25. Ethan

Chapter 25

Ethan

S couts fanned out ahead of the army’s advance as columns of soldiers streamed beyond the safety of our encampment. The inky black of Isabel’s new riding leathers made her stand out against the ocean of deep-green uniforms and pearly snow. The Phoenix stitched across her chest and billowing cloak unnerved the men, but she didn’t seem to care.

As we approached the rise that marked the edge of Huntcliff and the beginning of the mountain pass, the men surrounding her exchanged worried glances. The road sloped gradually downward from the rise until resuming an upward climb to match the mountainside ahead. Snow stood in drifts several feet deep.

“Your Majesty,” I said quietly beside her, not wanting the men to overhear. “We can’t take the horses in snow that deep. We’ll lame them all before we ever see the enemy.”

The Regent laughed. “General, have a little faith—and observe.”

She raised a hand, palm pointed in front of her.

Horses danced nervously, unnerved by magic’s fingers tingling against their senses.

Flames erupted from her palm in a wide plume, melting the snow and revealing the rough gravel road. She maintained her blaze until the resulting water evaporated and her horse could walk on dry ground.

“Coming, General?” She strode forward without a glance at the awestruck men behind her.

For hours, the slow-moving column followed as the Regent blazed a trail through the mountain snow. The men grew used to her display of power, but their mounts never fully adjusted to the shifting moisture and magical pressure; at one point, they became so agitated that I ordered the first few ranks of cavalry to hold back, allowing some distance between their troubled mounts and our sorcerous Regent.

Hours later, when the Regent showed no signs of slowing, I edged up beside her.

“Majesty, the men are exhausted. Their mounts are even more so.”

She looked back. For the first time that day, I watched as she actually considered her men.

“Very well. We camp here,” she said as the fire flowing from her palms ceased, dousing the forest in darkness.

“On the road?”

Her head snapped around. “Yes, General, on the road. I want this column moving before sunrise.”

“Yes, Majesty.” My head lowered.

Days passed before the battered and blackened walls of Grove’s Pass came into view. Our men had secured what was left of the town, shoring up some of the salvageable buildings to allow officers a place to meet and sleep.

The men around the Regent slowed, their eyes wide, as the utter destruction of the town became clear. She paused to consider the snow drifts around the town but never glanced at the dead.

The last of the heavy artillery creaked its way out of the forest a few days later. Over sixty thousand men, ten thousand horses, and hundreds of various trebuchets and siege towers sprawled throughout the valley surrounding Grove’s Pass. A constant stream of supply wagons flowed from Huntcliff to keep the men fed, but nothing calmed winter’s bite. Soldiers organized their tents around bonfires that dotted the landscape for miles in every direction.

I strode among my men, hands clasped behind my back as I surveyed the camp. I grimaced at the disorderly array but understood their need for warmth outstripped my desire for more disciplined rows and columns.

“General, what’s the Regent after?” one man asked through chattering teeth.

“Victory,” I said simply, clapping the man on the back. I had no idea what the Regent planned or how we should define victory. The man deserved a better answer, but that truth would have unsettled him more than my obfuscation.

I stepped from the men’s campfire and turned to stare at the building where the Regent slept. Something had changed in her, something deep and troubling. The Council and generals saw it, though few braved her wrath to voice their unease.

We knew she killed our King. We suspected she killed our Prince.

How far would we follow this woman? How could we possibly resist one with such power?

It went against my very nature to challenge my monarch. To consider opposing the Crown—it was unthinkable.

A young soldier laughed at some joke I hadn’t heard, drawing my eye. His face was unmarred, his eyes bright. Memories of another boy, another friend, filled my mind.

At twenty, the would-be-king, Prince Alfred, was quietly assigned to my unit. The boy-Prince was tall, lanky, and about as graceful as a newborn deer. Most of the men kept their distance from the royal, fearing his birth and physical shortcomings might hinder their progress, but I felt for the gangly Prince.

We became the best of friends.

For the next thirty years, I remained Alfred’s most trusted friend, advisor, and military leader. When others cowed in the face of royal power, I stood firm, offering honest, well-tempered advice. I never married or even had a relationship of any consequence, other than my abiding love for the royal family.

The royal family was my family.

As I continued my stroll, my mind wandered. Alfred would’ve loved to walk among the men, to offer encouragement and share stories around the fires. He would’ve loved the planning even more. I could picture the near-jubilant look in the King’s eyes as he scrutinized maps spread across tables, moving miniature wooden markers with every new gambit.

There was no way he would ever start a war, but he would relish the strategic challenge of winning one.

I missed my old friend on days like this.

A horn sounded from the center of town. Three short blasts. That was the signal for the War Council to assemble, and the Regent was not a pleasant woman when kept waiting.

