Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
“Kettling’s.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “That must be the army Atticus has sent.”
“They’ve crested the hill. Their cavalry is moving quickly.”
“To help or to hinder us?”
“They have not sent a messenger ahead of them for any sort of parley. Perhaps they saw the battle and are coming to aid.” But the expression on Gaellar’s face belies her worry.
“And when they see that we are not fighting Ybaris?” Zander surveys the battlefield.
“They will return their focus to Atticus’s false claim to the throne,” Abarrane retorts with certainty, reaching for her sword’s pommel.
Gaellar pulls her wounded body upright. “The rift army is with you, Your Highness.”
Zander sighs heavily. “I appreciate that.”
Their meaning becomes clear. “Are you all insane?” I exclaim. “We can’t fight them!”
Zander smirks at my outburst, but there’s no amusement in that look. “No, we cannot join another battle on the heels of one,” he agrees. “But we may have little choice if we cannot hold them off long enough for them to see reason.”
“Bellcross is not far behind.” Though it was hard to gauge yesterday, flying high above in Caindra’s clutches. “Did you see the purple banner?”
Gaellar looks to the squire beside her, who shakes his head fervently.
“Still, they might think twice about attacking with another army at their back.”
“Lord Rengard is marching here to fight against the Ybarisan army, not Islor,” Zander says. “I do not know that he will be eager to involve his men. And we cannot fight against our own people. We need all of them.”
“What are your orders then, Your Highness?” Gaellar waits expectantly for an answer Zander doesn’t have.
Weary silence hangs over our small group as we struggle to see the solution. We were in a similar position only days ago, facing a vast army of Ybarisans and a ruthless queen on the other side of the bridge—enemies we could not afford to fight when a far bigger enemy waited in the wings.
We had one considerable advantage then. Well … technically, two, if I include myself.
“Fine. We meet them at the front line and explain it to them,” I say.
Zander snorts. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is. And they’ll listen.”
“And why is that?”
“Because we have her.” I point to the beast that sits perched on the wall, the sunrise a contrast against her webbed wing and indigo scales.
As if Caindra can hear me, she tips her head back and releases a deafening roar in answer.
Zander’s lip curls with a grim smile. “Let us make our way to meet them, then.”
Gaellar spins on her heels and leads us through the fray.
As Zander predicted, legionaries meet us along the way, coated in blood and gore, but granting me a wave of relief that they all seem accounted for.
Jarek and Drakon clasp each other’s wrists, their wordless greeting laden with meaning. “That must be stemmed.” Jarek points to the gash that stretches across the redhead’s forehead, just below his hairline, painting his face in rivulets of crimson. It’s a head wound that would likely kill any mortal. The legionary will no doubt wear the silver scar with honor once it’s healed, but for now, it’s a ghastly sight.
“It’s nothing—”
“Stop for a moment,” Jarek commands, ignoring Drakon’s protests as he tears a strip of canvas off a nearby tent and fastens it around his forehead.
Drakon winces as Jarek secures it before gesturing to fall in line behind us.
“What?” Jarek snaps when he sees me smiling up at him.
“Nothing. I just remember being accused of mothering recently.”
“He is still weak from his time with the saplings and too stupid to accept that Nulling beasts can kill him,” Jarek mumbles, grimacing as he peers down at his oozing side.
“Speaking of being stupid …” I let my soft chide fade as we trail Zander, who cuts through the soldiers at a punishing pace, Elisaf at his flank. Those able to step out of the way do so, murmurs of “Highness” slipping from their lips. They wear expressions varying from pain to exhaustion to delirium, but all are marked with that same confused, surreal glaze. It must come with their sudden lack of desire for blood. Some of them have lived hundreds of years, driven by the base need.
“Did you notice the ground?” Zander points at the chartreuse blades of grass where trampled weeds and hard soil used to exist, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Has to be the nymphs.”
“I imagine so.”
My thoughts drift to Ulysede. Hudem’s moon has passed, and these mysterious creatures have arrived. What does that mean for us, other than freedom from the blood curse that has plagued these people for two thousand years? We know virtually nothing about them, though Gesine said seer visions labeled them anarchic, happy to collect their pound of flesh in turn for favors.
Has Islor traded one curse for another?
“We will have answers soon enough,” Zander says, as if reading my mind.