Red lands and black flam.., p.31
Red Lands and Black Flames, page 31
Nosficio’s throat bobbed. Marai had no response for him, but she saw the pain in his eyes. Pain that had lingered for centuries. Pain that he’d tried to shove aside by allowing those dark, shameful parts of himself to take over. Marai wished she could tell him she understood, but her mouth was dry and wouldn’t form the words.
“We should return to Kellesar now,” Keshel said.
Marai raised her arms, beginning to tug on the remaining embers of magic inside.
Keshel placed a hand on her bicep. “No portals. You’ve used a lot of magic the past few days. I can see that you’re exhausted.”
“I can get us back to Nevandia.”
Keshel shook his head, countenance still haunted as he studied at her, as if he was looking at a stranger again. “You must conserve your magic. We all must from this point on, until the battle. We’ll need every ounce of our strength.”
Had Keshel seen something? Something Marai needed to be ready for?
“Then how do you suggest we get back to Kellesar? It’ll take us a couple days to walk there,” Aresti said, crossing her arms.
“We’ll take the horses,” Raife said, as he walked towards them, so light on his feet Marai barely heard the scrape of his boots across dirt and pebbles, so as not to startle the horses.
“We should take them all back to Kellesar,” Leif said, finally finding his voice. He got to his feet with a wobble, and spit on the grass. “I’m sure Avilyard will appreciate the unexpected Tacornian gift.”
Marai felt no satisfaction in seeing her kin’s reaction to death. Leif’s anger was a front. She was beginning to understand that he’d always been more affected by the events of his past than the others. Perhaps he felt too much.
Raife calmed the traumatized horses, easing closer, clicking his tongue. Marai counted ten that hadn’t entirely run off. He grabbed hold of the reins, still issuing hushed commands and gentle encouragement as he stroked the long nose of a sleek, muscular brown one.
“I’ll meet you there,” Nosficio said quietly to Marai. “I’ve no need for horses.” He stalked off into the woods.
The fae awkwardly climbed into their saddles. None of them but Marai had ever ridden a horse, but after some brief instruction, the other riderless horses were tied off, and the fae galloped back towards Kellesar. The journey took the rest of the day, and well into the night. Marai blandly thought that it was far easier to portal.
They came across a city of tents and bonfires lighting up the night, flags waving in the breeze. A Nevandian encampment of men Ruenen had mustered. Marai trotted up, the others behind, and raised her arms in submission as the sentries blocked their entry with long spears.
“State your name and purpose.”
“Councilman Keshel of Nevandia. We’re friends of His Highness Prince Ruenen.” Keshel used his most authoritative voice. “We’re returning from our mission to dispatch the unit of Tacornian soldiers who sacked the town of Gloaw Crana.”
“We’ve brought their mounts,” Raife said. “We hope you can make use of them.”
The sentries’ eyes raked over their pointed ears, bloody clothes, Tacorn emblems on the horses’ coats. They didn’t lower their weapons; hesitation drawing their faces.
Several golden-clad commanders exited a nearby tent, and Marai recognized two of them from the Witenagemot meetings.
“Stand down,” one of the commanders said to the guards. The soldiers lowered their spears, but didn’t step aside to let Marai through. “They are who they say they are. The girl in black has the Nevandian pin.”
Marai glanced down. Sure enough, a gold and green brooch was pinned to her black cloak. She hadn’t noticed it before.
Always trying to protect me, Ruen.
“He said they’d come from dispatching Tacorn soldiers,” one of the guards said, leering at Keshel.
“You defeated the entire unit yourselves?” asked a commander Marai didn’t recognize.
Leif, back to his haughty self, replied, “Two units, actually. You should be thanking us. You’d be engaged in battle tomorrow if we hadn’t intercepted them.”
The commander’s eyes narrowed. “People have heard that Nevandia is harboring magical folk. A few weres came here searching for you.”
“Weres?” repeated Raife, blanching as if the commander had asked him to strip naked and perform a little dance. “You mean werewolves?”
“We’ll take the horses, but you lot have to take the weres with you. They’re in the way here.”
