Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Three Wyrds barge toward Quin’s flank as he fights forward, and I swing my basket up, raining water in arcs, shouting that it’s tainted with poxies.
They jerk and scramble back, and Quin and I cover more ground. Ever nearer to the cliffs and the blocked pass.
We’ve forced our way through so much, but still, there is so much coming. Even if we get out, the Skeldar army is ultimately outnumbered.
I wield the last of the water in my basket, thrusting it in a high arc, making Wyrds scurry out of its path. Quin snags a bow and aims at the commander.
The commander lurches sideways, thrusting Wyrds off the side of the bridge, and motions for archers—
Drums. Coming from behind the rocks. Coming from an approaching army.
Arrows sing.
With a cry, Quin dredges up the very last traces of his spiritual energy, and with it hauls us off our horses and into the air towards the fallen rock. We make it halfway before gravity yanks us onto a boulder. But it’s enough.
Clambering over the crest of the pass, are Skeldars. Not just a few. There are more behind, scaling the fallen rock with bow and arrow. And more behind them. Half are covered in boils. Poxies.
Commander Kjartan leads.
And Nicostratus is by his side.
They’re a blur of deafening roars as they plummet down crushed rocks either side of us and into the fray. The battle is brief, and brutal. Blue cloaks scatter, whipping behind Wyrds as they flee before the onslaught of boils. Finally, a bellow from the Wyrd commander forces his men into a harried retreat.
Amidst the chaos, Commander Kjartan and Prince Nicostratus press on, chasing the last of the invaders across the bridge.
I haul Quin over the rocks, his limp heavy on my side. Each step is another battle for him, but his eyes glitter, like perhaps there is something desirable about this pain. Like it’s a reminder he’s alive. We’re alive. We made it. My pulse pounds steadily. I want to feel the same relief. We’re no longer surrounded by the enemy. All night and all day I’ve begged the heavens for this. For Nicostratus’s arrival. And now that he’s here, that hope has been answered, but . . .
I’m still glancing over our shoulders.
I’m still shivering.
“We’re free,” Quin murmurs.
From the Wyrd . . .
“What do you think happens next?” I ask, and grimace at my voice.
“The Wyrd commander is aware of Lumin magic, Lumin-Skeldar support. He’ll take that information home and it will keep them there.”
“What else do you think will happen?”
“King Yngvarr will hand his reign to his son. Prins Lief will want to establish mutually beneficial relations with Lumin. He’ll get that only by supporting me as king.”
I look at him. I’m quieter this time. “What else will happen?”
“My mother will leave with him.”
“What else?”
“I’ll take what is mine.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. The firm certainty of his words sinks into me, heavier than the battle we’ve braved. I breathe in deep, cool air, and on shivers, I continue moving him into camp, to the top of the hill.
“You’ll have to head back to Ragn to take off the jarl mask,” I say.
“I hope I’m right in hearing you won’t follow me.”
“I’ll only anger the king.” After a pause, I add, “If you see Prins Lief, my aunt . . .”
“I’ll let her know you’re safe. You’re headed home.”
Home.
“If Prins Lief tries to give you any trouble,” I say, “remind him I have more scriptions to transcribe.”
A light laugh. “You really know how to hold royals hostage.”
I swallow and palm my nape. “Meditate. You’ll need your magic.”
He seats himself on the crest of the hill and closes his eyes. “Magic is powerful, but it’s finite. It’s fragile.”
It can’t be relied on. I’ve seen as much.
“I’ll be a week behind you,” Quin murmurs. “Leave for Lumin with the protection of my men.”
On instinct, I glance towards the pass. Towards his brother.
When I look back, it’s to Quin watching me. “You faced death.”
I throw my hands up. “Fine. I promise.”
He shakes his head, lips twisting.
I hurry back through camp, asking for news of Florentius and Akilah, finally finding them in a small tent at the edge. I fling open the door only to drop it again, flushing.
They just survived war too. Of course they might be . . . embracing.
I slam my eyes shut until a wake of air has me peeking out to Akilah opening the door. Her cheeks brighten and she gestures me inside. With a hesitating step, I follow her in.
The tent has two mats, blankets, and little else but shadow. Shadow I’m glad for as I kneel on the ground, Florentius on one mat, Akilah dropping to the other.
I look from one sombre face to the other and bow until my head hits the grass. I address Akilah first. “Other aklas only had to worry about visits to dance houses. You were right to worry about what trouble I’d get you into.”