Who was I kidding?

She was rarely a pleasant woman.

I entered the house to find the Council assembled and murmuring as Minister Bril pointed to various spots on the map. There was an excitement in the air. Anticipation? What had the Regent done while I was in the camp? I scanned the room to find her nowhere in sight.

“Ah, General, good,” Bril said, looking up from the map. “Join us. The Regent wants us moving within the hour.”

I walked to Bril’s side, and my eyes widened as I saw the markers laid out on the map.

“We’re besieging Saltstone? Before we take the rest of the country?” I asked, dismayed.

Bril nodded. “The Melucians have concentrated all their defenses in the capital. They stripped every soldier, lawman, and boy old enough to hold a pike from the coastal towns. We can take those anytime we like, but Saltstone is the linchpin.”

“You got that information from our scouts? What else have they reported? Skirmishes?”

“Not a single skirmish. Not even an arrow fired in our direction. They know they can’t win in open battle and are cowering behind their walls. We received reports of a steady, almost frantic supply of wagons flowing toward the city from every direction. I’ve ordered three tactical units of cavalry to move here, here, and here.” Bril pointed to three wooden horses positioned around the capital about ten leagues from the city’s border. “Their orders are to intercept supply trains, but not engage otherwise.”

“What about their Mages? I expected some surprises in the pass, but there was nothing. That likely means we will face all their magical power at Saltstone’s gates.” I turned my back to the table and leaned against its edge, then folded my arms.

“That is the wrinkle in the Regent’s plan. It has been all along. We only have a few Mages with offensive capabilities. They have dozens, probably more. The way Thorn describes their tower in the Mages’ Guild . . .”

I grunted.

It was about all I could think to add to a conversation about magic. My own Gift enhanced my memory, but I didn’t envision soldiers running up to the gates of Saltstone quoting historical trivia at the enemy. The Melucians, however, had the Gifts of Fire, Air, and who knew what else? If their tower really did magnify their strength and endurance, this fight would become far more difficult, despite what Isabel claimed.

“Has the Council come up with anything beyond a conventional siege? Any way to neutralize their magic?” I whispered, not wanting the others to hear the doubt in my voice.

“ She says to leave them to her.” Bril didn’t have to say who she was.

“Let’s hope she knows what she’s doing, or this could turn ugly fast,” I grumbled. “Any word from Jessia?”

Bril’s eyes darted around the room, then he leaned toward my ear and whispered urgently. “Don’t you dare mention Jess around the Regent or any of the men here. I don’t know who’s left we can trust. She has teams out looking for the Que—I mean, Jess. Murder squads. If she even gets a whiff of you asking about her, you’ll be next.”

I peered at Bril out of the corner of my eye and nodded.

The Regent had changed over the past months. She had always been headstrong and bent on accumulating power, but she was never wantonly evil. Her display with Sheriff Wilfred had only been the first. Since then, she had burned or boiled dozens of men she suspected were more loyal to Jess than to her. It was a miracle I hadn’t been targeted already.

I chided myself for being lax around the Council. Bril was right.

The air in the room seemed to shift, and every head snapped to the door.

The Regent had exchanged her riding leathers for an elegant gown. Her hair flowed loosely down her back.

“Gentlemen, why are my troops not moving?” The congenial tone of her voice made the question more menacing than if she’d shouted.

The men shuffled. All eyes settled nervously on Bril.

He inclined his head. “The orders were handed to messengers not twenty minutes ago, Your Majesty. The forward units should be moving within the hour. Three cavalry units were dispatched two hours ago to harry supply convoys headed into Saltstone. Everything is proceeding according to your plan.”

“How many days to get the perimeter secured?” she asked.

“A week to get forward units into place. They’re mounted and should move quickly along the road. Another three or four weeks to move the entire army and siege equipment. Probably four weeks. We have to ensure the supply lines remain secure as we advance.”

She looked pointedly at me. “Do you agree with that timeline, General?”

I studied the map a moment, then nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. Four weeks assumes there is no more snow, that wagons do not break down, and our enemy allows unharried passage. Each is an optimistic assumption.” I noticed the scowl on her face and quickly added, “But the Minister is correct about the forward units. They should be in place within a week.”

She stared a moment. “Fine.”

As she turned to leave, I ventured one last question. “Your Majesty, what about their Mages? Our forward cavalry has no way to counter magical attacks. I’ve ordered a perimeter three leagues out, but their tower . . .”

“General Marks, I really hate repeating myself. Leave their Mages to me.” She spun and disappeared through the doorway, leaving the War Council speechless—until they erupted in heated debate over how she would deal with Melucia’s Mages.