Kingdom of Ash
Page 108
“Close the gap,” Aedion growled to the warriors on either side of him, and pulled back enough to see the source of their salvation, free and safe at last—
It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank.
It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.
Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.
But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.
Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians.
Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.
Firelances.
A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.
Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.
As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.
Morath turned and ran.
Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!
The fools did not realize that there was no magic—none beyond pure luck and good timing.
Then a familiar voice rang out. “Quickly! On board, all of you!” Rolfe.
For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.
Aedion wasted no time. “To the river! To the fleet!”
Their soldiers didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and messy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn’t care.
Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.
Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.
And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe’s Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.
Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.
And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, “Fall back, all of you!”
The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.
Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.
But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe’s ship, the river deep enough that they’d been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind. Only the dead.
Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship’s helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born.
Rolfe, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back.
Aedion reached them, panting and so relieved he might vomit upon the shining planks.
Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, “You looked like you were in need of a rescue.”
Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe’s gloved hands. “I assume we have that map of yours to thank.”
“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”
Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.
Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. “We surprised them, but it won’t hold them off for long.”
Lysandra stepped to Rolfe’s side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. “We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup.”
“I can’t carry your entire army to Orynth,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. “But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare.” The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. “She’s not here, is she.”
Lysandra shook her head. “No.”
“Then we’ll make do,” was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship’s rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.
None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.
Aedion murmured, “Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we’ll sail for the city.”
“I’ll do it,” Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn’t bother to say anything else. Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.
Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.
In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen’s armored shoulder. Ansel didn’t so much as glance up.
Aedion asked Rolfe, “How many of those firelances do you have?”
The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. “Not enough to outlast a siege.”
And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth’s walls.
CHAPTER 64
Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.
At the disaster they’d narrowly avoided, at the deaths she’d witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.
Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.
All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.
A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.
Yrene knelt over a ruk rider, the woman’s chest slashed open from a sword blow, and held out her bloodied, glowing hands.
Magic, clean and bright, flowed from her into the woman, mending torn skin and muscle. The blood loss would take time to recover from—but the woman had not lost so much of it that Yrene needed to expend her energy on refilling its levels.
She needed to rest soon. For a few hours.
She’d been asked to inspect the queen when she’d been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn’t been able to stop her hands from shaking as she’d hovered them over Aelin’s unconscious body.
It was not Aelin who unleashed fire upon the left flank.
It was not Aelin at all who had crept up through the snow-veiled river.
Ships filled the Florine, near-ghosts in the swirling snows. Some bore the banners of their united fleet.
But many, so many he couldn’t count, bore a cobalt flag adorned with a green sea dragon.
Rolfe’s fleet. The Mycenians.
Yet there was no sign of the ancient sea dragons who had once gone into battle with them. Only human soldiers marched across the snow, each bearing a familiar-looking contraption, scarves over their mouths.
Firelances.
A horn blasted from the river. And then the firelances unleashed white-hot flame into Morath’s ranks, as if they were plumes from hell. Dragons, all of them, spewing fire upon their enemy.
Flame melted armor and flesh. And burned the demons that dreaded heat and light.
As if they were farmers burning their reaped fields for the winter, Rolfe’s Mycenians marched onward, firelances spewing, until they formed a line between Aedion and their enemy.
Morath turned and ran.
Outright sprinted, their warning cries rising above the bellowing flames. The Fire-Bringer has armed them! Her power burns anew!
The fools did not realize that there was no magic—none beyond pure luck and good timing.
Then a familiar voice rang out. “Quickly! On board, all of you!” Rolfe.
For the ships in the river had pulled up, gangways lowered and rowboats already at the shore.
Aedion wasted no time. “To the river! To the fleet!”
Their soldiers didn’t hesitate. They sprinted for the awaiting armada, onto any ship they could reach, leaping into the longboats. Chaotic and messy, but with Morath on retreat for only the gods knew how long, he didn’t care.
Aedion kept his position at the front line, ensuring no soldier lagged behind.
Down the line, Prince Galan and a spotted, furry form did the same. Beside them, red hair waving in the wind, Ansel of Briarcliff held her sword pointed at their enemy. Tears slid down her freckled cheeks. The heads of her men lay scattered in the snow around her.
And ahead of them, still unleashing flame, Rolfe’s Mycenians bought them the time to retreat.
Each second dripped by, but slowly, those boats filled. Slowly, their army left the shore, every boat that departed was replaced by another. Many Fae shifted, birds of prey filling the gray sky as they soared over the river.
And when there were none left but a few boats, among them a beautiful ship with a mast carved after an attacking sea dragon, Rolfe roared from the helm, “Fall back, all of you!”
The Mycenians and their firelances made a quick retreat, hurrying for the longboats returning to shore.
Lysandra and Ansel ran with them, and Aedion followed suit. It was the longest sprint of his life.
