CHAPTER 68 Wren
Wren
‘If you seek logic within the violence of war, you will find none’
– Elwren Embervale’s notes and observations
‘THEA!’ WREN SCREAMED, sending a bolt of lightning into an enemy soldier whose sword was poised at her sister’s back.
Thea glanced at the man crumpling behind her. ‘Thanks!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
Wren didn’t even get the chance to sigh her relief.
Heart hammering, she threw another spear of brilliant white light into an enemy unit ascending the parapet, sending them flying.
She could hear Torj’s voice distantly through the bond, panic edging his tone as he called her name repeatedly.
Her heart clenched at the fear in his inner voice, but the madness surrounding her wrenched her attention away.
I’m here, I’m alive, she tried to send back, but wasn’t sure if he could hear her.
It was taking all her strength to focus on channelling her storm magic while enemies closed in from every side.
‘Where is he?’ Thea shouted over the roar of battle, her swords a blur of silver as she cleaved through the necks of two attackers, spraying Wren with blood. ‘The bastard won’t even show his face at his own fucking war?’
Wren wiped the mess from her brow with a grimace. ‘He’s coming.’
Wilder leapt in front of her just in time to deflect a spear. He threw the enemy soldier from the parapet into the ranks below, crushing several more.
‘Our forces are in the secondary position,’ he said, barely out of breath as he pointed to the madness below.
‘The Kingsbane’s army has breached all three choke points faster than we anticipated – they sacrificed their frontlines to overwhelm us with sheer numbers.
They’re advancing through the ruins, and we’re running out of defensible ground. ’
He was right. Through the vortex of alchemy and storm magic, enemy figures broke from the mayhem with lethal purpose, directing their ranks into a forked attack.
‘Shit,’ Thea muttered. ‘They’re using a pincer move to surround us.’
Wren whipped around to the far end of the parapet. ‘Cal!’ she shouted. ‘Redirect our archers!’
Cal already had them at the ready, arrows showering the rear of the advancing enemy below.
Wren caught sight of Kipp near the edge of the secondary position, his face turned up to her, waiting. She lifted her arm and slashed it down in a signal. Kipp nodded once and ducked away into the shadows of a half-collapsed building.
Moments later, the ground between the choke points and the secondary position rippled. As the enemy forces rushed forwards, intent on overwhelming their defensive line, the earth gave way beneath their boots. Screams erupted as soldiers plummeted into the carefully concealed pit traps.
‘Yes!’ Thea breathed beside her, gripping Wren’s arm in anticipation as they watched on. Those who weren’t immediately impaled on the poisoned spikes were crushed by their comrades falling on top of them.
‘It buys us time,’ Wren told her sister. ‘Not much else.’
‘We’ll take it,’ Thea replied, pointing to Kipp emerging from the other side of their forces, already signalling to Torj and the others to ready the next line of defence.
But Wren’s momentary triumph faded as her gaze returned to the larger battlefield. Her heart lodged in her throat as she saw how quickly the fallen were replaced, and how Silas’s commanders were motioning to each other across the rallying numbers.
A hollow of dread opened low in her stomach as she realized the extent of her failure.
She had never won Dorinth.
Silas had delivered it to her, piece by poisoned piece.
Only to trap them within.
Wren watched in horror as the ground beyond her own army gave out, screams piercing the smoke-filled sky. But it didn’t just cave in; it fell away to reveal a subterranean passage . . .
‘Shit,’ Thea said at Wren’s side. ‘The tunnels.’
‘What tunnels?’ Wilder barked, slicing the hand clean off a soldier wielding an axe against him.
Realization hit Wren like a blow. ‘The underground network between the taverns. The one Kipp mentioned.’
‘How the fuck does Silas know about it?’ Thea kicked another assailant from the rampart, his scream swallowed by the pandemonium below.
‘How do you think?’ Wren shouted, bracing herself as her power surged within. ‘Lucian was in that meeting. All his lackeys were.’
She thrust her hands skywards, summoning a violent burst of storm magic that she directed towards the passage, hoping to collapse it before whatever awaited them surfaced from the dark.
Lightning struck the ground at the tunnel’s edge, sending rock and debris tumbling, but it was too late – the passage was too wide.
As the sparks of lightning faded, the extent of the enemy’s plan became clear.
For from the depths of that tunnel, Silas the Kingsbane and his true army emerged.
Wren should have known it was coming. A man like Silas did not concede territory without a motive. She’d known that all along. He’d used the desperate common folk of the midrealms to bolster his numbers and then sacrificed them without a second of remorse.
There was no Devereux sigil stamped on the armour of his followers, but she could see the might of Lucian’s coin in the weapons and numbers, in the formations that marched forth, fresh and eager to spill blood.
Silas and his ranks rose from the hidden stairs below and lined the borders of the city, surrounding Torj, Vernich, Graves and the rest of their forces.
There were those who were mad with bloodlust from the shadow alchemy, practically foaming at the mouth to unleash their violence upon her forces. There were soldiers wearing colours Wren didn’t recognize . . .
And within the simmering alchemy and storm magic lingering in the air, Silas stood tall, gathering strength.
That was all it took for Wren to understand what she’d failed to see right from the start, ever since the Kingsbane had inflicted himself on the world.
Silas was a summoner.
The realization hit her with physical force, making her knees weaken and her storm magic crackle erratically around her fingertips.
Cold sweat broke out across her skin as the pieces fell into place.
Instead of summoning objects with his mind like Zavier, he had somehow learned how to summon strength and magic – first by muting it with the manacles and his alchemical concoctions, and then by drawing it to him with his own sovereign magic.
The masks helped absorb and contain that power—
Silas gave a signal.
Those whose gazes were clouded with shadow alchemy surged forwards in a mindless charge of brutality.
They fought by no code, driven only by a thirst for pain and death.
In a trance state, the enemy ranks seemed not to feel the blows to their own bodies, but simply raged on, screaming in victory whenever an opponent fell before them in a spray of crimson.
It was barbaric – sickening. Wren could smell the blood mingling with the smoke around them. The Warswords below carved through the chaos, cutting down as many incensed soldiers as they could, but more and more seemed to emerge from the passage—
A powerful gust of wind, not born of Wren or Thea’s storm magic, swept through the battleground, sending debris flying. Ally and enemy alike braced themselves against the impact . . .
And membranous wings parted the fog as Talemir Starling landed amid the ruins.