25. Keira
Chapter 25
Keira
“ K eep moving!” I yell, racing my mare across the line of people. “Archers! To our back! Give us cover when that force reaches us.”
Another high-pitched horn responds to the first. A stab of panic jolts through me. That horn came from the west. Two warbands are closing in on us.
I turn wide eyes toward the guards, who stare at me with ashen faces. I pin Fynbar with a look. “Tell me about the landscape here. Are there difficult places to traverse where we could lose them? Forests, ravines, swamps?”
“We are close to the Deadman’s Marshes, are we not?” an Appleshield Guard asks.
“They are called that for a reason,” Fynbar snaps.
“Can you get us through them?” I ask.
“I know the way, but it will be difficult with a hundred people. They have to follow us exactly, or they will be lost. And I cannot account for the ghouls that might come for us.” His voice wavers.
“You will lead us that way,” I demand.
We run for our lives across the landscape, but still move too slow with much of our number on foot. The enemy’s horns bellow again and again, calling and responding from both directions.
They move in on us until the pounding of hundreds of hoofbeats is almost deafening. We are three-quarters of the way through the field when the western warband erupts over the top of a hill and charges for us. There are dozens of warriors on horseback, the metal of their armor and drawn swords glinting in the afternoon sun.
Time seems to slow to an impossible crawl.
Each of those snarling faces beneath their helmets becomes visible. I hold on to my steed with my thighs alone and nock an arrow to my bow, steadying my aim as they fly toward us at a gallop.
“Archers. FIRE!” I scream, releasing the arrow at the enemy.
The host moves so fast that we only make a handful of hits, and none are deadly. I explode the grasses beneath their warhorses, creating divots in the ground and toppling two of their beasts. Mothers of Magic hit them with gusts of wind or attempt earth magic to trip them up, but none are trained in battle. We are all depleted and terrified.
Right when I fear they are going to trample over us at breakneck speed, the band swiftly banks, missing a collision but forcing us off our trajectory, back to the east. The enemy does a loop and charges us again, feinting at the last possible moment and forcing the direction we run in.
They are herding us like sheep, straight toward that much larger force.
I grind my teeth. If I don’t think of something, they will capture us and kill anyone who isn’t of interest.
They are looking for hostages.
Perhaps for me personally.
I gallop to my guards at the front of our pack. “Get us closer to that thicket. I want the enemy near the trees when they loop around.” I turn to the bulk of the priestesses and druids. “On my signal, everyone is to channel their raw power into my wield.” I don’t stop to analyze their already drained expressions or the shaky gait of their running strides. The fact that they may not have much left to give.
The next time we are charged and herded, our guards pull us back toward that thicket. When the enemy loops around us, their number is brought to the edge of the woods as they turn their warhorses around to prepare for another assault. Some brush under the branches of the ancient trees.
I draw every last drop of my magic and throw it into the soil beneath my feet, sending the wield hopping from grass root to grass root, until I reach those trees. I split my powers, capturing five, then ten tall, pines, pouring my essence into them.
“NOW!” I bellow.
Liquid fire sears through me as all that raw power from so many sources floods into me, then straight down the path I have wielded, gathering in those trees. I am burning with the tempest that rages into me. My whole body shakes with the intensity of keeping it together. Of not combusting under the pressure.
It all happens in the blink of an eye. The horsemen are turning rapidly before the thicket, their mounts kicking up chunks of grass and mud. Their lips peel back from their teeth in sneers and mocking laughter.
Then I trigger my wield.
Ten massive trees explode with such force that sharp splinters the size of spears fly toward the enemy. Bodies are impaled with multiple projectiles and so much blood sprays out of them that, for a split second, they are shrouded in a red mist.
I focus on that flying shrapnel, grasping and guiding it with air weaves into more bodies until all that is left of our enemy is a pile of broken bodies on the ground.
Someone vomits behind me. A handful of my people slow their run, staring at the carnage in shock.
“Keep moving!” I scream, my voice savage. “There is another warband on our heels!” They jolt, then run with newfound energy.