But then he was at the gangplank of Rolfe’s ship, the river deep enough that they’d been able to pull up close to the shore. Lysandra, Galan, and Ansel were already past him, and Aedion had barely cleared the deck when the gangway was lifted. Below, around, the Mycenians leaped into their longboats and rowed like hell. Not a single soldier left behind. Only the dead.
Light flashed, and Aedion whirled toward the ship’s helm in time to see Lysandra shift from ghost leopard to woman, naked as the day she was born.
Rolfe, to his credit, only looked mildly surprised as she flung her arms around his neck. And to his credit once more, the Pirate Lord wrapped his cloak around her before he gripped her back.
Aedion reached them, panting and so relieved he might vomit upon the shining planks.
Rolfe let go of Lysandra, offering her his cloak completely. As the shifter wrapped it around herself, he said, “You looked like you were in need of a rescue.”
Aedion only embraced the man, then nodded toward Rolfe’s gloved hands. “I assume we have that map of yours to thank.”
“Turns out it’s good for something other than plundering.” Rolfe smirked. “Ravi and Sol of Suria intercepted us near the northern border,” he admitted. “They thought you might be in trouble—and sent us this way.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They remain with what’s left of your fleet, guarding the coast. If Morath attacks from the sea, they won’t have enough ships to stand a chance. I told them that, and they still ordered me here.” The Pirate Lord’s tan face tightened. “So here I am.”
Aedion hardly noticed the sailors and soldiers making the quick sailing to the other side of the river. “Thank you,” he breathed. And thank the gods for Ravi and Sol.
Rolfe shook his head, gazing toward the mass of Morath soldiers still retreating. “We surprised them, but it won’t hold them off for long.”
Lysandra stepped to Rolfe’s side. Aedion tried not to cringe at the sight of her bare feet and legs, her uncovered shoulders, as the bitter wind off the river bit at them. “We only need to get to Orynth and behind its walls. From there, we can regroup.”
“I can’t carry your entire army to Orynth,” Rolfe said, gesturing to the soldiers massed on the far shore. “But I can bear you there now, if you would like to arrive in advance to prepare.” The Pirate Lord studied the shore, as if looking for someone. “She’s not here, is she.”
Lysandra shook her head. “No.”
“Then we’ll make do,” was all Rolfe said, the portrait of cool command. His sea-green eyes slid to where Ansel of Briarcliff stood at the ship’s rail, staring toward the field of heads left in the snow.
None of them spoke as the young queen slid to her knees, armor thunking on the deck, and bowed her head.
Aedion murmured, “Let me send word to our troops to march to Orynth, and then we’ll sail for the city.”
“I’ll do it,” Lysandra said, not looking at him. She didn’t bother to say anything else. Cloak falling to the planks, she shifted into a falcon and aimed for where Kyllian now climbed out of a longboat. They exchanged only a few words before Kyllian turned toward Aedion and lifted a hand in farewell.
Aedion raised one in answer, and then Lysandra shifted again. When she landed on the ship, returning to her human form and snatching up the cloak, it was to Ansel that she walked.
In silence, the shifter laid a hand on the queen’s armored shoulder. Ansel didn’t so much as glance up.
Aedion asked Rolfe, “How many of those firelances do you have?”
The Pirate Lord drew his gaze from Ansel to the black mass fading behind them. His mouth tightened. “Not enough to outlast a siege.”
And even the firelances would do nothing, absolutely nothing, once the witch towers reached Orynth’s walls.
CHAPTER 64
Hours later, Yrene was still shaking.
At the disaster they’d narrowly avoided, at the deaths she’d witnessed before that wave had struck, at the power of the queen on the plain. The power of the prince who had prevented the ensuing steam from boiling alive any caught in its path.
Yrene had thrown herself back into healing during the chaos since. Had left the royals and their commanders to oversee the aftermath, and had returned to the Great Hall. Healers drifted onto the battlefield, searching for those in need of help.
All of them, every single person in the keep or the skies or on the battlefield, kept glancing toward the now-empty gap between two mountain peaks. Toward the flooded, decimated city, and the demarcation line between life and death. Water and debris had destroyed most of Anielle, the former now trickling toward the Silver Lake.
A vision of what would have been left of them, were it not for Aelin Galathynius.
Yrene knelt over a ruk rider, the woman’s chest slashed open from a sword blow, and held out her bloodied, glowing hands.
Magic, clean and bright, flowed from her into the woman, mending torn skin and muscle. The blood loss would take time to recover from—but the woman had not lost so much of it that Yrene needed to expend her energy on refilling its levels.
She needed to rest soon. For a few hours.
She’d been asked to inspect the queen when she’d been carried in to a private chamber by Prince Rowan, the two of them borne off the plain by Nesryn. Yrene hadn’t been able to stop her hands from shaking as she’d hovered them over Aelin’s unconscious body.