Marai understood his meaning. No magical folk would be welcome in their encampment.
“Where are they?” Marai asked the commander.
He pointed to a large boulder on the outskirts of the encampment. Six muscular figures paced back and forth, weapons in hand. Two shaggy horses stood next to a small wooden cart carrying sacks and boxes.
Marai and the fae approached. The werewolves, in their human forms, raised their weapons defensively. Marai noticed their hairy arms, low-set ears, and various scars across their faces and exposed skin; all distinguishing marks of a werewolf. Sturdy blades and axes were clutched in their hands.
“We aren’t leaving,” said the tallest and brawniest of the six. His skin was as dark as the coal in the back of his wagon; his head shaved on both sides. “You can keep trying to intimidate us all you want. We have just as much right as you to be here.”
“We heard you were looking for us,” Marai said.
The tallest werewolf, most likely the leader, squinted his eyes as he looked from Marai to Keshel, spotting his pointed ears. Keshel and the others regarded the werewolves with equal interest. They’d never seen them before.
“You’re the fae, then.”
“We are. How can we help you?”
The leader snorted. “Funny, ’cause we came to help you.”
The other weres lowered their weapons and nodded along. The leader held out his hand to Marai. “Name’s Tarik.”
Marai shook his scarred, calloused hand. A laborer’s hand. A warrior’s hand. “Marai.”
“We were coming through the Middle Kingdoms, trading our goods up from Ain.” There were several secluded pockets of werewolf communities across Astye. These ones, it seemed, were coal miners. “We met up with another faerie on the road. He told us the rumors about the new prince and his faerie band.”
Keshel stepped closer, face alight with intrigue. “Another faerie? Is he still here?”
Marai’s mind whirled. Maybe it’s him . . . the part-fae from Cleaving Tides.
“Nah, he left when we arrived. Said he didn’t want to go into the camp. I think he got spooked by all the soldiers,” said Tarik with a shrug.
“People up and down the road are talking about you all now, saying the prince is allowing magical folk to live here,” said another werewolf, with dyed red hair sheared close to his scalp. A tiny sword earring dangled from his earlobe. Marai caught Aresti regarding it with envy. “We thought we’d lend him our skills.”
“That’s quite generous of you,” Raife said, “but why would you risk your life here when you live in the South?”
“We’re tired of how poorly we’re treated,” Tarik replied. “Tired of being denied work or basic rights ’cause we turn into wolves once a month. So what? Doesn’t make us any less feeling or trustworthy.”
Leif muttered, “Damn right.”
“Is it true?” the shortest werewolf asked, with eyes as wide and blue as the ocean on a clear day. He had long hair and a bushy beard. “Is the prince really so . . . unusual?”
Marai smiled. “He is. I know Prince Ruenen would be happy to meet you all.”
There it was again—hope. Hope in the faces of all six werewolves, and such a powerful thing it was, too.
“Well, then let’s go,” Tarik said. “We’re not doing anything useful around here. Those bastards won’t let us set foot inside the camp.”
“Progress is slow,” Keshel said dryly to Tarik as the weres climbed into their wagon.
Tarik sat upon the saddle of the shaggy horse with a smile. “But at least it’s something.”
Back on her own horse, Marai’s body drooped as the fae and werewolves made haste towards Kellesar. The effects of using so much magic the past few days began to take its toll. Her mind dragged, body ached, and she struggled to keep her eyes open in the saddle.
Finally, at daybreak, Kellesar rose from the valley. A wan sunrise illuminated its white stone, painting the city in a golden hue.
A strange feeling brewed inside Marai as her horse galloped steadily towards the gate, the werewolf wagon clattering behind her. She was happy to see the city. She was excited to bring the werewolves in to meet Ruenen.
Because change was coming.
Change was here.
Chapter 22
Ruenen
An immense battle brewed like bubbling lava beneath the earth, waiting to burst from the crater of a volcano.
Ruenen’s constant headache felt much the same.