Adrenaline rushes through me. It is the only thing keeping me on this horse, not contemplating the horror of what I have just done. I sway in my seat. Too much power. I used far too much power.
That horn sounds again. They are so close.
The Deadman’s Marshes are just ahead. A huge expanse of gray water stretches out to the misty horizon, dotted with tiny islands of scraggy grass, but no land seems to connect them. I glance at Fynbar with panic.
“There are sandbars just beneath the water, for those who know where to look for them. There are larger islands where we can camp tonight.” He grips his reins with one hand and holds his side with the other, where blood stains his shirt. I suddenly realize that this man is one of the injured, and I have been pushing him hard.
“Take us in,” I say.
The smell is the first thing to hit me. It is like many, many creatures have come here to die. Each time my horse pulls a hoof out of the shallow water, it drags up mucky sand and large bubbles. The people around me struggle to wade through the thick mud, swatting away flies.
“The path gets easier the further in we go,” Fynbar says beside me. “We should split our party across the two paths to confuse the enemy. It will make it harder for them to follow us. Galvyn also knows the way.” He tips his head towards another injured soldier, who has a bandage wrapped around his head and one leg in a splint.
I glance over my shoulder at the ranks of the enemy racing across the plains behind us, and the frantic bottleneck of my people waiting to pass into the perceived safety of the marshes.
“It will help with that too.” Galvyn’s voice is hoarse.
“Yes. Let’s do it.” I jump down from my horse. Both men give me a confused look, but I quickly pull over two fatigued Mothers of Magic and boost them up onto the mount. There will be no galloping around and loosing arrows on horseback while we are in this bog, and they need the ride more than I do.
The mud is so much worse when standing in it. Freezing ankle-deep water slips into my boots and all kinds of bugs float on its surface, some attempting to climb up my legs. The long grass is razor-sharp, whipping painfully across the narrow bands of skin exposed at my calves. We move on anyway, fueled by fear.
The enemy’s pounding hooves and barking shouts only grow in volume.
Finally, the path splits and the two local men divide our party. Our progress speeds up. Another glance behind me shows the last of my charges stepping into the marsh, with the enemy half a mile away and gaining on us.
I reach for my magic, but I am completely drained. I will not be able to throw up any air shields to stop their arrows.
The warband gallops to the edge of the marsh and comes to a sudden halt, surveying us. Their leader rides to the edge of the water, examining it. To him, our party must look as though we are randomly spread out across the marsh, instead of following two paths of sandbars. He pulls the longbow from his back and nocks an arrow to it. My heart stutters and stops as he aims and fires, once, twice, three times.
I release a breath as the arrows fall and none of my people are hit. One arrow lands in a sandbar, most of its shaft poking out of the water, and two others disappear into deep pools.
It seems like the enemy stands there for an eternity, our fates sitting on the tip of a blade. Then the leader shouts out commands I cannot decipher. They gallop away.
“They will attempt to race around the marshes to catch us on the other side,” Diarmuid says from behind me. I jump, not realizing he crept up on me through the line.
“Or they will wait to ambush us just before Windkeep Stronghold,” I say. “It is clearly our destination from here.”
Dusk falls and the tide lowers enough to reveal islands of mud. Both parties led by Fynbar and Galvyn combine on a large expanse of rock, reeds and yellow lichen. I sigh in relief as I step out of the squelching mud and onto solid sheets of slate. The stench of decay is stronger here and a chilly breeze curls around the open space, freezing my soaked legs and making me shiver.
I make the call for us to spend the night on this forsaken island. I attempt to wash the mud from my feet in a deep pool of water and gasp when I find a steady stream of bubbles gurgling to the surface, uninterrupted. As I look around, I notice they are everywhere.
Fynbar squats beside me. “They say the bubbles are the deadmen’s screams. That during the night, the ghouls crawl out of the waters and eat the flesh of the impure.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “Has anyone seen these deadmen? What do they look like?” My mind whirls with the possibilities of creatures that could be attacking unwitting travelers. Could there be low fae living here that we don’t know about?
