CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
C HAPTER F IFTY- T HREE
The sun barely glances the shoulders of the mixed before it begins its descent, shrouding the valley in shadow. They prowl quietly, slowly through the thick brush of forest that precedes the Fallen Village, but even from this distance the clamour of armour and voices and wings can be heard.
Dawsyn looks behind her, to where Esra, Salem and Hector follow, resolutely ignoring her bids for them to remain behind, near the safety of the Boulder Gate. They all stalk through the darkening forest now, crude weapons in their hands, bodies alert and ready.
“Salem and Esra cannot join this fight,” Dawsyn whispers. She does not know whether the words are intended for Ryon, or for herself.
Ryon merely takes her fingers for a moment, cradles them tenderly in his palm, then lets them go. His silent way of telling her that it is not her choice. Not her life. “I have my eye on them,” he says. “Rivdan and Tasheem will be near.”
Dawsyn is accustomed to the slow approach of death. It has stalked her many times before this one, following her into the fray. She has always traipsed forward with her ax before her, breaths steady, even. No threat seemed greater than the one before. The probability of losing did not sway her path. It did not weight her feet, as it does now.
This night, she drags herself unwillingly to the last battlefield. Death is a burden perched on her shoulders. The ax in her palm feels like an unwelcome visitor. For the first time, she does not want to fight, for she fears they might lose.
The difference does not lie in the enemy, for the enemy has rarely varied. No. The difference lies in the company she marches with, for while forfeiting her own life has never worried her, the thought of losing theirs is a price too high.
She is suddenly sure she is unwilling to pay it.
Not Abertha, who has only just arrived.
Not Esra, who is too alive to die.
Not Salem, who loves too deeply to bleed.
Not Hector, who has already bled enough.
Not Rivdan and Tasheem, who have given too much, too willingly.
Not Ryon, who has pulled her from the deepest trenches of herself and loved her still.
Not even herself, who has only just begun to feel thawed. Renewed. Not now that she has found this family.
But the shouts ahead continue and they call her forward.
Just this one last fight.
She calls to mind every morning she woke to dig the snow from her doorway on the Ledge, every tree that she felled, every song her grandmother sang. She thinks of Maya, of Briar, of all the days stolen from them.
She hears the shouts ahead and there is little else that matters more.
The price is high, but it is not her who will pay it alone.
Light suddenly begins to impede the darkness. The thinning of trees ahead allows the Fallen Village to come into view and reveals the beginnings of ruins. Of crumbled homes choked in vine and weed. Beyond them, a structure looms. Large wooden beams stand fast in freshly dug trenches. An entire perimeter of high fencing. Through the narrow gaps, Dawsyn can see those inside teeming.
Like animals confined to a cage, the Ledge people batter its walls, ramming their bodies against its supports until they tilt.
And above, hovering like vultures, several Glacians circle. They glide over their prisoners as they have always done, taking time to select their prey.
The line of the mixed-blooded halt in the woods, not venturing further yet. Ryon holds his hand raised and steady, alerting them to be still, silent.
“Where are the Terrsaw guards?” Dawsyn whispers. She stands behind a wide oak trunk and surveys the clearing before her. But the fence that imprisons the Ledge people is tall and impedes her view.
“Taking their fucking time,” Ryon mutters.
The sound of steel on wood rings out and Dawsyn’s eyes fly back to the enclosure. She catches a glimpse of silver armour, a flash of steel, and hears again the telling thwack of metal meeting timber. There is a roar of outrage from the bearer within as the effort renders nothing.
“The guards have been captured,” Ryon whispers and he curses quietly, lowering to his haunches.
Dawsyn sees more of them, squinting through the dimness. She sees the swords protrude through the gaps in the fence, hears the clinking of their armour. Someone shunts their body into a tilting beam and it cracks a little. The gap allows Dawsyn a better view and she recognises the thin, straight nose, the glossy hair, the rich brown skin. She watches the guard shove her shoulder relentlessly against the teetering beam and hears her shouts of exertion.