Events escalated once the fae returned from their mission in Gloaw Crana. Days went by in a blur. Avilyard and his commanders spent hours analyzing maps and strategy. The Witan chattered for hours in the hallways after meetings, seemingly afraid of wasting a single moment of planning in order to rest. Weapons in the armory were sharpened. Blacksmiths hammered away, forging new blades. A drum of war, Ruenen heard the steady, rhythmic beat of mallets on steel every time he went outside.
“Rayghast is furious,” Avilyard explained to Ruenen and the Witan. “His attacks are more consistent and aggressive, retaliating after the loss of those two elite units in Gloaw Crana. There’s now a massive congregation of Tacornian soldiers encamping opposite our troops on the moor.”
“There’ve been two skirmishes in the past three days,” said another commander, whose name Ruenen couldn’t remember. His arm was in a sling and there was a cut across his eyebrow. He’d been involved in both skirmishes. “We’ve lost around seventy men and four of our top battlefield commanders, not to mention civilians.”
Ruenen swore under his breath.
“Not only that, but Varana is marching through the Red Lands as we speak, pillaging our towns along the way,” said Avilyard. “Half of their troops have already joined up with Rayghast’s.”
“Is there nothing we can do to stop them?” asked Fenir.
Avilyard and the other commanders exchanged glances.
“There are too many of them,” he replied solemnly. “We don’t have the men. We need to consolidate our forces in one place if we’re going to make a stand.”
Ruenen watched the citizens of Kellesar from his bedroom window whenever he had the chance. People huddled together, whispering, faces lined with worry. Citizens from nearby villages and towns flocked to the capital city. Kellesar’s walls were high, and with the Nydian River surrounding it, quite difficult to penetrate. It was the safest place in Nevandia.
Boys no older than eleven, and old men well past their prime marched from the city with their heads held high, knowing the fate that awaited them on the moor. They’d give their lives for Nevandia. Many of them had never held a weapon, let alone taken a life. Each tearful goodbye to a loved one was a nail to Ruenen’s heart as he watched from the castle balcony.
“These people are far braver than me,” Ruenen said to Holfast, standing behind him. “I’ve hid from this place my entire life, and yet they all sacrifice for Nevandia, knowing they may not ever come home.”
A woman in the street kissed her adolescent son as a golden soldier pulled the boy away.
“Make Nevandia proud,” she shouted after him. The mother only let fear take her after her son was out of sight. She sobbed into her hands.
It was enough to make Ruenen want to tear his hair out. Only women, young children, and the few men deemed unfit to fight, lingered in the city streets. Everyone else had been sent to the army camps on the moor between the two countries.
The one silver lining was the arrival of the six werewolves. Men, strong, gritty, and hardened. Ruenen could hardly believe his eyes when Marai brought them into the Witenagemot. Tarik, their leader, had a no-nonsense way about him, which Ruenen admired. Along with the fae, the weres joined in on every strategy meeting in the Witan chamber.
The Commander of the Nevandian Army was as bone-weary as Ruenen felt. Dark circles and deep lines formed around Avilyard’s eyes; creases across his forehead and between his eyebrows. Ruenen recognized an achingly familiar question in his eyes. How could they possibly win?
“We don’t have the numbers to siege the castle at Dul Tanen. It’s too well fortified. We’re better off having a battle on our terms—here, Your Highness,” Avilyard said, pointing to the highlands between Nevandia and Tacorn. The same heather-strewn moor Marai and Ruenen had careened through two months ago trying to outrun Commander Boone. “It’s far enough away from our major towns, but close enough to Kellesar for us to flee should . . . should the worst happen.”
Ruenen chewed bitterly on his lip. Kellesar could protect them for only so long. Eventually, Rayghast’s forces would batter down the gates and flood the city.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Where are the Varanese forces?”
“A day out of Dul Tanen, Your Highness, but they’re congregating on the moor.” The commander’s deep rumble of a voice grew quieter. “And there’s no word yet of Greltan soldiers. We’ve recalled nearly all of our own forces stationed along the border. It’s possible the Greltans are closer than we know.”
“How do we know that Grelta hasn’t tricked us, gone behind our backs, and allied with Rayghast?” asked Commander Gasparian.