“Nonsense.” My grandmother stalks over. “Tales to stop people getting lost in the marshes and drowning.”
“Then where do you suppose the bubbles come from?” Fynbar says defensively.
My grandmother flicks her wrist at the bubbles. The tiniest spark of lightning leaps from her fingers and the air above the stream suddenly catches fire. The flame flickers blue.
Fynbar pulls back.“What trick is this?”
“None,” my grandmother says. “The marshes leak flammable gases. I merely set one stream aflame.”
Fynbar walks away, muttering under his breath about spirits, and my grandmother gives me a feline grin.
“I needed something to lighten my mood.”
“You shouldn’t toy with him. He has been very useful,” I chide her, but my heart isn’t in it.
We make camp. Many fall asleep on beds of cut reeds and use their cloaks for blankets. I stare out into the distance. Those same blue flames light up the marsh in hundreds of locations, flickering and dancing like spirits. They must have been there the entire time we traveled, but the shadows make them visible.
“No wonder they call these the Deadman’s Marshes,” I mutter to Diarmuid and my grandmother. “The smell, those flames…”
I am still speckled with mud and my skin itches all over from the bites of gnats. My head hurts and my throat rasps from dehydration, but I’m too afraid to drain the dregs from my canteen. There is no fresh water nearby.
But we are alive, and that is an achievement.
“They say there was once a great battle here, and the waters of the marshes rose up from the tears of the widows and claimed the bodies of the dead,” Galvyn offers with a shrug. “That the fallen are wrathful and hungry for vengeance.”
“They say that about all marshes.” My grandmother gives him a dark look and he grins at her.
Diarmuid stands and puts a hand on Galvyn’s shoulder, but he speaks loud enough for everyone to hear. “I can assure you, we druids examined these waters as soon as we made camp. Our enchantment allowed us to reach our collective consciousness into the waters and we did not find any monsters, or undead soldiers, or frankly anything larger than a carp.”
Galvyn dips his head low in thanks.
Despite the druids’ assertions, I set guards on watch, just in case any of Lord Desmond’s followers decide to creep into the marshes with a local guide to ambush us. I take the first watch and hardly sleep for the rest of the night. Slate is a horrible surface to lie on. Its angles dig into my back and the coldness of the stone leaks into my body.
In the deep despair of the early hours, I allow myself to think of Aldrin. It feels like my soul is being ripped apart whenever I contemplate that he could be dead. That I might have to carry on in a world without him, one that would hold no joy for me. I picture the tenderness in his eyes as he gazes down at me. When he declares he will fight for my freedom, no matter what.
I let tears silently roll down my face during the darkest part of the night. When dawn breaks across the sky, I pull myself together and slam on the mask my people need to see.
We make it out of the marshes and navigate through thicker woods. I creep to the edge of the treeline with Diarmuid, Fynbar and Galvyn, and scrutinize the empty lands rolling between our position and Windkeep Stronghold. There is no cover at all.
“The enemy could be lying in wait for us,” Fynbar grumbles.
“If they are willing to risk a confrontation with Lord Adalwolf’s forces.” Galvyn scratches at the stubble on his chin.
I glance between the two men. “Is the captain of the city guard likely to ride out to protect a ragtag group of refugees? What sort of man is he?”
Both soldiers shrug.
“Never met the man,” Fynbar replies. “I rarely visit the city.”
I stare at the city again. A lone hill serves as the foundation for Windkeep, with two great walls snaking around it. Spires and peaks are visible over the top of the fortifications, but little else. The immense gate is shut and there are no travelers on the road that leads to it. They know there is an enemy army marching on them.
“I can’t see that we have much of a choice,” Diarmuid says into the silence, his dirty druid’s robe fluttering around him in the breeze.
I rub at the ache building in my temples. “We will leave the injured hidden in the forest. Those of us who can fight will ride hard to the city and bring back a much larger force to collect them.”
