Chapter 48
Ian was too tired to lift his head above water by the time the shore came into view. The early morning light was just beginning to spread, illuminating the shape of the monastery high up on the northern cliffs.
As he swam past the final few breaking waves, he gratefully let the flow of the water pull him to shore. But, he refused to rest. He refused to stop kicking the water behind him. The burning ache in every muscle of his body meant nothing when every second saved potentially meant a life.
Potentially. He was only one man. A prince, yes, but a prince with no power.
It was foolish to believe that his presence could prevent a slaughter, but he had to try.
Because fighting this war was his responsibility.
Because the people of Iseldis were his responsibility.
Because his knowledge of the truth made the lives of innocent people his responsibility.
So he gripped the waterlogged hatch cover that still floated beneath his bruised arms with numb fingers. And he kicked his exhausted muscles against the relentless waves, vowing that he would never swim again if he lived through this.
When the shore was a short distance away, he pushed the hatch cover aside, using his arms to pull him through the final few waves until his feet found a footing in the rocky sand below.
But in his exhaustion, he failed to notice the water swell behind him before another wave broke over his head, tossing him below the surface and smashing his body against the shifting sand of the ocean floor.
Ian fought for purchase against the powerful water, attempting to get his feet beneath him as he spun. Salty water burned the back of his nose and throat as his lungs begged for air.
If he’d had enough time to think about it, he might have stopped fighting then and there, giving in to the whims of the sea. But his mind was already far past any point of reason, and he had a singular goal.
Someone grabbed his arm, pulling him up through the water until his body righted itself—sand below, sky above.
Kneeling in the sand, he wiped his eyes with a wet arm. The salt and sand scratched his eyelids as he blinked them open.
Robin stood over him, her face red from the cold.
He had a single moment to meet her frantic eyes before his body started to cough up the salt water he had inhaled.
She squeezed his arm as he bent forward, hacking and wheezing. “Breathe,” she instructed.
“I am trying to,” Ian spat out between coughs. He pushed himself to stand, leaning on her good arm for support.
Looking up at the shore ahead of him, he could see a line of Iseldan soldiers, five men deep, standing at formation just past the furthest waterline of the tide. On the bluff behind them, Chendas soldiers also moved into formation, a line of archers at their forefront.
“Have they started fighting?” Ian asked.
“Not yet,” Robin said. “I think they are waiting to see if any of the ships survived.”
“Good,” Ian said, pounding his fist against the side of his head to dislodge the water in his ear. “Then we can stop it.”
“It would not be much of a fight,” Robin said. She nodded toward a small group of Majis huddled together on the sand between the water and the soldiers. They were soaking wet, thin, and underdressed, all of them holding on to each other as they stared at the line of soldiers ahead of them.
Robin put her good arm around Ian’s back, moving in close to support him so that he could lean on her.
Accepting her help, Ian moved toward the soldiers. Her veered to the left, wanting to place himself in front of the area where the Majis were gathering.
In the growing light, he saw the familiar form of General Zimri step out in front of his soldiers. He drew his sword, lifting it above his head to signal to his men.
Robin released Ian’s arm.
Ian forced his legs into an all-out run, a choice that was made more difficult as he moved from the wet sand of the tide-covered beach to the dry sand beyond. “Wait!” he cried through parched lungs. His word carried over the eerily quiet scene.
Zimri snapped his head in Ian’s direction.
Ian was close enough to see the moment the general recognized him, realizing he was not just another Majis. Zimri’s face remained passive and cold, but he held his sword above his head.
“Wait!” Ian cried again, stopping breathless when he stood directly between the soldiers and the Majis.
When Zimri dropped the sword, it would signal his soldiers to start the attack.
Ian lifted his hands in a sign of entreaty, though he wanted to bend over at the waist and catch his breath. “Do these people look like a threat to you?” He spoke as loudly as possible, wanting the soldiers to hear his words as well as Zimri.
The waiting soldiers looked from Ian to their general.
Many of these men knew Ian. He had trained and grown with them, fought with them on the Etrarian Plains.
The ones who stood close enough recognized him, shifting their weight as they looked from Zimri back to him.
Ian saw them turn to each other, and he saw the whispered recognition as it spread down the line.
Zimri noted it as well.
But Ian did not know if these men would listen to their general or their prince.
“Since when has Iseldis been a kingdom that slaughters the innocent?” Ian cried, speaking past Zimri to the soldiers themselves. “These people are clearly unable to defend themselves. My father, the king, would not condone this.”
Zimri slowly lowered his sword, drawing it down in a straight line rather than the charged fall of an attack order.
Ian nodded, still breathing quickly. Perhaps Zimri was beginning to see the truth.
The Chendas soldiers on the bluff started to turn behind them, reacting to something that Ian could not see.
The Iseldan soldiers below noticed this and turned to look up as a cavalry rode into view on the bluff above.