“Rayghast would never ally with a woman,” Marai said curtly from the back of the room. “And I don’t believe Queen Nieve would ever parlay with a man who disrespects her and her people.”
“Their alliances wouldn’t last long. Nieve has a vast army, herself. Tacorn doesn’t have the numbers to hold Nevandia, Varana, and Grelta at bay. Not yet, at least,” added Ruenen.
But he will if he annexes Nevandia.
“Grelta will come,” Holfast said, but Ruenen heard the doubt in the Steward’s voice. Holfast had sustained the kingdom for nine years. He was skilled at spinning fear into hope.
“Sure, but how quickly?” Ruenen asked.
“It takes time for a large force to move from country to country, even cavalry,” Avilyard said, but he, too, sounded unsure.
Ruenen rubbed his temples. The two cups of coffee he’d already had did nothing to energize him. Sleep escaped Ruenen, night after night. His mind wouldn’t slow. He hadn’t had time to play his lute; the one sanctuary where he could shut out the noise and rising panic inside.
But each night, Ruenen wondered if Marai would appear at his door. He ached for the subtle spark when he traced his fingers across her skin. He pined for her presence, to hear her voice, to know her thoughts. But she never came. As their eyes locked from across the Witan chamber, a rope taut between them, Ruenen still couldn’t be sure how she felt. There was attraction and affection, but could Marai sense how deeply Ruenen’s emotions ran? Did she know that his heart burned and twisted for her every second of the day?
Marai was smarter than him. She knew what they faced. Marai had the ability to compartmentalize in ways Ruenen could only imagine. If there was ever to be something more . . . she would do nothing until this upcoming battle was finished. She wouldn’t get distracted. Ruenen supposed he should follow her example.
Which brought Ruenen’s mind back to Rayghast.
There was no doubt the King of Tacorn would be there on those sloping hills.
How much dark magic had he used since the last time they’d met? Ruenen wondered if the black stains had appeared elsewhere on his body. How much of himself had the king given over to the darkness? And what would that power do to Ruenen’s army? To Marai?
There was no watching from the sidelines. No safety at the back. Rayghast wouldn’t settle for mere defeat. It would be death or nothing, for both of them. The question was . . . whose body would be swinging from the castle walls?
I can’t hide from this any longer. He swallowed down the fear and the sensation of ruination.
“I will meet him there,” Ruenen said to the room.
A collective breath was held.
“Your Highness—” Holfast began.
“This has been my destiny since the day I was born. If I don’t stand against Rayghast, how can I expect my own countrymen to do so?” Ruenen wasn’t of royal blood. He wasn’t supposed to be king, but fate or the gods had guided Ruenen here. This was how it was supposed to be. “If we take down Rayghast, this war will end. Let’s make this the final battle. Let’s bring our people peace.”
Solemn nods circled the room. Vorae’s hand pulled at the back of his neck. Fenir’s chest rose and fell quickly. They wouldn’t be on the battlefield. It was decided that the Witenagemot would remain, ready to govern with Holfast at the helm, should Ruenen fall. Or rather, ready to submit and bow down to Rayghast. Ruenen doubted any of the Witan would keep their heads should Tacorn win.
“Then we should ride out today, Your Highness,” Avilyard said. “Join the men already camped on the moor. I’m sure seeing you will raise their spirits.”
Ruenen nodded, scrubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw. “We’ll leave by midday.”
Avilyard and his fellow soldiers tramped from the chamber in steady, powerful steps. Other members of the Witan left in a hurry, chatting animatedly with each other. Holfast, Vorae, Fenir, Keshel, and Marai remained. Holfast regarded the two faeries, standing aloof in the corner. He seemed to be holding back a thought, jaw working.
“Whatever happens in this battle . . . we appreciate that you came to our aid,” Holfast said to them. “For as long as Nevandia remains, you will have a home here.”
Holfast held out his hand. Keshel didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he clasped the Steward’s hand. It wasn’t exactly a shake, but it was as friendly as either man would be.
“We must go gather the others,” said Keshel, releasing Holfast’s hand. “There’s much to do before we leave.”
