Chapter Twenty

Talemir's call to arms had been heard all over Naarva, and the shadow-touched forces grew by the day, the camp now spilling out into surrounding fields. Wilder had had no idea there were so many in hiding, certainly not this many willing to fight.

He stood by a fire pit now with the Shadow Prince himself, along with Torj, Dratos, Drue and Adrienne, trying to pull together some semblance of a plan. It was official: Tver was marching on Aveum with King Artos' forces at its back, and the rebellion was to meet the attack on the open battlefield. If they could unite their men.

‘We have to expect discord between the different units,' Wilder said to the others. ‘Both among the shadow-touched themselves, and between them and the allies when we join forces.'

‘He's right,' Tal agreed. ‘Just like the rest of the midrealms, Aveum has been told the narrative that we're of the same ilk as the wraiths. Even if the Embervales secure the alliance with Queen Reyna, we can't expect things to go smoothly. We have to prepare to combat the prejudices from and within both sides.'

‘How do you propose we do that, Tal?' Dratos drawled. ‘Our people have lived in secret for years for fear of what common folk do to our kind. We've all heard about Artos' experiments —'

‘We need to get our people to accept Wilder and Torj as leaders in our army.'

Dratos shook his head in disbelief. ‘Good luck with that.'

Wilder was inclined to agree with him. Though he'd been training his own unit to the point of exhaustion, they still whispered about his execution of their kind, and those whispers echoed through the camp. ‘Torj will have better luck,' he said.

‘Luck or no, we need you both. There's no winning this war without the right commanders at the helm.' There was no compromise in Talemir's voice, and it reminded Wilder of his earlier days as the apprentice of the legendary Warsword, when he'd demanded complete obedience and nothing less.

‘First order of business,' Drue cut in. ‘Every weapon-wielding soldier in our ranks is to report to the forge to have their blades imbued with the orchid essence. Then they'll be able to carve out wraith hearts just as well as if they hold Naarvian steel. Fendran said to send them in groups of twenty. The forge and its surrounds can't hold many more than that.'

Drue's command was law in this place, perhaps even more so than Talemir's, and her orders quickly filtered down the ranks before Wilder's eyes. He wished Thea was here to see it.

When their strategising was done for the evening, the group of commanders broke up, leaving Torj at Wilder's side by the fire. There was no point in returning to the main building when they had to be up at dawn for training, so they had pitched tents alongside the rest of the army. Wilder didn't miss the soft mattress of his bed so much as he missed Thea in it with him.

‘You're thinking of her, aren't you?' Torj ventured, staring into the campfire flames.

‘Always,' Wilder replied without hesitation. He'd once been stupid enough to deny all he felt for Thea, but those days were long behind him now.

His blunt reply didn't seem to faze the Bear Slayer. ‘Do you think they're alright?'

Wilder heaved a sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Do I like the idea of Thea out there without me? No. Do I think she's alright? She's a storm-wielding Warsword… The safest place is at her side. Which is exactly where Wren is.'

Torj didn't respond.

‘Not going to deny it?' Wilder pressed, hoping to rile up his brother in arms just a little.

But Torj shook his head. ‘Why should I? Why shouldn't I want what you have?'

That took Wilder aback. Despite all the wisdom Torj had dispensed over the years, he still hadn't expected the Bear Slayer to be so open.

‘You shouldn't deny it,' Wilder said honestly. ‘You deserve what you want, brother.'

Torj's expression grew distant as the flames cast shadows across his face. ‘If only wanting made it so, eh?'

Wilder thought of the piece of jade that was nestled between Thea's breasts. He wanted for it not to matter, for their fates not to be ruled by a gods-damned stone.

‘If only.'

The next morning, the training began in earnest. Wilder left the endurance and fitness drills for the captains to oversee while he took charge of the battle tactics and formations they needed to master before they'd hold their own on the field. He found an empty paddock by the perimeter of Talemir's shield, and there he led a cavalry unit of fifty men and women with varying riding and fighting experience.

In simple terms, he swiftly explained some of the more basic military formations they would need to understand before he moved them into position himself.

‘Not there,' he called to one man who seemed intent on ignoring him. ‘In line with the rest. You need to form a wall.'

Not for the first time, he found himself deflated by the quality of the soldiers in their midst. He was used to training shieldbearers and Guardians of Thezmarr – those who wished to be shaped into warriors, true defenders of the midrealms. He said as much to Talemir when he joined Wilder to assess their progress. The older Warsword fixed him with a long, hard stare.

