52. Ayden

Chapter 52

Ayden

W e knew the numbers before the first bolts were fired. The Kingdom army outnumbered our fighting men and women by several times. Despite the ranks of our Mages, there was little hope of beating them back. Even with the addition of Declan and his powerful new magics, our cause was little more than a dying ember on the coals of a wintry fire.

Everything had moved so quickly.

First, Grove’s Pass, then my flight to Fleet Town, and finally, our race to beat the Kingdom forces to Saltstone.

The moment I arrived, aside from a few blessed hours alone with Declan, an eternity of preparation and work consumed every waking moment. There had been no time to rest, no time to think, barely time to breathe.

When the Triad ordered the people’s evacuation, the Captain-Commander surprised me by sending my team of Rangers—they had become my team by wartime default—as armed escorts for the hundreds of thousands of fleeing citizens.

I resented the assignment at first. My men did, too. We were trained warriors, men of the Green. We wanted to fight beside our brothers in defense of our homeland. If necessary, we would fall as heroes of Melucia, mingling our blood with the blessed soil of our forefathers.

But that fate was meant for others.

No one could argue the import of keeping the people safe. They were, in truth, Melucia. Land was little more than untended dirt without them. Still, the task stung worse than any rebuke.

I had no magic.

I bore no Gift.

I was useless when the true battle came.

My rational mind knew the truth to be far from that self-loathing fantasy, but still . . .

On the morning following our initial escape, we encountered no enemy.

I thought it strange.

They had ringed the capital, intent on strangulation, then suffocation.

Then hammer against anvil until nothing remained.

This was not a war for conquest or dominance.

It was an extermination, and we were the vermin beneath their heels.

The sounds of battle echoed in the distance. Occasional flashes from the Mages’ tower drew my eye, each a reminder of the price I would likely pay before the day’s end, an unbearable price on which I refused to dwell lest it drag me beneath the murk of my own misery.

The people needed me. I had to be strong—or pretend to be—if not for myself, then for them.

I glanced around at the disorderly mass of humanity shuffling with bowed heads and bent backs. Most carried what belongings a sack could contain. A lucky few led horses laden with packs. Those who spoke did so in hushed tones, as if the voices of the throng might call upon our enemies and invite their wrath.

Most remained somber and silent.

None believed they would see their homes again.

None dared hope.

When the sun arced toward the western sky, and we had still not encountered a single man soldier, a thin sliver of hope pricked my heart.

It was in that moment, when hope flickered before me, tawdrier than a whore waving to passersby, that calls rang out from the rear of our procession.

“Contact!”

I turned to a Ranger who rode nearby. “Go.”

No further instruction was needed. If we faced assault from our flank, he would bring word, and we would . . . I was unsure what we would do. Fifty men and hundreds of thousands of women and old men could not advance across the land, much less fight an intent invader.

The man returned within moments, his chest heaving and his horse's nose flaring. “Thousands of troops, tens of thousands. It could be all of them, sir. They’re on our tail, maybe a mile out and moving fast.”

Damnation.

“What do we do, sir?” the man asked. He looked little more than a child in that moment, eyes wide and features smooth. He should have been tending a farm or playing with other boys, not facing certain death at the tip of a sword.

“We turn and face them, Ranger, just like you trained. Send word. Every Green Cloak to the rear, and get these people moving faster!”

He slapped his fist to his heart and wheeled his horse about.

I ignored the terrified faces of those who’d overheard our exchange and called out, “People, we need to pick up speed. Walk quickly. If you can part with them, toss your belongings aside. Let’s move!”

Confusion turned to fear, then swelled into panic.

People at the front of the mass, those young enough to sprint, began running forward. I doubted they knew where they might head, but my voice willed them to go there with all haste. Even the old and infirmed tried to hurry, their shuffled gates scraping a bit faster in the grass and dirt.

Satisfied the word was spreading, I turned my mount, intent on racing down the line to lead my men in defense of the fleeing heart of Saltstone, but a flash of brilliance amid the clouds drew me up short. I covered my eyes with a hand and squinted heavenward.

“What the hell now?” I muttered.

The people who’d been running a moment earlier had stilled and now mirrored my upward gaze.

Tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands froze and gaped as a cerulean angel soared from the mountains north of the city toward the southern end of our line.

Clouds parted.

A woman screamed, “It’s the Phoenix!”

Others took up the cry, and shouts of “Phoenix” traveled up and down the line faster than any courier with a Gift. As one, we watched as the majestic, mythical bird I doubted one in a thousand still believed to be real dripped blue-white flames from wing and tail.

And then she dove.

Though we knew her to fall well to our south, the entirety of our band ducked or fell to their knees, shielded their eyes or wrapped their bodies protectively over young ones. When the Phoenix struck, the ground shook, knocking many off their feet. A wave of concussive sound and power whooshed over us, battering those who still stood and sending terror into my mount. Only when the blast had passed would the beast allow me to calm her.

Slowly, tenderly, a few at first, then more, the people rose.

We stared as one into the distance, as the flames of a million Mages rose high into the air, and the distant cries of thousands of men rang out and quickly died on winter’s breeze.