Chapter 18 Rhianelle
My war commanders are already assembled, along with faces I don’t expect. Hrolf the dwarf stands near the hearth beside several members of Landon’s legion. But it is the figure standing at the window who makes me stop short.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he is impossible to mistake.
Blaire’s husband.
Vayne, the third prince of Myrkheim, is here too.
Blaire herself stands at the opposite end of the table, eyes on the map and nowhere near him.
“Your Highness.” He bows stiffly. Blaire doesn’t look at him or acknowledge his presence.
I move to the table where the maps show our borders, the fae territories, and the vast empty space of the Great Plateau between them.
Rainer steps forward. “Our scouts sent word by raven thirty minutes ago.” He points to the markings on the map, red pins advancing like a plague. “The Fae King’s forces left Hellsmouth at dawn. This is a full assault, Rhianelle. Everything they have.”
“Prince Finnbheara commands the vanguard,” Garrett adds, his usually warm face grim. “He rides Sanguisyl, and behind him comes an army the likes of which we haven’t seen since the Age of Monthor.”
Lady Siofra unfurls a sketch on the table.
It’s rough, drawn in charcoal by one of our scouts. The image shows creatures that belong in nightmares, in ancient stories told to frighten children. I know them. These are the ones that live in the darkest corners of the forbidden forests.
“Woolly mammoths,” Siofra signs, tapping the largest shapes. “Three dozen of them in the front lines, maybe more. From the Winterwood territories south of the fae lands. The fae have armored them in steel and mounted siege towers on their backs. Each one carries thirty archers.”
That’s hundreds of archers with elevated positions, raining death from above before the ground forces even engage.
“What else?” I force myself to ask.
“Shadow drakes.” Darstan’s voice is flat and emotionless, but I know him well enough to hear the fear underneath. “Smaller than wyverns, but vicious. They don’t breathe fire, but their teeth can tear through plate armor. They hunt in flocks and descend on their prey together.”
“Myrkheim is bringing trolls from the Stormcrags and direwolves from the northern forests,” Rainer continues. He looks at Vayne for confirmation.
Vayne nods.
“And the fae legions themselves?” Aelfric asks.
“They’ve called in every vassal, collected every debt, and invoked every alliance going back centuries,” Vayne says. “There are dwarven war machines, orcish berserkers, demons from Hel, and lesser fae numbering in the thousands.”
“How many demons?” My voice sounds distant. It’s the only way I can process this without screaming.
“They’re opening the gates to the sixth level of Hel,” the Orc Prince says quietly.
Every head turns toward him.
“A demoness, one of the four lords who guards the gates, has agreed to empty them. Fifty thousand demons will be released to fight for the Fae King.”
Kheirall Balthazar was telling the truth. It was never up to him.
Fifty thousand. Even if I called in every able-bodied elf, every knight, and every guard, we would still be hopelessly outnumbered.
“They’re converging on the Great Plateau,” Siofra signs, dragging my attention back to the map. “It’s the only terrain between here and the fae territories that can support an army that size.”
Darstan nods. “It’s open ground with solid bedrock beneath the soil and clear sight lines for miles. It’s a killing field.”
“When will they arrive?” I ask.
“Our scouts estimate they’ll reach the Plateau by nightfall,” Rainer says. “The mammoths are slow, but everything else is moving at full speed.”
He shakes his head. “They want to hit us fast, before we can fully prepare.”
I lean over the map, studying the terrain. The Great Plateau is exactly what Siofra said. It’s a massive expanse of relatively flat grassland, dotted with occasional rock formations and scraggly trees.
“They have wyverns too,” Aelfric adds quietly. “But not as many as we’d feared.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Most of the squadron broke from the crown after what the king did to Landon,” Glenn suddenly says. His arms are crossed and his jaw is tight.
“Cahill took his riders east,” Theo adds. “Kaelen went north. Last I heard, Brannick refused to fly entirely.”
“How many stayed?” I ask.
Theo’s expression hardens. “Finnbheara’s personal guard still rides with him. Twenty wyverns. All battle-trained and carrying riders loyal to the throne.”
Twenty wyverns led by Sanguisyl.
The wyvern that doesn’t breathe fire.
I close my eyes, the truth of it pressing against my ribs until I can hardly breathe. My kingdom against an army that size, backed by creatures from legend and led by a prince who commands a wyvern that can erase an entire city in seconds.
