4 BY A THREAD
A STORM OF yew arrows flew from the walls, peppering the Marav front ranks.
The High Queen’s army was prepared. Led by Roth on one flank and Cailean on the other, they raised their sturdy oak and iron shields, forming a tight vee-shaped shieldwall as they advanced.
Lara watched from astride her feather-footed mare, upon the crest of a hill west of the fort. They’d reached Doure mid-morning to find it shrouded in sea fret. And, of course, the enemy had marked their approach and was ready for them.
Sucking in a deep breath of the damp, smoky air, she scanned the walls. She could see the outlines of Shee up there, dark silhouettes against the grey. Silver glinted in the dull light. Sheehallion steel.
Lara’s fingers tightened around the reins.
She had to take this fort back. Over the past turn of the year, the Raven Queen had stretched out her hand, pulling the villages and smaller forts in the southern reaches of The Uplands within her grasp. If something wasn’t done, they’d cross into The Wolds.
Lara cut Bree a look then. Her warder was mounted upon a stocky dun gelding, watching their army edge its way toward the defile.
“I didn’t realize just how high Doure’s perch is,” Lara admitted then, raising her voice to be heard above the thump of marching feet, the rattle of iron, and the whistle of flying arrows.
Indeed, with the fog curling around it, obscuring the Sea of Sorrows farther east, the fort—with its lofty stone walls—appeared a crow’s nest. Seemingly impenetrable.
“Aye,” Bree replied. “The Marav have always excelled at building well-defended forts.”
A roar went up then. Their army had reached the defile and was now putting up long ladders. And all the while, arrows rained down upon them. Flaming projectiles followed, lighting up the gloomy morning.
Lara’s breathing grew shallow. How many of those arrowheads were coated in Nightbane?
Thanks to Bree, they now knew the name of the poison and how to counteract it.
The problem was though that Nightbane worked swiftly.
They had to remove the arrow and administer the mashed root of mugwort as soon as possible, or an excruciating death would follow.
“They need to get those ladders up faster,” Bree muttered. “They’re leaving themselves too exposed.”
Lara’s heart kicked. Gaze narrowing, she watched as, one by one, the tall wooden ladders inched up the stacked-stone walls.
She couldn’t see how they could work any quicker.
Warriors were now scaling them—men and women clad in leather with iron helms jammed upon their heads to protect them from above.
But fast and nimble as their warriors were, the Shee were swifter.
Many of the archers shifted focus now, aiming directly below. And even from this distance, Lara spied the cauldrons the Shee had dragged to the edge of the walls. As she looked on, they emptied one of them—a stream of hot oil followed.
Screams knifed through the cool, damp air.
Bodies fell, writhing into the spike-filled ditches beneath the walls.
Nausea washed over Lara. How had her father stomached this?
Talorc mac Brude had made many mistakes during his reign and created a mess that she wasn’t even close to untangling, but he’d loved the chaos of battle.
She’d never seen him afraid, not even on that fateful day he’d led his army to Cannich and met his doom.
The High King had possessed nerves of iron, but he’d been callous too.
His people, even his kin, were tools for him to use.
Lara’s mare shifted under her then, tossing her head. She leaned forward, stroking Bracken’s neck. “Hold fast,” she murmured.
Bitter smoke caught in Lara’s throat, and she coughed. Eyes streaming, she watched as flaming arrows hailed down on Marav warriors from the walls. Even from here, she could see her army was struggling, staggering with exhaustion as they pressed on.
They’d held fast—but they were close to breaking now.
It was the afternoon of the third day since they’d begun their siege of Doure—and in that time, they hadn’t managed to breach the walls as she’d hoped.
They’d gotten close, but each time, the Shee foiled them.
Their longbows had quite a reach, and they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of boiling oil, rocks, and flaming projectiles within.
“Yield, you bastards,” she muttered.
“You’d be surprised just how tenacious they can be,” Bree replied, her voice hoarse from the drifting smoke.
