25. Farron
Farron
My realm stretches out before me, a quilt of purple heather hills, golden and red groves, and bright gray sky, the clouds thick but still bursting with a chilly light.
I wonder how we’d appear if one was looking down upon us, the way the gods supposedly looked down at the fae of the Above.
Or how the fae of the Above would have looked down on the surface if any had been able to remain in their home.
I imagine we could spur fear even in the hearts of such so-called gods.
Every battalion in Coppershire and the surrounding forts under my command has rallied to my side.
We march as a united front, armed with lances, spears, bows, and fire.
Most of all, fire. Magic wielders line the perimeter of our ranks, and those who can’t spark a flame wield torches and carry canisters of oil.
Our enemy lies before us, a deep violet scar across the horizon. The Briar.
My steed, a pure black mare except for one white sock, is uneasy but stays the course. Never in my time have I known the cavalry of Autumn to be so jumpy. This must be a bad apple. I’ll switch her out upon our return to Coppershire.
Normally, I ride Thrand, the great elk. But he’s gone rogue of late.
As unpredictable and changeable as a storm.
He won’t come close to Coppershire anymore, instead wandering the woods nearby like a ghost from some legend of old.
I don’t understand it. Perhaps the horrors of battle changed his disposition.
Regardless, he’s no more than a wild animal now.
My hand stiffens on the reins. My palm is still covered in ash from the burned remainders of the letter I received this morning.
Sealed with Tilla’s signet and written in George’s handwriting, it is unfortunately no hoax.
The rose is in Caspian’s possession. George didn’t go into detail of how it was stolen, but it doesn’t matter.
That path is lost to us.
No more waiting. While we’ve been milling about on the surface, Rosalina has been in Caspian’s hands. Now he has claimed our one hope of securing her freedom. I will not stand by while the Prince of Thorns weaves his many webs around the Vale.
I’ll throw an entire sea of Autumn soldiers upon the Briar. Burn it to ash. Smoke Caspian out, then kill him myself.
Flanking me, Dominic and Billagin, dressed in golden armor, ride matching gray mares.
With Dom wielding a hand axe and Billy a falchion, no one would know they have not yet passed the cusp of manhood.
My father begged me not to take them, to leave them with him in Coppershire.
But the twins are sons of Autumn. They must witness our glorious victory. Besides, they’re safe with me.
The Briar looms ahead, a vast, writhing expanse of dark purple thorns stretching across the land. It shimmers in the cold light, bristling and alive. The air near it tastes of copper and rot, and even the wind dares not pass through.
The earth trembles beneath us, a slow and pulsing beat—doom, doom, doom. It’s as if thousands of war drums are pounding below the surface.
Then the first gate blooms.
It erupts from the ground ahead, a tangle of blackened thorns arching and knotting into a circular gate. Thorns like claws. Vines like veins. At its center yawns a swirling black void.
A second gate blooms. Then a third. A fourth.
Each bursts from the earth with the sound of thorns shrieking as they grow. I’ve seen a gate similar to this before, one created by the seed Caspian gave us for his revelry day party.
I ignite the Lance of Valor from the queen’s token. He’s near.
From the first gate pour creatures the color of old meat and moldy bread.
Goblins. Dozens of them, hundreds. Rotting bark for skin, sharp teeth in too-wide mouths.
Some crawl on all fours; others sprint on backward-bending legs.
Their armor is a mockery—scraps of bone, stolen metal, helmets made of hollowed-out skulls.
Their eyes glow yellow and bright, like frogs peering out of a swamp.
A larger goblin emerges riding a snarling grinjaw with a broken mandible. He points at our ranks and lets out a roar.
The horde screams back and charges.
There’s a tug on my arm, and I turn to face Dom, his golden eyes flashing. “We should try to lure them out of the Briar. We can’t fight in there. That’s his territory.”
I shift away from him, then raise the lance high and shout to the battalions, “Burn the Briar to the ground! Go, now! For Autumn! For the Vale! Charge!”
Flames roar to life along the front line as our mages advance. Bows notch. Oil canisters roll. The fire is coming.
But even fire must fight to survive in the Briar’s shadow.
My soldiers rush forward, pushing back the first ranks of goblins, driving them into the Briar. The smell of smoke assaults my nose as a barrage of flaming arrows takes hold in the brambles.