“Assuming the captain of Lord Adalwolf’s guard listens to you.” Diarmuid’s tone is bleak.
“We have thirty Mothers of Magic and the High Priestess. If he doesn’t listen to us, the people of his city will force his hand,” I bite out. I am so tired of men in power who lack empathy.
We make quick work of mounting our advance force and hiding those to be left behind. We break through the tree cover at a dead gallop. The fields fly past us as flocks of sheep scatter at our approach. My heart hammers wildly as we eat up the distance between the forest and the city, hope daring to soar in my chest.
A great pounding and crashing erupts from the forest behind us. I glance back as enemy warriors dash out of the trees to our far right, closer to the city. Fear spikes in the pit of my belly and sends fire racing down my nerves. The mass of that horde keeps spewing out of the trees, their number blackening the field until a hundred riders gallop for us.
We won’t make it to the city in time.
We charge straight for that closed gate, regardless.
Froth flies from my mare’s mouth, but she doesn’t slow her pace. My entire body moves in unison with hers.Horns bellow from the city’s watchtowers. Fynbar pulls a horn from his side and answers the call in a coded message of short blasts.
The pursuing enemy horde parts into two groups, one gaining on us to the right and the other dashing forward and preparing to cut us off from the gate.
“Ride straight for the city!” I scream. “Prepare to engage with the enemy!”
Diarmuid shoots me a wild-eyed look. The hardened soldiers around me merely draw their swords and grit their teeth. The only way we will survive is if we can break through that front rank before the rest of the enemy closes in behind us. I will not allow us to be trapped between two forces.
I pull my bow from my back as dread runs icy claws down my spine. I examine the warband that charges straight for us. The detail of the Explosion Brothers’ crest becomes clear on their shields: two muskets crossed over at the barrel. Definitely not the banners they flew in the battle of Fort Blackrock.
Many of the enemy have their arms raised with muskets pointed at us. My heart freezes at the sight, at all the unknowns of the range and damage of such a weapon—but they haven’t fired yet.
I grip my mount with my thighs alone and loose arrows in fast succession, throwing an air wield behind them to propel the missiles past a natural range with immense force. They find their marks in shoulders and chests, throwing warriors from their horses to be trampled by the riders behind them. They hadn’t raised their shields yet, not expecting my arrows to reach such a distance.
Then they fire their muskets.
Black smoke curls around the enemy as dozens of tiny metal balls race toward us. I throw all the power I can draw at once into a hasty air shield around my people. Diarmuid’s magic threads into it alongside my own, but it’s not enough. The first bullets hit and shatter great cracks into the shield, allowing a handful of others to penetrate.
One whizzes right past my ear. The trajectory of another slices a gash through Diarmuid’s arm. The Appleshield Guard in front of me falls from her horse as blood sprays from her chest.
I glance back at our attackers as they raise more muskets at our flank. Then I notice the bags of black powder that hang from their saddles. A cruel smile curls on my lips when I remember reading that it is highly flammable.
“Diarmuid,” I call. “The black powder. Set it on fire.”
For someone who calls himself a pacifist, he doesn’t hesitate. Not when he knows what they will do if I am captured. We shoot out small, highly targeted fireballs. Guns explode in hands, severing fingers and forcing the Explosion Brothers to drop them.
A few of our blasts hit those bags of powder in the front line and miniature explosions erupt from them, engulfing men and horses in flames and sending body parts flying.
It has a domino effect as the horses behind rear up and drop their riders or trip over the sudden pile of bodies. We have taken out a dozen of their number, but there are still more of them than us.
Arrows whistle by as Appleshield Guards fire on the enemy finally in their range. Another horn bellows, and my gaze is dragged to the city wall. The gate is halfway up, and behind it a column of horsemen line up five abreast.
Help is coming, but they won’t reach us before both enemy hordes crush us between them.
The band behind us closes in. The second unit that originally veered around to cut us off from the wall turns toward us and charges at a front-on dead gallop.
“Arrow formation!” I scream, and my guards move to obey. “l will raise an air shield before you!”
