Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Zenith

I watch the somber faces of my advisors. The ten of us huddle in a circle by the dying flames of the destroyed bridge. There's no sign of the culprit, but it must have been the same mage. I can't help but think if Talus were here, he'd know what to do, what to say to rally the soldiers. To lift their spirits in the face of the latest obstacle.

But Talus's location is a mystery. I don't even know if he's alive or dead. The stones are quiet on the matter. If anything, they're as curious as me.

Without Talus, I'm on my own. Desperation fuels my resolve. "We ford the river."

Randal's expression is grim. "You sure about that? It's dangerous."

"We must. I know it's risky, but we can't afford another delay. There's no other choice."

"The next bridge is?—"

"Too far. The queen has ordered we hurry. So we shall. We leave the wagons and any horses too fearful to swim behind. The soldiers fly."

"And the ones who can't fly?"

"Swim. And those who can't swim, I shall carry over myself. One by one if need be."

"But that will take hours," says Anash, voice tight.

"Hours are better than days."

"With only the provisions we can carry without the wagons, rations will be sparse," says Randal. "We'll have enough for a week at most. Maybe less."

"Then it will be in our best interest to hurry, as the queen commands. Agreed?"

"Agreed," they answer, all but Anash, whose worried expression speaks for itself. The bond between us stretches taut. I long to comfort him. To kiss the nerves away. But this is neither the time nor the place.

Together with Randal, we organize the crossing and gather the troops. Other than the lingering smoke from the fire, it's a clear day with little wind. The river is past its peak from the previous rainfall, but the current is strong. Crossing it won't be an easy undertaking.

Each soldier gathers the supplies he can manage. The medical kits are flown over by all those with working wings to be packed out by the horses who make it across. Anash pens letters to Lemossin, requesting they send a contingent to come collect the remaining horses and wagons before they're looted.

Advanced scouts are sent ahead to check for enemy troops or signs of the white-haired mage.

We choose a spot about a fifteen-minute walk upriver where the breadth narrows, and we can avoid the danger of chunks of burning wood in the water.

We string our heaviest rope from one side to the other to keep swimmers from being swept downstream, anchored on the far end by a tree and on our side by the wagons we must leave behind.

Finally, groups begin to cross. The process takes hours. Though fae wings aren't strong enough to carry much extra weight and especially not the weight of another person, our strongest flyers help port supplies across so the soldiers fording the river need only worry about themselves.

The strongest swimmers guide the horses. Only a quarter are brave enough to allow this. The rest we turn loose to graze. Riders from Lemossin will have to come round them up later. I make a mental note that when all this is over and we return home, our horses must be trained for river crossings to avoid this kind of loss again.

While this is going on, I set out to carry everyone who can't fly or swim while Anash summons warm, rising air to make it easier for me. Together, we help each soldier cross one by one. My muscles and wings strain under the burden of so many trips. One hundred? More? I don't count.

Day fades into night as I port the last man across.

Exhaustion sets in, and we have nowhere to camp but the ground beneath our boots. We had to leave tents and tarps behind, so we'll make do with just our sleeping mats for comfort.

Randal has gathered the troops and marched ahead through the marshland. We'll need dry ground before we can stop. Anash and I walk with the last of the soldiers, along with his guards, Nola and Rolan, the group of us setting a fast pace to catch up to the rest of the army, though we're dead on our feet.

Camp, when we reach it, looks a lot different without wagons or tents. Men sprawl on their mats out in the open, grouped around fires, and spread from a grassy meadow into the tree line.

The southern air still carries a warm breeze, even into fall. That will make for comfortable sleeping temperatures at least. Stars, I hope the weather holds.

"Are you okay?" Anash spreads our bedrolls side by side, away from the campfire. Good. In the last few days, I've had enough fire for a lifetime.

"Yes. I only need some rest." He has used so much magic today. For me. "Are you?"

"Drained, but otherwise fine. I'm sure a night's sleep will help."

We settle on the ground, still wearing all our clothes. Anash chucks off his boots, but I leave mine on. Sleeping out in the open like this feels vulnerable, even if it's not much different from a canvas tent.

By the time my head hits the pillow—and by pillow, I mean my rucksack—I'm nigh unto passing out.

All it takes is for Anash to curl up in my arms, and I'm for dreamland.

The blaring of a signal horn in the distance startles us awake, loud enough to rouse even Anash from his slumber.

I'm on my feet, scanning for danger in the span of heartbeats. The noise echoes through camp, rattling everyone, causing confusion in the darkness.

A stone's toss away, Nola and Rolan scramble up.

"Guard Prince Anash. Keep him out of the fray," I order. The horn from our sentry repeats. Two short beats and one long. Damn. Not a fire this time. "It's an ambush."

"An ambush!" The sleep clears from Anash's gaze and is replaced by panic. "But it's the middle of the night."

I squeeze his shoulders. "They're pressing their advantage. Nothing we can't handle." This is one of the contingencies we prepared for. The troops know what to do. "Stay with your guards. Follow their orders in lieu of mine. Understood?"

"Yes," he says. "I will this time. I promise. Don't worry about me."

"Good. I trust you." But I'll always worry.

He's as white as a sheet, eyes darting from me to Nola. She's got his boots in hand while Rolan informs him they'll backtrack away from camp toward the river. Exactly what I'd have them do.

With a backward glance, I leave Anash in their care and hurry to fight with my soldiers.

"Be careful!" he yells after me.

