Page 209 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Duncan reined in at the highest rise. The snowbound plains beyond Gryon stretched in a vast, unbroken sweep of white across the border into Duskmere. There, less than an hour’s ride away, the largest force he had encountered in any campaign stood in bleak stillness. Tents and wagons stretched so far that the encampment blurred into the horizon.

An army comes in the winter.

Dread settled between his ribs. The warning had been clear enough. He cursed himself for treating it as distant thunder rather than an approaching storm.

“Moons take us.” Eamon derKelvann made a strangled sound as he brought his gelding to a halt at Duncan’s right. His cloak sat askew across his shoulders, plainly thrown on in a panic that had never fully left him.

“Their numbers swell by the day,” Jeachim observed drearily, joining them. Newly styled Viscount of Marrowgate after Albrecht’s passing, he still wore the weight of the title with visible effort. His hand opened and closed around the reins. Once. Twice.

“Where in the Three Moons did Kryovarre find this many bodies?” Brannoc demanded. “Have the disappearances in Duskmere and Kyovarre truly amounted to this?”

“There are women among them,” Eamon added, disbelief lifting his voice. “Women marching in an army. What kind of force is this?”

“A remarkably unnatural one.” Brannoc narrowed his eyes and leaned forward in the saddle, as if distance alone were the obstacle. “I have never seen an army so silent.”

“They are under compulsion,” Duncan said, feeling strangely adrift, as if he were in a dream. “Garric’s scouts reported several Norrelians among them.”

“I scarcely believed the histories,” Eamon muttered, tugging at his reins uneasily, “and the first time fae entangle themselves in human affairs in generations, it is in my barony.”

“In truth,” Duncan said dryly, “that first occurred in Netherfen Hallows.” At Eamon’s stricken look, he tempered his tone. “Though I grant you that does not improve the present.”

“Aye,” Brannoc said. “What would improve matters is the Vaelclair army riding out from the Citadel this very hour. These numbers…” He gestured toward the sea of canvas and armored figures. “I do not care how many levies we have scraped together or how many nobles we have dragged from behind palace doors. Being outmatched by this margin sits poorly.”

Duncan pressed his lips together, aiming to contain the anger.

It did not help.

His frustration with Wolmer hardened with each passing day. He stood here defending the emperor’s realm while Wolmer remained paralyzed by Issabet’s death. Worse, Wolmer’s inaction had placed Kora in danger.

Now the palace was unsealed, yet there was still no word from her. Or Isander. Or Merrick. And no decisive movement from the emperor.

“Surely he understands Kryovarre will not halt at Ardor.” Jeachim looked from one face to another, searching for reassurance none could offer.

“One would hope he sees that,” Brannoc said darkly. “But he has taken his time in arriving at any conclusion.” He scowled. “We do not have moons-cursed time.”

“And Ardor?” Duncan asked, turning toward Eamon and Jeachim. “Has Cassian—”

Eamon cut him off with a burst of irritation. “You expect our duke to commit?” He remembered himself, “Apologies, Your Grace.”

Duncan waved a dismissive hand.

The baron exhaled and continued, “Cassian avoids entanglement as though it were contagion. If there is a way to neither offend nor assist, he will find it. That dragon crest of his serves little purpose beyond decoration.”

Jeachim’s jaw tightened. “That seems a severe judgment.”

“It seems accurate,” Eamon said, unapologetic. “You have not been a lord in Cassian’s court long enough to understand how he is.”

“Then we stand alone,” Brannoc concluded, then pointed toward the field. “I say, with no terrain advantage to exploit, we allow the center of our line to yield slightly. As Kryovarre advances, our wings sweep behind them, closing in a crescent until the trap seals.”

Eamon shifted in the saddle. “It is clever. But if their vanguard drives too far before the wings turn, they will cut our line in two.”

“What if we angle our formation instead? One wing engages first, striking what appears weakest in their line.” Duncan rubbed at his stubbled jaw, gathering his thoughts. “That way only part of our force is committed at any moment. The rest rotates and holds strength in reserve.”

“If that first strike breaks their flank, we pivot and collapse the remainder from the side.” Eamon narrowed his eyes, considering. “That could work, Your Grace.”

Brannoc stroked his mustache and nodded. “If we do that, place Ardorri levies on the angled wings. Our men have marched hard for weeks.”

Eamon scowled but offered no protest.