Lara breathed a curse. They wouldn’t have any warriors left at this rate.
Bodies—most of them Marav—filled the deep ditch at the foot of the defile.
They’d broken like waves against the walls of the fort, yet were no closer to getting inside, and the Shee had destroyed their battering ram by raining down hot oil upon the siege weapon and setting fire to it.
She’d brought six hundred warriors north—fierce men and women carrying spears, axes, and swords—and had already lost too many.
The mist had burned off this afternoon, revealing a pale sky where buzzards now circled. A salty breeze feathered in from the sea, pushing the stench of offal and burned flesh over the hill where Lara waited.
“Fall back!” A male voice, rough with fury and exhaustion, cut through the chaos below, drifting up to the hill to the west.
Lara’s breathing hitched.
Captain mac Tav had just ordered a retreat.
Dizziness swept over her. No!
Roth was indomitable, but The Reaper was standing over them now. She too could feel his cold breath.
Tears stung her eyelids—although not from the smoke now. Instead, frustration pummeled her like heavy fists, impotent rage thumping through her. “Withdraw!” she shouted.
A few yards away, one of her escort heeded his queen. Grim-faced, he unslung the battle horn from over his shoulder, lifted it to his lips, heaved in a deep breath, and blew.
The deep bellow shook the smoky air and echoed into the defile, reaching the warriors and druids who fought there. Moments passed, and then, slowly, the army started to retreat.
A fur cloak slung about her shoulders, for the wind held a bite this evening, Lara moved through the crowd of bloodied warriors. Bree stalked at her side, hand upon the pommel of her longsword. The High Queen’s shadow.
Their encampment, fifty furlongs west of Doure, was in chaos this evening. As the last of the long twilight drained from the sky, those who’d survived the day’s siege limped across the perimeter, where enforcers were laying ward stones.
Lara’s gaze roamed the blistered, grime-smeared faces of the warriors and druids gathered around cookfires. She noted their bound wounds, as well as the gathering despair in many of their gazes.
They were holding on by a thread.
Gods, so was she.
Their despair worried her. If they lost hope, this was over. She couldn’t let them give up. Fire had to keep burning in their bellies.
“We shall rally,” she assured them, wishing her voice were stronger. “Doure will be ours.”
Some of those she passed nodded, murmuring, “We shall rally,” and someone managed, “Aye, we shall drive those Shee bastards out!” But their response was scattered, weak.
A brick settled in Lara’s gut as she walked on, making her way to the healing tent.
Ducking inside the large rectangular pavilion crammed with pallets and the injured, she found the healer and her assistants—all garbed in distinctive mauve robes—hard at work.
One glance at their pinched expressions and Lara knew they were struggling.
There weren’t enough healers for the number of injured.
“Eldra!” Lara called out to her as she shrugged off her fur cloak and handed it to Bree. “I’ll assist.”
The royal healer—a statuesque woman with silver-blonde hair—glanced up from where she was sewing a gaping leg wound. Eldra’s grey-blue eyes then narrowed; however, she didn’t argue with her queen.
Moving to a trestle table, Lara deftly washed her hands in soap and water.
She wasn’t a warrior. She couldn’t join Roth and Cailean as they led assault after assault on the walls, but she could assist in other ways.
Before taking the throne, she’d spent many mornings in Eldra’s healing chamber underneath Duncrag broch, helping the healer prepare poultices, ointments, and salves.
She’d discovered a natural talent for healing, an instinct for what was needed and when.
It had been a while since she’d rolled up her sleeves and worked alongside Eldra, although she’d forgotten nothing.
Drying off her hands, she headed toward a woman who lay groaning upon a pallet a few feet away. The warrior had taken an arrow to the flank. The shaft still pierced her. The woman’s eyes were glazed in pain, and she was clinging to consciousness.
Leaning forward, Lara inspected the wound. They needed to remove that arrow, although in doing so, the warrior risked bleeding out. At least there was no tell-tale yellow cast to her skin, nor was the wound starting to bubble. The arrow hadn’t been poisoned by Nightbane.
