Chapter 53
“On your right!” Gyrial shouted as a siren dove at Linnea.
She spun, the merfolk barely missing her.
A swarm of sirens had breached the ocean’s surface not long ago and came for the castle.
Gyrial, being the ever-diligent male he was, took notice right away and kept the battle on the beach.
If anything, they could protect the staff within.
Linnea had never even held a knife until a few days ago, let alone been trained in hand-to-hand combat. But after bringing a siren down by stabbing it in the neck, Linnea figured she could be of use.
The traitor sirens sent to attack them were anarchic. They had little regard for their own lives, which made their tactics that much more terrifying and unhinged. They quite literally had nothing to lose.
A siren female unsheathed her fangs and snapped at any limb she could get her mouth near. One male summoned long, glistening claws and slashed furiously at anything that moved. Altogether, the twenty-or-so traitorous sirens were a maelstrom of mayhem.
Linnea may not have been trained, but she was smart. When the male using his claws as a windmill of death approached her, she ducked, then used the force of her entire body to throw him sideways into another siren. He shredded them to pieces.
She figured out that some of the hoard must be half finfolk, as they had finfolk features—elongated ears and tinted skin—when they first popped out of the water and were able to walk on land.
She didn’t know enough of the logistics of these merspecies, but she had received a crash course on the basics by being catapulted into the middle of a centuries-long war.
A female half-finfolk latched onto Niklas and screeched in his face, the high-pitched sound making everyone’s ears ring.
Instinctually, Niklas screeched back—in fear, not a strategic attack—and the female released him in surprise.
Linnea used the opportunity to shove the female toward Windmill Arms, who was still swinging. Another one down.
Halsten was not great with sword work, but his hand-to-hand was impressive, even with the nerve damage in his leg. Luckily, none of the merfolk had brought weapons. They were cocky enough that they thought they didn’t need them.
Linnea and her friends were weak, useless humans, right? Wrong. Even though they were the inferior species, they would not be underestimated.
The suicidal approach of the warriors let them keep the upperhand for an extended period of time. Gyrial, being preternatural, moved quickly through the crowd, cutting down the enemies in a blur. But no matter how many sirens and finfolk mutts they terminated, more came to the surface.
Linnea gasped as one of them latched onto her shoulder and shredded it with their fangs. She shoved them away, leaving long tooth scrapes visible through the ripped fabric of her tunic.
You’ve endured worse.
She had, sadly. The cruel reality of the situation was that it didn’t bother Linnea. At the end of the day, this was still easier to handle than her childhood.
A metal clink caught her attention and she turned to see Gyrial falling to his knees. She ran to him, her heart dropping into her stomach from the look of devastation on him.
Gyrial was invincible. She didn’t worry about him. He was supposed to be safe—the one who stood a chance. So why was he the only one falling?
Linnea had never been particularly close to the male, but over the years, they became friends.
Even though she knew he was not the right match for Asta, she still loved the way he cared for her.
It made her realize that males who worship their females were real.
She had a great respect for the male who was brought to his knees by iron chains wrapped around his wrists.
Gyrial knelt as the cuffs clicked, weakening him to the point of submission.
Linnea knew that iron made sirens unable to use their magic and weakened them a bit, but the effects must be much stronger on fae.
Linnea knelt beside Gyrial, her knees sinking into the soft sand. If they hadn’t been in the midst of war, it would have been the perfect day for a walk on the beach.
She slipped her fingers under the cuffs, attempting to release the fae male, but it was no use.
“Can you get up?” Her voice was breathy as she tugged at the unforgivable metal.
Gyrial planted one foot on the ground, then the other, Linnea helping him by lifting under his arms as best as she could.
She guided him to the brambles near the terrace. “Stay here until I can figure this out,”
Linnea said. “We will be okay.”
She may have lied.
The onslaught of merfolk kept coming, Halsten and Niklas doing what they could to hold them off.
But that was all they were doing—holding them off.
What if help never came? Halsten was hardly maintaining balance without his cane.
If they were required to run, he would need to be left behind or carried.
Linnea raced back into the fight, though all she held was a dagger she grabbed from Gyrial’s belt.
Sirens and finfolk came for the fallen fae hiding in the bushes and Linnea used them against each other as best as she could.
Windmill Arms truly made for the best secret weapon.
She kept feeding him more victims as he shredded through them.
His bloodlust was blinding at this point, and he had no idea who he was harming.
Other than that, Linnea had no strategy.
Halsten and Niklas moved their fights to stand next to Linnea, guarding Gyrial. He had protected them every step of the way. It was their turn to show the fae loyalty.
Linnea wished, more than anything, that Tova was well enough to help them.
Even though she could not use her sea dragon on land, having a siren warrior next to them would surely give them a greater advantage.
For now, the sea dragon was being cared for in the infirmary by the very staff they were trying to protect.
The sea spawn came with attacks so brutal that Linnea questioned if they were simply prolonging defeat. She could only shove so many warriors toward Windmill Arms before they caught on.
As the hoard began closing in on them, a ring of metal caught everyone’s attention. They all turned to see King Botmar unsheath a sword.
The king of Salendron swung a dark-metaled blade and cut down three merfolk at a time, shrieks carrying through the air and bouncing off the stone castle walls to double back as a reminder of the violence.
Linnea watched as her uncle, her savior, brought down their enemies with ease. Though he was making great work of it, they kept multiplying as they emerged from the sea.
King Botmar’s sword seemed to bring down the beasts with a greater force than she had seen previously.
“What is that?” she shouted. She kicked out a leg, pushing a finfolk back into a siren looming behind them.
“Iron sword!” King Botmar responded.
Iron. The one thing Linnea figured out had subdued magical species.
She grabbed Gyrial by the chain between his cuffs and dragged him from the brambles, leading him to the king. Gyrial stumbled but jogged behind her, clearly understanding her thoughts.
She approached Botmar and pushed Gyrial toward him, who held out his arms as best as he could. Between cutting down groups of warriors, King Botmar turned and struck through the iron chain. And though Gyrial still wore iron cuffs that weakened him, breaking the connection between limbs freed him.