Roan answers from somewhere behind me, and then a hail of arrows falls from the sky. Though two generals are fast enough to shield themselves, the third drops to the ground, one hand clutching the arrow protruding from her throat. Her hood falls open, and a splash of auburn hair spills onto the ground as her silver eyes stare up at the sky, sightless in death.
I cleave a path through the forces as the generals call out for more troops. Roan rides past me, skirting the edge of the witcheswane line that holds off their barrier and creates a divide on the battlefield. He rides toward the general farther ahead, determination burning in his eyes as he holds up his shield, another ball of power bouncing away uselessly as the witches fight to keep him at bay.
I hear wood creaking behind me, the witches beginning to load the machine once more. Kicking Nightspark again, I push harder, swinging my sword and cleaving through more of the witches, the steel of my blade sharp and deadly.
This general steps out of his saddle willingly as I arrive, his mouth turning up into a sneer as he draws his own sword. The blade shines with power as he lifts it, and his lips still move in the chant to hold his barrier.
He's taller than the last opponent I faced, and the shape of his brow is different, but the silver of his eyes is the same. That color alone no longer lights up a rage inside me, but the loathing shining within them does, as do the white lines of his witch marks. He chose to follow Kharl; he chose the ruination of his own people and the kingdom as a whole. He chose this path while thousands of others were forced to kneel.
He chose death, and I’ll give to him, gladly.
Arrows sing through the air around me again, screams for aid on the wall to whatever the next mounting attack is, but I slide out of Nightspark’s saddle easily, and shouts of alarm join the cacophony that consumes us all. Sword in hand, I leave my shield secured across the horse’s back as protection from any stray arrows. When I advance on the general, the cold grips of the Fates’ commands for retribution wash over me, and when I reach the witcheswane line I step over it without hesitation.
The soldiers on the wall might be horrified, but they’re quick to act, arrows streaming down as they pick off every last one of the witches who attempt to swarm me in their general’s defense. The male doesn't call for more backup, just steps through his own shield, a sneer curling his lips as he lifts his sword to charge, confident that his magic assures him a victory against me.
Lifting my own sword, I catch his blow with ease, and the sound of steel clashing rings through the air, but he moves into another attack without pause. After centuries of facing the maddened rabble of Kharl’s twisted armies, this is the first time I’ve faced a true swordsman amongst his soldiers. He must have years of proper training under his belt, and the fight is a true dance as we come to blows. Attack, defense, attack, defense, over and over again, sizing each other up as we each wait for the other to stumble.
His blade shines with magic, but not enough to overpower me, and it’s clear most of his power is being funneled into the perimeter around the war machine. As we circle each other once more, I notice Alwyn at the edge of the perimeter, fighting witches on foot. He’s waiting for the moment the barrier falls and he can kill the witches within. He screams in fury, and I hear the popping sound of an axe falling, ropes snapping, the next line of arrows too slow to stop the catapult from firing again.
A ball of light arcs through the air and the general hesitates, his attention caught elsewhere for a second. It's all I need tochange the next swing of my sword to behead him the same as I did the other general. With a single swipe, another enemy of my kingdom is dead at my feet.
More arrows rain down on the battlefield around me, dozens landing in the midst of the screaming witches. I look up in time to see Roan run his sword through the last general, and the magic surrounding the catapult vanishes in an instant. The operators scream as they jump down from the wooden contraption only to find Alwyn awaiting, cutting through them with brutal swift actions.
When he steps away, caught between staring in horror at the machine and watching for more of the soldiers, the witches still left in the battalions finally break ranks and flee in all directions. There are a few hundred of them left, but without their commanding generals, the soldiers descend into chaos. My soldiers still on horseback ride after them as the archers on the wall fire streams of arrows to slow the enemy down.
Some of the witches are mindless enough to flee into the forest, death still waiting for them there, and I look up at the outer wall of Yrell and see Tyton and Reed flanking Rooke on the battlement. Her eyes are glowing brightly, and her hands bleed as she holds them out. Her magic holds the final ball of fire suspended in the air, the flames slowly burning out, and then she shifts the ball forward, pushing and pushing it even as a frown begins to form between her brows.
When it finally hovers over the catapult, her magic disappears in a rush, and the boulder drops to crush the machine. As fragments of wood spray out, a white glow sparks in the center of the pile and quickly catches fire, and soon the wreckage is consumed by flames, ensuring none of Kharl’s forces can attempt to reclaim it.
The piles of the dead lie waist deep around us, blackened blood coating my armor in its stinking film, the sounds of retreatstill echoing around us, but the siege has been held off and battle for Yrell is won.
CHAPTER TEN
Rooke
Every inch of my skin itches. My hands throb, and my eyes burn from the effects of standing in this witcheswane-drenched city, but Yrell stands tall. The high fae have won.
Prince Mercer’s soldiers still give me a wide berth, but the change within the ranks is undeniable. My involvement in this battle was far from minor. Though the high fae won the battle without my aid, Soren and Roan killing three of their generals and decimating their forces, it would’ve taken months to repair the wall if the machines had succeeded in damaging them. Yrell would’ve been left vulnerable to a second attack, no doubt Kharl Balzog’s plan.
The closeness of Yrell to the Witch Ward is the city’s greatest weakness in this war.
When I saw the flames in the catapult, I turned to Reed and demanded he bring me down here, brushing aside his hesitations. When we made it down the second flight of stairs, we met Tyton on his way up to find us.
He and Reed both flank me now on the wall as I watch Prince Soren and Prince Roan both climb back into their saddles, the stone at our feet groaning as the outer gates open. As the princes ride back in they pass a band of Yrell soldiers, riding out to chase the fleeing witches alongside the soldiers of Yregar with Alwyn at the helm.
Tyton leads me back down the inner side of the wall and opens the iron gate, then ushers me through, Reed staying close behind, no longer holding my elbow to keep me steady now that there are so many eyes on us, but he's hovering, nonetheless. When we reach the bottom, he swiftly directs me away from a large puddle of witcheswane, my feet stumbling underneath me.
Prince Soren’s eyes are sharp on me as he watches us both walk toward Northern Star. Covered in witch's blood and the debris of war the way he is, it takes a moment before I see the blood dripping to pool beneath his horse.
My feet stop as I look at him. “Are you injured?” The words tumble out of me in a rush.
His eyebrows flick upwards, the scowling prince looking far less foreboding in an instant, and the slashing scar that cuts through his high-fae beauty only adds to the charm. He glances down at the gore-spattered length of his torso as though checking for some dire wound he somehow missed before cursing under his breath.
“It's Nightspark's blood, not mine. One of the witches tore a hole in his neck.”
He’s never been overly affectionate toward any other horse in my company, but there's always been a deep respect between him and this beast. When his hand presses over the wound again, the horse snorts unhappily, and he murmurs quiet promises to have it seen to promptly. Maybe it’s the gentle tones, or the way the horse takes him at his word and settles under his care, but I’m drawn to them both.
Reed curses as he’s also forced to step toward the horse, shadowing my every move, muttering under his breath, “That beast will take your hand off. The prince's horse is not one to suffer ministrations from anyone but Prince Soren, and maybe Ingor, if he’s feeling charitable. Fates’ mercies on whichever stable hand is tasked with caring for him.”