“There’s more,” Prince Vayne says, and I want to scream at him to stop. I can’t bear any more bad news, but I force myself to meet his eyes. “I know how Eirik Bloodhound thinks. He won’t send his full force immediately.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He’ll send his worst generals first. The ones who command the most vicious beasts, the demons and the berserkers. He’ll use them to break your spirit because he wants you afraid.”
“That’s cruel,” Aelfric begins, then stops. His face has gone pale. “But it’s expected of him. That’s how the Fae King has conquered every territory he’s ever wanted. He defeats his enemies and destroys their will to resist.”
Their strategy is simple. Total brutality and carnage. He’ll try to breach our front lines within the first hour. Our soldiers will watch their friends torn apart by his ruthless creatures.
The Fae King is called Bloodhound for a reason.
Silence falls over the room. I can hear my own heartbeat and sense the fear radiating from everyone around me.
I look around the room at the faces staring back at me.
These people who have served me, protected me, believed in me.
Darstan and Siofra with their quiet strength, thinking of their young son.
My uncle with his tactical brilliance. Aelfric with his unwavering loyalty, ready to die on the front lines.
Hrolf, who broke his oath to forge me a sword.
Garrett, who has protected this kingdom from the shadows.
My sweet Blaire, who should be tending gardens and healing the sick, not preparing for war.
They’re all looking at me.
“We need to talk strategy,” I say in one breath. “We need to talk about how we’re going to survive this.”
I tap the map where the Great Plateau meets the edges of the Astefar border. “They’re bringing monsters from the Winterwood and Ironpeaks. But I can bring monsters too.”
Blaire’s eyes widen. “Rhianelle, you can’t mean—”
“I can summon them,” I say. “The creatures of Astefar. The ones who know me. The ones who owe me debts. Not every creature imprisoned there is loyal to the Fae King.”
I think of the forest, of nine hundred years spent walking among predators and learning their language, their rules.
The Nightmaw serpents hunt in packs. Miss Bernadette can swallow a mammoth whole.
“But can you control them?” Blaire asks practically. “It’s one thing to summon them, another to direct them in battle.”
I meet her eyes.
“They are fae.” I look toward the warriors of Landon’s legion. “They understand bargains. I know how to speak to them, and I know what they want.”
“How many can you summon?” Darstan asks, his expression grim.
“A dozen.” I can feel the summoning circles already burning in my memory, the words in the old tongue. “It won’t be enough to match their numbers. But it’ll make them think twice about what they’re facing.”
The Orc Prince steps forward then, and I see Blaire stiffen in my peripheral vision.
“Your Highness,” he says, his deep voice respectful. “I came here to offer more than just information. I came to pledge my allegiance. The orcs of Myrkheim should not be made to fight in the Fae King’s war.”
“Your brother, Mavren Aldrath Malgoth, stands on the other side,” Rainer says sharply. “Why pledge yourself to us? Your people have no love for elves.”
The orc’s voice doesn’t change. “My brother makes his own decisions. I make mine, as do the five hundred warriors who followed me here.”
His gaze shifts toward the shadows, toward Arescaine. “He saved their lives during the rebellion. We owe him a debt, and orcs do not forget their debts.”
I look at Arescaine. He stands quietly at the edge of the room, his presence as calm and steady as the shadows around him.
Vayne looks back at me. “We’re not as numerous as the fae forces, but orcs don’t break easily. We can hold a line.”
Rainer studies the Orc Prince for a moment, then gives a reluctant nod. “Five hundred orcs could make the difference between holding the center and watching it collapse.”
“General Thanatos commands the mammoths and the direwolves. Once he breaks your lines, the berserkers of Hel will pour through the gap like a flood. The berserkers feel no pain, no fear. They’ll kill until they’re killed.”
“What of Finnbheara?” I ask quietly.
Vayne’s expression darkens. “The prince will wait. He’ll hold back Sanguisyl and his personal guard until your forces are exhausted and your reserves committed.”
Even if we could win, he’ll unleash that monster of a wyvern and end everything in seconds.
“I’ll begin the summoning rituals immediately.” I look at Siofra. “Gather our mages. I’ll need them to anchor the summoning circles and maintain the bindings while the creatures cross over.”
Blaire leans closer to the map. “What of the dwarven war machines? The siege weapons they’re bringing?”
She’s not looking at Vayne, but the question is clearly directed at him. He turns toward her, but she keeps her gaze fixed firmly on the map.
“My warriors know how to disable them,” Vayne answers quietly. “If we can get close enough.”
He accepts Blaire’s refusal to look at him and buries his reaction beneath a mask of stoic composure. Whatever happened between the orc rebellion and her rescue left wounds that have not begun to heal.