My brother stares at me with a betrayed expression. “I do not fear death, little brother,” I say, “nor should any who stand with me. I control who lives and who dies, because I control the flames. The Briar will burn, and Caspian will be ashes within it.”
Then I crack my reins and surge into the fray.
My army crashes against the Briar like a golden tide.
Arrows scream through the sky, torches fly, oil slicks the ground.
The first line of goblins shriek and scatter as flames lick the outer edges of the thorns.
The Briar itself seems to wail, a low, keening sound that rises from the brambles, as if the land resents our presence.
It’s like entering a forest. The towering briars swallow daylight.
Thorns slash at my skin and armor, and walls of violet and black twist around our flanks.
It is a labyrinth within. My horse shudders beneath me, but I urge her on.
Out of my peripheral, I see soldiers trapped between pockets of briars and fire.
The goblins know this terrain. They scramble along the thorns like insects, springing from above, tearing men from their horses with jagged knives and shrieking laughter.
I spear one monster through the throat, another through the gut. Blood spatters the ground. The light that makes it through is fractured, strange—purple and orange and flickering as if the realm can’t decide what time of day it is.
A roar shatters the air.
Something massive barrels toward me: a goblin that’s twice the size of the others. It’s the one I noticed earlier, mounted atop a grinjaw with a dangling mandible. It swings a club.
I try to dart out of the way, but it’s too late.
Crack.
Pain explodes across my shoulder as the club hits me. I fly from the saddle, slam into a patch of thorns, and roll hard onto the scorched ground. My horse bolts, screaming.
The goblin grins down at me, its mouth a mess of drool and shattered teeth.
The Green Flame answers my call before I realize I’ve summoned it. It bursts from my outstretched hand, cold and unnatural, glowing emerald against the violet thorns. It wraps around the goblin and its mount, swallowing them whole.
They don’t even have time to scream.
When the fire fades, only bones remain, charred black and smoking.
My soldiers freeze, staring at me. “Fight,” I rasp. “Keep fighting!”
They obey.
I stagger to my feet, giving myself a shake, ready to unleash another spray of fire, when a silence rings through the battle, an unnatural hush in the middle of the storm.
A new thorn gate slashes upward from the ground. This one grows slower, more deliberate.
From its center steps the Prince of Thorns.
Sleek, composed, without a hint of armor. He wears a fine tunic embroidered with silver thread and a cloak of black velvet draped over his shoulder. He moves like he’s stepping onto a ballroom floor, not a battlefield.
His eyes find mine across the chaos.
And he smiles.
“Farron, princeling, so grateful you could join us. You’ve been quite obnoxious of late, murdering so many goblins living on your lands.”
My jaw tightens so hard, I think my teeth may crack. I take off toward him at a run, lance raised.
He doesn’t even flinch. “Now, I do have the most nagging feeling you’re not here for a dinner invitation. Do I perhaps have something you want? Like this?”
A shadow appears beside him—a figure, tall and curved as an hourglass, with waves of hair formed by curling tendrils of smoke.
Rosalina.
I stop. It’s only an illusion.
Caspian smiles at my hesitation anyway. “Or this?”
He holds out his hand, the shadows twisting into the shape of a rose floating over his palm.
Another illusion, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He does have what I want. And I will kill him to get them back.
The shadow of Rosalina puffs away into smoke. Caspian drags a finger along the rose, ever so gently disturbing its form. “Do you know how I got this little treasure?”
I stagger toward him, knuckles white on the lance. “You stole it like the beggar prince you are.”
Caspian clicks his tongue. “Oh, tut-tut, Farron. So rude. And you’re a guest in my home! No, it was given to me.” He narrows his eyes and smiles a serpent’s smile. “Dayton is such a beautiful puppet, isn’t he?”
Dayton. My chest tightens. No. He used Dayton again. Took control of the Green Flame within him and twisted it to his will, like he did in Frostfang. “I’m going to kill you.”
“What a fickle heart you have. And I thought we had a connection.” His emerald gaze blazes with mockery.
A growl starts at the bottom of my belly and works its way up my ribs and through my throat.
He thinks no one can stand against him. But I too have the Baron’s power.
Malekai Furiondemius knows his trueborn son is a wicked, reckless monster, so he chose me to wield his magic.
I am a conduit of the Green Flame. And I will make the Prince of Thorns rue the day he challenged me in my realm.
I prepare to charge Caspian, wreathing my lance in emerald fire.