Straightening up, she glanced over at where Bree looked on, Lara’s heavy fur cloak in her arms. “Put that down,” she ordered brusquely. She wasn’t usually sharp with Bree—and her friend’s eyes narrowed at her tone—but the cracks were now starting to show. “I need your help here.”
Lara’s back ached, and her eyes stung from fatigue, when she finally left the healing pavilion.
It was getting late, and a full moon sailed high above the encampment.
Shoulders sagging, yet once again grateful for her thick cloak, which warded off the chill, she made her way to the heart of the slumbering camp.
Assisting the injured hadn’t been easy. Her gorge had risen numerous times as she cleaned and dressed wounds, some of them grievous, and tried to give solace to the dying.
Nonetheless, she’d done all she could. Her body cried out for rest, but it wouldn’t receive any—not yet.
Instead, she and Bree crossed to the meeting tent, pushed aside the flap, and ducked inside.
Her council—five druids and the captain of her army—was waiting for her. As was Skaal.
Apart from the fae hound, who’d remained at camp while they lay siege to the walls, they all looked as drained as she felt.
Grime, ash, and blood still streaked the chief-enforcer’s face, as they did her captain’s. Fortunately, both men appeared uninjured. The chief-sacrificer and chief-bard’s cloaks were singed, and the former bore a cut upon his temple.
“Apologies for the delay,” Lara greeted them huskily. “I was needed in the healing pavilion.”
She halted before the table, her gaze sliding over the faces of each member of her war council. Her gut tightened. She didn’t like their stern expressions and shadowed gazes. “Don’t look so grim,” she muttered. “We aren’t defeated yet.”
“No,” Roth replied curtly. His gaze was wary. Ever since he’d overstepped, things had been strained between them. “Not yet.”
A heavy silence followed these words. Eventually, Lara broke it. “So, where do we go from here?”
“We’ll need a breather before hitting the walls again,” her captain answered.
Her pulse quickened. “How long do you need?”
“Three days … at least.”
“Then you will have them.”
Actually, the thought of waiting so long galled her. Nonetheless, she wasn’t a warrior. She had little experience with battle and needed to take instructions from those who’d been fighting on the front line.
“We’ll use that time to build more battering rams and ladders,” Cailean added. “We’ve run out.”
Lara’s palms started to sweat. They could replace those things, but they couldn’t bring all those who’d already fallen back from the dead.
“We must also ensure the Gods favor us,” Gregor announced. The chief-sacrificer’s expression was stone-hewn, his thick arms folded across his chest. “My sacrificers will bleed twice the number of pigeons as usual over the coming nights.”
“What if the Shee use this wait to their advantage?” The chief-seer spoke up then. Ruari’s long face was pale and taut this evening. “They might attack our camp.”
“Let them,” Cailean growled. “If they emerge from behind their stone walls, it’ll be a fairer fight.”
Next to Lara, Bree shifted uneasily and cut her husband a veiled look. “They won’t attack,” she murmured. “They know they have the advantage and will wait us out.”
Another, troubled, silence followed these words.
Queasiness rolled over Lara as she rubbed her aching back; today had taken its toll on her. She imagined then, limping back to Duncrag with her army in tatters and Doure still in Shee hands—and the disappointment, and scorn, on her people’s faces when they learned of her failure.
How would she live down the shame? Worse still, how would she stop Mor’s army when it eventually did march south?
“My Queen!” A leather-clad figure ducked through the tent flap. “You have a visitor.”
Lara’s heart bucked. “Have the Shee sent an emissary?”
The warrior shook his head, discomfort flickering across his features. “A man approached our northern perimeter, from the woods … we were about to see him off.”
“Why didn’t you then?” Cailean growled.
The warrior’s face flushed, and he cut the chief-enforcer an apologetic look. “We would have … but he insists he can help us take back Doure.”