands than in my uncle’s callous clutches. I listen to them now as they sing their somber songs.
They call for the witches' deaths, I know it.
I call out to Corym to split up the archers, and Tauron, Roan, and I ride with them back through the village. As the evacuation continues at a frantic pace, several of the archers grab children or duck under the shoulders of the elderly and ailing to support them, leaving them at the castle steps before Roan begins to give the archers their orders. He has a good head for strategy and dispensing resources, thanks to training under his father and his time in the Outlands, a valuable skill.
Tyton watches us from the battlement over the gate at the inner wall, keeping command at the castle in my stead, bowing to me as he meets my eye with his own sure gaze. My confidence in Yregar and our defenses hasn’t wavered, but only a fool would keep skilled battle advisors at their side only to ignore their advice out of nothing but arrogance.
While there are a lot of witches coming here, we’ve faced worse odds in battle and won through grit and might alone. It’s not ideal to be so outnumbered, but we’ll hold off this siege and kill as many of the stinking witches as we can before they retreat.
After the last of the lower fae are through the inner wall and the villagers are secure in the Grand Hall, the sentries from the outer wall call out their warnings, their voices carrying easily in the early morning air. The witches have made it across the dead plains and stopped before the wall, held back only by the iron gate in a raving, writhing wave, the screeches and screams of their war cries bellowing through the clear and cold night.
From our own position on the incline at the base of the inner wall, I can see the army that awaits us.
A roiling sea of soldiers, ready to die at Kharl’s command for a cause that was never theirs to begin with. Whatever else his magic is capable of, the mercilessness of the power he holds over these witches is second only to the cruelty of the now-broken curse.
We hold our position as the inner gates start to close behind us, our gazes steady on the waiting masses. The witches stand within the archers’ range, but Corym holds his command, staring at the horde with a critical eye as he waits for them to make the first move and show their hand. He’s a good commander with the patience to draw them out, form the best plan, and protect our home and our people from the evil that’s come calling.
The screams get louder and more intense, and the soldiers on the outer wall hold a perfect line with their bows in hands, arrows nocked and at the ready as they wait for the command.
The first flash of light takes us by surprise, because it comes from the wrong direction, off to the western side of the outer wall and barely within our sight line. The fae door begins to glow, the old oaken branches winding together to slowly form an empty doorway. Burning brighter and brighter, with searing white light, until those branches catch fire, flames climbing into the air as the gate behind us finally seals shut. A low pulse of a sound surrounds us, one so deep and powerful that even at this distance it rattles our chests and presses against our hearts, the organs struggling to beat in their cavities at such a sound. To our mounting horror, the fae door opens, and Kharl himself steps through.
Though centuries have passed since I last saw him, he hasn't changed at all, aging unnaturally slowly for a witch. He looks no older than the cusp of adulthood, only the deep and motionless voids of his silver eyes speaking of an ageless cruelty that has wrought much evil. He’s taller than most of his people, dark hair cut short and skin tanned and decorated with white lines as his power shines through them. Every inch of his stance is confident and assured, the battle already won in his mind.
He’s more than just a powerful witch, strong not only amongst his own kind but in the entire population of the Southern Lands. Whether born with such power or gaining it in some grotesque way, he seems to radiate with the strength of the Fates themselves. He tilts his head back to stare at the walls of Yregar, and I see the cold calculation of a warlord, none of the raving madness that his army is prey to. The witches under his command may stand in a writhing crowd, but they hold their position as though fixed in place by magic, their yelling and screaming quietened by his presence alone.
Kharl’s hold over them is absolute.
His eyes don't even flick to the high fae soldiers who are gaping at him from the battlements of the outer wall, and as he widens his stance, a clear sign of him readying his attack, Corym calls for our archers to fire. They take aim at the High Witch himself, but no arrow hits its target, all landing uselessly in a perfect circle in the deadened grass around him. They aim for the troops instead, and the first waves of the witch army begin to fall, magic popping and sparking light around them as some still wield just enough power to shield themselves.
Kharl looks on, unmoved and uncaring as lives are lost around him. He lifts a hand, and a pulse of power arcs through the air. Before we can see the damage the witch is inflicting, Roan throws his arm across my chest to grasp my arm and shake me.
“We need to get behind the inner wall. Call a retreatnow, Soren. It’s no good riding out to meet this madman at the outer wall,” Roan says, his words breaking through to me, but I don't want to act on them.
My hands tighten on Nightspark’s reins, the weight of my sword heavy at my hip as I prepare to draw it, but Tauron snaps out a hand to grab my other forearm. “Listen to Roan! We can’t ride out there. If he kills you, the Fates will break and the castle will fall. Come, Soren, you're no use to your people dead. For once, just listen!”
I don't listen.
I can’t, the obliviating rage at the destruction this man has wrought consuming me and, finally about to face him, I can think of nothing but his death at my hand. I kick Nightspark to urge him on, but as he takes his first step, the air in my lungs suddenly evaporates, choking me and the others as Kharl’s magic reaches over the entirety of Yregar’s land and the castle within.
The wave of magic swells and fills everything until it finally snaps, a blast of power hitting the outer wall and the gate in a deafeningboom, my ears ringing and my senses momentarily dazed. As Nightspark startles and rears, I’m barely able to keep myself in the saddle as the soldiers above us yell out, Tyton screaming at us all, but it takes me a moment to get my horse under control and my wits about me.
When I finally glance over my shoulder I find an entire section of the outer wall missing, blown apart, and dozens of soldiers dead in a single, devastating blow from our enemy. It’s a crushing display of the power he wields and illustrates just how little we know of his true abilities. The gate lies twisted and distorted on the ground as the witch army advances around the iron remnants, the witches screaming their victory to the Fates.