My whole body shakes as I drag out every last drop of magic from my reservoir and throw up rectangular shields of opaque air before each guard. They reach from the tops of my soldiers’ heads to the hooves of their mounts.
It is incredibly difficult to hold the wields while racing on horseback and ensuring they move with us, but Diarmuid helps me. We are defenseless while we work, so Diarmuid and I move into the center of the formation.
We collide with the frontal enemy at high speed, the tip of our arrowhead formation allowing us to tear through their ranks, parting their number. Every jarring impact of their swords on our shields ripples through me, and I cannot stop every single strike, just most of them. Sweat beads on my brow from the strain and my vision dims at the edges.
Screams and the high-pitched screech of metal sliding against metal deafen me, both sides swinging blades and cutting each other down as we pass. Blood sprays in clouds and its metallic tang fills my nostrils.
One moment we are engulfed on three sides by snarling enemies wearing royal purple and attempting to cut us down, then the next we have pushed through to the other side of the warband.
I drop my wield, struggling to breathe.Almost immediately, Fynbar slides to the side and drops off his horse. I catch a glimpse of him clutching his stomach, blood pouring from where it has been sliced through, and then he is gone.
Everything within me screams to turn back and go to him. That he might still be alive. That we could save him. But a stomach wound and a fall from a galloping horse is a death sentence.
A glance over my shoulder shows the same force banking sharply and following us, joining the other band already in pursuit on our flank. Ahead, hundreds of cavalry stream out of the open city gate. I lean forward over my horse as it swallows up the distance to Windkeep at breakneck speed.
Arrows whistle overhead as we near the outer wall, landing among the enemy. The column of the Windkeep Guard parts in two and channels around us. The warriors hardly glance at us as they race for the enemy. Relief crashes hard through me, and I am thankful for the Appleshield colors and crests on the uniforms of my guards—they screamed our identity and saved our lives.
The two forces collide behind us with the clash of metal and screams of soldiers and horses alike. I focus only on the yawning mouth of that gate and the salvation beyond. We slow to a painful trot as more soldiers stream out around us, and then I am leading my steed into the city with my band of guards. I dismount, calling out to the guard to be ready to ride out again.
Windkeep’s Captain of the Guard strides straight to me, looking me up and down. “Lady Caitlin Appleshield?” he asks.
I raise my chin and look up and up at the impossibly tall man. “I am the Mother of Magic Keira, the second daughter of Appleshield. We need your help.”
“Help beyond cutting down the enemy on your back?” He gestures toward the fields outside the gate. I flick my eyes in that direction, to where the royal warband flees from the city guard, the grass littered with their bodies.
I turn back to him. “Yes. The High Priestess, a group of Mothers of Magic and druids are all hiding within those woods, alongside our injured. They need an escort to bring them safely into the city. I didn’t have enough soldiers to do it on my own.”
The captain’s face pales at the word of all those priestesses in danger. “You will have my aid as soon as my soldiers finish dispatching this rogue band.” He turns on his heel and immediately barks orders.
I accept a canteen of water as healers flood us. When three hundred city guards stream back into the city, smiling with triumph and splattered with gore, their captain glances at me and orders them right back out again.
“We have encountered a few bands of the enemy’s raiding parties since Fort Blackrock fell. My watch is always at the ready.” He rides next to me as we leave the city, insisting on personally escorting the High Priestess.
“Do you have news?” I choke on the words.
He shakes his head. “Very little. Only one pigeon from your father, informing me of the retreat. You are the first to arrive.”
We do not encounter any other raiding warbands as we reach the forest and extract my charges. Our progress back to the city is slow as the injured are carried in carts. A shiver runs through me as I consider them. Had I decided differently, there is no way those people would have survived the mad dash we made across these plains with the enemy on our tail.
I negotiate for scouts carrying pigeons to be sent out to look for Caitlin’s party, and as soon as she is found in the late afternoon, an escort of two hundred guards leaves immediately to bring her to the city safely.