I summon my sword to my hand, the weight of it familiar and odd at once. It's been ages since I fought to kill. Though war is what I was created for, I don't relish taking life. I don't look forward to it. But the result will be worth the price. Peace for Luminia. Protection for the royal bloodlines.

I charge to rally our defense.

My army—jolted awake and thrown into chaos—is rushing to their formations.

Randal climbs atop his mount and shouts orders from horseback.

One by one, the soldiers fall into place. We've had just enough early warning to assemble. The rebels may have wanted to catch us off guard, but they've already failed, and I say as much to my troops. "Hand the queen her first victory!"

Those with magic cast their best shields around those without. The air snaps and sparkles with their talents.

Shield bearers form a protective line with spearmen at the ready behind them. Archers prepare to fire from eastern high ground. Mounted soldiers hold their charge, waiting for the command to attack.

An eerie quiet descends. Not silence, because the enemy's boots stomp through brush, coming closer and closer, but on our side, quiet. Calm. Readiness.

In this moment, I wish only for Anash's safety. Whatever happens next is in the palms of the fates, but without Anash, my purpose crumbles.

The rallying cries of the ambushing troop pierce the night. The mood jolts, anticipation coiled, ready to spring.

The fight comes to us in waves. Rebels race through the scraggly trees of the lowlands, boots thudding, swords banging their shields.

How many? Perhaps several hundred. Not as many as the ranks of my army.

"Hold," says Randal. "Archers at the ready."

We wait until rebels burst through the tree line.

"Fire at will."

A rippling twang of loosed arrows vibrates, then whistles as they speed toward their targets.

The first volley strikes true. Rebels fall, their cries of pain drowned by the surge of their comrades trampling over them.

I stride through the ranks, sword in hand, a rallying point for the soldiers around me. "Hold the line!"

The crash of steel on steel rings loud in the night air. Spears bristle past shields like porcupine quills. Our defense is strong.

The hum of magic crescendos, strengthening our troops.

As rebels pour from the forest, another wave of arrows soars overhead, plucking them off by the dozen.

Swordsman press into the fray, combatants locked in the heat of battle. I swing and slash my way through their ranks, searching for their leader. It helps I'm taller, but even as I scan their number, I can pick out no clear captain.

Our counterattack dwarfs their attack. Have they done no reconnaissance? Have they any idea what they face in the queen's army?

The fight devolves rapidly into close combat where the rebels plummet like hail in a maelstrom.

They fall so easily. Too easily. Their human bodies pierced by sword and lance. The spicy metallic scent of their blood looms heavy in the humid air.

Where is their mighty mage now? No one protects these frail fighters as I protect the royal families. They're decimated by the dozens, falling to our arrows, breaking under our blades, trampled beneath our mounts.

My gut revolts, and my throat tightens. I must put a stop to this slaughter. That's what it is. Not a battle. Not a fair fight. A massacre.

"Halt!" I order my army. "Stand down." I call the remaining rebels to surrender. "You're outmatched. Your struggle is futile. Who's your leader?"

The fighting doesn't stop, but my soldiers heed my order when they can. The groans of the dying begin to drown out the grunts and yelling of the struggle.

"Cease! You've lost. Don't make us kill every last one of you."

No leader comes forward, but the battle grinds to a stop sword by sword.

"Throw down your weapons, and your lives will be spared."

The clink and clatter start slow, then come all at once as the humans accept defeat.

They're nothing like the fiercely ferocious incubi of my past. They're weak. Mortal. Soft-bellied and vulnerable without their sorcerer to burn bridges for them.

Again I wonder, where is the fire mage? Why does he not fight with this group? Why let them run headfirst into their annihilation?

This is no way to conduct a war. Slicing through mortals isn't an honorable win. It's an abomination.

"Captain, round up the survivors and let it be known they should remain unharmed. If a top-ranking official exists among them, I would speak to them. I have questions."

"Aye, General. Me too." Randal gets to work while I make the rounds among my soldiers.

I find Matilda and enlist her to my aid. "The healers will be setting up as we speak. Choose a few soldiers to help you in triaging the wounded. Our soldiers first, and when they've been tended to, the injured rebels."

Surprise flickers in her gaze. "We're to treat the rebels?"

"If we're able, yes. Go now. Report back to me with numbers when you've done your task."

"Aye, sir."

That seen to, I hurry back toward the river to check on Anash. I'm relieved he obeyed orders. I saw neither hide nor hair of him during the short battle.

The brush crackles underfoot as I retrace our path from yesterday. Not far, they're making their way to camp, Nola in the lead, Anash in the middle, and Rolan bringing up the rear.

"All is well?" Nola steps aside to let Anash through.

"All is well. They were no match for the queen's army."

Anash shuffle-steps backward, gaping at me.

I hadn't given thought to my appearance, covered in mud and blood and who knows what else, the detritus of battle. He shouldn't see me like this. I should have bathed first. "Anash."

He blinks, and his eyes clear as he casts his gaze to my feet as if he can't bear to look at me for another moment.

"Are you hurt?" he says to the ground.

"No, not at all." I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't darken my prince's light a second longer. "I'll go wash."

Beating my wings, I take off with the expression on his face of seeing me after battle charred into my mind like burned meat on the spit.

Would it have felt different after a fair fight? If the enemy had stood a chance? If they were strong and proud as we were and not a weak, crumpled mess on the muddy battlefield?

I may never know, but one thing is for certain. I never want to cause Anash to make that particular expression again.