He shakes his head as Ingor brings out Nightspark, already saddled and armed for war. He hands the reins to me.
Tauron waits until we're both in our saddles and riding toward our waiting army, two hundred high-fae soldiers ready to defend this kingdom with their lives, before he speaks.
He murmurs to me in the old language, and softly enough that only high-fae ears can hear it, “The Fates wouldn’t have given her to you unless she has the ability to change your mind and take a place in your heart. Are we so sure that the ‘peace’ you’ll bring the kingdom isn't the demise of the high fae and the witches ruling the Southern Lands in our stead?”
He speaks my greatest fear, bringing it to life between us. The ambiguity of the Fates is a tricky thing. There are many ways to fulfill a destiny given to you, and sometimes what you think is a prosperous fate is nothing more than a nightmare of torture and blood-soaked death. My father’s fate was to marry his mate and find happiness with her, to have a son and heir, and to rule over the Southern Lands.
Nowhere in his fate did it say he would be murdered, his household slaughtered alongside him, before his heir reached adulthood.
When my silence stretches on for too long, Tauron adds, “You cannot trust the witch, Cousin, no matter how many babies she saves.”
I huff at the ridiculous suggestion. “I’m not so blinded by my desire for the throne that I've forgotten who our enemy is, Cousin. Besides, if the rumors are to be believed, there’s no heart beating in my chest nor kindness to be found within me.”
Tauron sends me a bold look, more aware than anyone else of my true nature and motives. “None of that matters right now. We can lose ourselves in the Fates' whims once we have Roan back at Yregar safely, naming his son and talking some sense back into his stubborn wife.”
The villagers watch the army as we ride out, apprehensive as they stare up at us. Many of them make the mark of the Fates against their chests, though whether they hope for our safe return or simply for the fighting to not follow us home to Yregar, I don't know.
The moment we pass through the last set of gates, I kick Nightspark into a gallop and ride hard towards the Outlands. The entire army keeps up with the breakneck pace as we push toward our destination where witches lie in wait, a deadly barrier between us and Roan.
Hours pass as slowly as ever and the first gleaming rays of sunlight peek over the horizon before the ground changes to snow beneath Nightspark’s hooves, our pace slowing as we hit the icy wastelands. The reason the trip is so treacherous isn't the distance but the conditions, the way the horses slip even as we slow our approach, and there’s a very narrow path to follow to make it through the Outlands unscathed.
I would never lead an army this large through the Shard, though that’s the more direct path, and we can go no faster than a trot over the ice that encases the earth beneath us. Without the lush forests of the more southern areas of the Outlands to break up the plains, nothing grows in this area.
When we finally reach the gully that lies at the eastern side of the Shard and follows the curve of the Lore River, we see the first signs of smoke ahead, and a ripple of impatience runs through me as we’re forced to maintain our slow speed. The moment we step through the witches' magical sound barrier, I hear the vicious screaming. The pop and crackle of magic as it flies, and the singing of steel and iron cutting through the air as swords swing.
We reach the outcropping that overlooks the depths of the gully, and I spot the colors of the Snowsong family ahead, Roan leading his father's soldiers into the battle, and the witches swarming like vultures over the dying. They're everywhere, hundreds of them, raving and mad, the black markings on their faces glowing. The battle sickness has taken them over, and they fight tooth and nail for Kharl’s perverted aspirations of power, their lives meaning nothing to him.
I give the command, and my soldiers descend into the iced-over gully after the witches. The horses slowly pick up their pace as we ride into the fray, the first rounds of magic hitting and glancing off the iron we’ve covered ourselves in.
Horses to my left whinny and rear, bucking off their riders as the witches overrun us. Their numbers are hundreds more than the high fae. This is more than a simple attack or an ambush for supplies. They came here with every intention of killing us all.
I draw my sword and push Nightspark on, his huge body trampling witches underfoot. Their screams are cut short as their necks snap under his hooves, their bodies nothing more than uneven ground to my warhorse.
There are never enough horses for all of the witches, their true numbers unknown, but we’ve estimated it’s at least six times that of the high fae, and their first wave soldiers always fight on foot. They’re usually sacrifices, sent to tire us out before the more powerful witches arrive or to chip away at our defenses as a distraction for some other attack or tactical move of Kharl’s. A shower of arrows rains down on us and I lift my shield to cover myself and Nightspark’s head. I curse as more horses scream in pain around me, their riders caught unaware as their steeds pay the painful price.
I can't see where the archers are shooting from, but I can see the banner of Roan's house ahead and the shining silver of his helmet as the first rays of morning sunlight hit it.
I learned during the battles of our faeling years to stick close to my friends’ sides, to not lose one another in the chaos and bloodlust, and I hack through the witches, pushing Nightspark forward as Tauron does the same at my side.
Together we pick off as many witches as we can, but they just keep coming, more and more bodies joining the melee. It’s as though they found another fae door to stream through, countless numbers of deranged soldiers swarming us, no matter how many we kill.
I lift my shield in time to stop the piercing blow of a sword thrown through the air. It embeds itself in the heavy iron, and my arm goes numb on impact. There's no salvaging the shield with such damage, and I fling it to the ground, cursing as I do, then lift my sword to protect myself from another ball of power as it hurtles toward my head. The snow around us sizzles as it melts under the heat of the magic, black witch blood oozing into the ice and mixing to become a stinking slurry beneath us.
Tauron curses beside me, leaning down from his saddle to yank his sword from a witch’s corpse and grabbing a shield from where it's fallen. A high-fae soldier stares sightlessly at the sky, his throat torn open as his blood soaks into the snow beneath us. My cousin hands me the iron shield, and I lift it just in time for the next wave of arrows to descend. Witches scream around us as they’re killed by their own, eagerly sacrificed in the attempt to kill the high fae and those they rule.
I move the shield down to my side, swinging my sword at a raving witch as he attempts to climb onto Nightspark’s back. As the body falls away from me, I look up and meet Roan's gaze across the icy, blood-soaked scene. There's blood pouring down his face and an arrow protruding from his shoulder, but his eyes burn as he pushes forward toward me, the sword in his hands blackened with witch blood.
I push on toward him just in time to see yet another arrow land, this one alone as it hits its mark…dead center in Roan’s chest.
I see fear in his eyes for the first time as blood spills from his lips and he slumps forward in his saddle.
* * *
The Outland soldier at Roan's side hooks an arm around his waist and keeps him in the saddle even as the others around us break formation, chaos spreading through the ranks. Tauron begins to scream orders, cursing and hacking at witches as he struggles to gain control.
I ignore it all.
I push Nightspark harder than ever before into the worst of the fighting ahead, my sword cutting down the witches that lie between Roan and I as though they are nothing but fresh snow against the early morning light.