Another night passes, and by dawn I am pacing the wall again with Caitlin at my side, staring out to the south, where Aldrin, our father and our entire army are fleeing for their lives.
Time passes slowly. Despite the crispness of the autumn morning, I am covered in cold sweat. Some instinctual part of me tries to reach out to Aldrin, to feel the warm embrace of his presence, but there is nothing. Alarm bells ring in my head and anxiety sparks throughout me, but how could I have expected anything other than this?
The horizon darkens like a shadow has fallen over the ground. I squint toward it, almost convinced it is a trick of the eye, but it resolves into moving bodies with banners held high and the tips of spears glinting in the watery sunlight. My heart freezes as they march toward us, the green, gold and bronze of their ranks announcing their identity. A tear rolls down my cheek when the Appleshield banners become decipherable.
Caitlin turns to me and laughs. “They made it! They actually made it!”
I throw my arms around her and pull her into a hug, the hardness of her protruding belly between us.
My smile slips as I notice a band of soldiers galloping far ahead of the main army, with a dozen people on foot keeping up with the horses. A fae escort. My blood turns to ice and my legs become weak.
Something is wrong.
I race down the stairs that hug the outer wall and into the open square that will receive them.The party gallops inside within moments, and I push through the soldiers that race for them. My father is in the center of that group, his emerald eyes wide as he tosses his head around.
“Healers! I need healers!” he roars as his mount prances nervously beneath him. Those frantic eyes find me as I reach him. “Where are the druids and priestesses?”
It is in that moment that I realize my father is riding in tandem. That he holds a limp figure against his chest. There is so much blood across the man’s wounded face that his features aren’t easily recognizable, with bits of flesh blown away and an ear half gone.
But I would recognize him anywhere.
The angles of his beautiful face beneath the gore. The set of those wide shoulders with his distinctive armor of spiked plate across them. Those horns that appear whenever he uses large amounts of magic, now broken on one side, and the streaks of black war paint beneath the blood.
Time seems to stop. My father’s mouth still moves as he shouts for help, but I can’t hear him anymore. All I can see is Aldrin on the brink of death. I gravitate toward him like an invisible string yanks me there.
My hands shake as horror floods my brain. My heart twists as his eyes flicker open, falling on me for a heartbeat before rolling back into his head. I am flooded with agony like I have never known before, but there is also a burning up the side of my face and ear. Like his wound is my wound. I reach for him and his blood drips on my hand before I touch him.Then I am clutching onto Aldrin for dear life while my vision blurs with tears.
It cannot end like this.
I will not allow it.
I don’t want to win this fight against Finan if Aldrin dies in it. That price is too high.
“Take him to the hospital.” The words leave my lips before my mind stops reeling enough to process them. “They are all in the hospital.”
Time speeds up all over again and there is utter chaos around me. People shouting and running in a hundred different directions. I grab the horse’s reins and lead it toward the hospital. Leaving Aldrin’s side right now is the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
My father’s guards part the crowd for us and we race through. Cyprien materializes at my side. He is speaking with agitation, eyes absolutely feral with tears in their corners, but I cannot hear him over the buzz in my head. Finally, some words make it through.
“Klara can’t heal him,” he seems to repeat. “None of our fae can.”
“What happened?” I choke out.
“Close-range musket fire. They have laced the bullets with something that affects our magic.” His voice breaks.
I blink and we are at the hospital. Cyprien and Drake pull Aldrin down from the horse as two druids race out from the pillared portico of the building’s entrance, carrying a stretcher. Aldrin lets out a weak groan as they lay him in it and carry him away. I chase after him, but I can’t get to his side. There are too many soldiers helping to bear his weight and healers clustering around him.
It isn’t until they get him into a pallet in the crude hospital that I can reach him and hold his hand. Aldrin screams as they pull out the shrapnel piece by piece from his flesh. My heart breaks all over again. I desperately hold the pieces of myself together, because he needs me. I will not leave him until he opens his eyes again.
He has to live.
I will accept nothing else.