If I live through this, I will come home. No more silence. No more waiting.
If I don’t—then know this. Every oath I swore, I swore for you. Not for crowns. Not for kings. For you.
Always,
C
He stared at the words for a long time, jaw tight, breath rough through his nose. It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. But it was all he had.
He sealed the letter with black wax, pressed it into Renn’s hand when the boy slipped into the tent to check on him. “If I don’t return,” Clyde said, his voice steady, “you ride through the night. Deliver this to Valemont yourself.”
Renn nodded, lips pressed tight, eyes glassy in the lamplight.
When he left, Clyde sat in the dim tent with only the ribbon against his heart and the thought of Aerion’s voice in his head.
Sleep never came.
The charge came at dawn.
The ground was still frozen, hard as iron, brittle as glass. Frost glazed the ruts, glimmering faintly as the first pale light bled across the horizon.
Then came the arrows.
Not a volley—a storm. Screaming, shrieking, black shafts fell like the sky itself had shattered into a rain of knives. They punched through helms, split throats, tore through horseflesh. Men raised shields too late. Horses reared and screamed, eyes rolling white, then collapsed in heaps of blood and steam. The ground turned slick red in seconds, the cold mud sucking it in hungrily.
Clyde’s horse was among the first to go down.
The beast screamed, a gurgling, choking cry, as a shaft buried itself deep in its throat. It thrashed once before its weight collapsed beneath him. Clyde’s world spun—hard ground slamming his back, sky flashing overhead, the blur of men and beasts crashing around him. He rolled just before hooves came down, the thunder of boots trampling past where his skull had been.
He came up on his feet, sword in one hand, shield already raised. A blow struck the wood before he’d even found his footing, the crack of impact vibrating through his bones. Splinters stung his face.
There was no line. No banner. No horn to rally to.
It was mud and steel. Breath and blood. The stinking, choking weight of war at its ugliest.
Clyde killed without counting.
A sword glanced off his pauldron—metal shrieked, his shoulder went numb. He rammed his shield into the man’s face, felt the cartilage crunch, then cut through the neck, hot blood spraying across his own lips. Another came, spearpoint flashing. Clyde twisted, caught it against the rim of his shield, shoved forward, and drove his blade into the man’s gut. The tip burst out his back. The man folded, spilling intestines into the trampled snow.
Clyde ripped free. His boots slipped in mud that wasn’t mud anymore—it was meat and shit and blood, thick as porridge. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
The world narrowed to muscle and blade, to surviving the next swing, the next breath.
A hammer caught Renn.
The boy had been just ahead, his helm too large, his shield too small. Brave. Too brave. The hammer came down in a blur, smashing across his jaw. The sound was sickening, a wetcracklike a melon splitting. Blood and teeth sprayed Clyde’s cheek. Renn’s head snapped sideways at an impossible angle, his body twitching once before collapsing.
He didn’t even scream.
Clyde roared.
The sound ripped from his chest, guttural and raw, as he threw himself at the man who had wielded the hammer. His blade sheared through shoulder and chest, cleaving bone. The man gurgled, fell. It didn’t matter. Nothing would bring Renn back.
The hill loomed ahead, crowned in enemy spears. The high ground was everything—lose it, and they’d be buried in the pass. Men clawed toward it, stumbling, dying, their cries swallowed by the tide.
Clyde pressed on.
An arrow slashed his ribs, tearing mail and skin. He staggered but pushed forward, teeth bared against the pain. A spear rammed into his thigh, white fire lancing up his leg. He snarled, ripped it free, blood flooding his boot. He limped, but he did not stop.