‘Being shadow-touched doesn't make you a natural fighter. A lot of these men and women were civilians,' Talemir told him. ‘I've been visiting them in their hideouts throughout Naarva over the years to oversee their basic training, to convince them to join our ranks for this war… But they didn't sign up for this, Wilder, not truly. Fighting wasn't a choice for them.'

‘Are you saying I should cut them some slack?' Wilder asked as they watched his unit march their horses across the field, their lines messy and unevenly spaced.

‘No,' Talemir replied. ‘Train them hard, harder than you would at Thezmarr. This is our survival we're talking about.'

The mood was tense when Talemir left. Wilder could feel how on edge every single one of his soldiers was. And he understood; he truly did. It felt like the task ahead of them was impossible: to become a united and formidable unit in a matter of weeks, possibly even just days. If they wanted to survive the fight ahead, they needed a fucking miracle.

As if that wasn't enough, Wilder could still feel their resentment rolling in waves towards him, and he found himself empathising even now. The shadow-touched, who had fought their own battles within a wraith-infested kingdom for all these years, now had to yield to his command. Wilder knew how dangerous that resentment was. Orders were for nothing if no one respected him enough to carry them out.

‘Take five minutes. Drink some water,' he told them. ‘Then we go again.'

No one openly rejected his instruction, but he'd have wagered it was only because they were all actually parched. No one spoke to him either, so he watched them talk quietly among themselves, drinking from their canteens and mopping the perspiration from their brows with their sleeves.

Wilder let his mind wander to what Talemir had told him earlier. They had sent scouts to assess the terrain between Tver and Aveum for the strategic advantage, and to clap eyes on the forces that marched across the border. No word yet as to how many men, how many monsters graced King Leiko and King Artos' ranks.

Wilder took a sip from his own flask, letting the cool water wash down his throat, which was hoarse from shouting. He needed to do better. He needed to make them better. When there were no heroes among them, it would come down to their formations, their lines. They had to hold their own, and break the enemy's, if there was to be any hope of winning the battle —

‘— giving the Delmirian bitches too much say in the matter —'

The voice cut through Wilder's thoughts, his gaze snapping to his unit as a deadly calm slid into place. All notions of empathy vanished.

‘They come from a family of traitors. Just look at their kingdom. It's been in ruins for decades. Now they expect us to follow them? I'd sooner —'

‘Sooner what?' Wilder bit out, closing the distance between them on horseback and towering over the spineless bastard.

‘Nothing,' the man replied sullenly, his knuckles turning white around his reins.

Wilder stared him down. ‘By all means, tell me what you'd rather do than follow lightning-wielding warriors into battle.'

‘I meant nothing by it.'

‘Then don't say it,' Wilder snapped. ‘There is enough discord in our ranks as it is. And you would do well to remember that the Delmirians might be all that stand between you and those monsters out there.'

The man hung his head. ‘As you say, sir.'

Wilder clenched his jaw to stop himself from delivering another verbal lashing. Instead, he beat down his anger and turned to the unit as a whole.

‘Time's up,' he barked. ‘Form up.'

They manoeuvred their horses into a crooked line, and it was all Wilder could do not to drop his head into his hands in defeat. He guided Biscuit to the front of the unit and made a point of meeting every gaze that stared back at him.

‘You must hold the line.' He ensured that his deep voice projected to the far reaches of the group. ‘It's easy enough here in these fields, but when a charge is hurtling towards you, it's another story entirely. I want your reins held short.' He demonstrated with his own. ‘I want you to keep pace with the man or woman on either side of you. The horses will want to gallop – do not let them. If one breaks formation, they all will. We cannot have that.'

Silence followed.

‘Like getting blood from a fucking stone,' he muttered before addressing them at full volume again. ‘You must hold the line,' he repeated. ‘Do you understand?

Still nothing.

Hanging on to his patience by a tattered thread, Wilder rose to his full height in the saddle, let his Furies-given strength emanate from his body, and unsheathed his blades from their scabbards. ‘I said, do you understand?'

A chorus of yes filtered through the ranks.

‘Good. Then we go again. Form the fuck up.'

They did as he asked, albeit messily. He rode through the whole unit, positioning each person exactly where they needed to be, pointing out markers for them to remember, so they could line themselves up properly next time.

He had them canter across the paddock, wincing as he saw the weak links in the armour he was working so hard to forge. Wilder was watching his unit so intently that he barely registered Torj's approach until the Warsword's Tverrian stallion brushed up along Biscuit's side.

The Bear Slayer grimaced at the state of his unit.

‘This is going to be a problem,' Wilder muttered.

‘No shit,' was Torj's only reply.