Ruby.
Ryon and Dawsyn turn to each other with a shared understanding. Ryon frowns already, shaking his head. “We need to re-strategize,” he says.
“There’s no time,” is her answer, already formulated.
“Anyone want to share?” Tasheem quips, shuffling forward on her own haunches, keeping low to the ground. “What’s happening?”
Ryon holds his hand high to the line of mixed, signalling them to hold their position. He nods to Rivdan, to Brennick, and they creep inward, forming a tight circle on the forest floor.
Hector, Abertha, Esra and Salem, their bodies crouched, lean toward Ryon, straining to hear.
“They’ve fenced the Ledge-dwellers in,” Ryon whispers. “Some of the Terrsaw guards too.”
There is a brief silence. “What does it mean?” Tash asks.
“One of two things,” Dawsyn answers. “Either a battle ensues as we speak between Adrik and Alvira, and the guards are losing.”
“If there were a battle nearby, we’d hear it,” Rivdan says. “This empty land echoes.”
“Which makes the second possibility the most likely,” Dawsyn says. “It seems Alvira did not cede to our side, and the dissenting guards have been overpowered.”
As she says it, they hear the swoop overhead as more Glacians take flight, circling high, awaiting an order. They glide leisurely, wasting away the remaining daylight.
“So, we fight the Glacians… and the Queen’s loyal guard?” Brennick frowns, his voice thick with disbelief. “Fucking hell.”
Ryon speaks to Dawsyn now, though his gaze doesn’t meet hers, as though he’d prefer not to hear her answer. “Can you break through the fence?”
Dawsyn narrows her eyes, the ax in her hand answer enough.
“It’s a game of distraction then,” Ryon says, eyeing the gathering wings above them. “I’m fairly certain that once we round the fence, we’ll find Adrik and that fucking queen on the other side, shaking hands.”
“So, we attack,” Rivdan says plainly, his sword turning over in his grip. Even in the dark, the act is menacing. “By wing or on foot?”
“Both,” Ryon replies, his sight stuck on those above, his jaw strained. “We split in two and send half to the sky.”
“And me?” Hector asks, his shoulder bumping into Ryon’s.
“Make yourself useful, Ledge boy,” Ryon grins at him. “Go get your people.”
“Make it quick,” Tasheem adds, shaking her head as she draws a sword from her back sheath. “We no longer have numbers on our side.”
“There are a hundred people in that pen,” Dawsyn says, looking skyward once more. “And they’ve been waiting fifty years for an opportunity to tear Glacians to shreds.”
“Dawsyn, take Hector. Salem, Abertha and Esra can help. Get them out as quickly as you can. There won’t be much time.”
“I’ll take ten to the sky,” Brennick says now. “You’ll need more on the ground.”
“Wait for my call,” Ryon tells him. “I’ll distract Adrik for as long as I can.”
The sun falls further, urging them onward, and firelight illuminates in the distance. Ryon glances once more to Dawsyn, conveying what he needn’t tell her, that their chances are now likely futile, the risk great. “Ready?”
She nods to him. She turns without saying the words that choke her.
They have said what they need to already.
Crouching, she and the others near the border of the clearing, leaving the Glacians behind.
She feels the relentless thrum of her pulse, grips her ax, and waits. “Will you do something for me, Hector?” she murmurs, making her voice so quiet, Salem, Esra and Abertha do not hear.
He raises his brows, ice-blue eyes piercing hers through the dark. “Anything, Dawsyn.”
“When it starts, take the Ledge children into the trees,” her voice is thick with urgency. “Salem and Esra cannot fight. Abertha is too young. Take them with you and run. Do not look back.”
Hector closes his eyes for moment, turning his head away. When he looks back at her, unshed tears shine in his eyes. But his jaw is set. “And after?” he whispers. “Where will I find you when it is done?”
Dawsyn brushes his cheek, catches the first droplet on the tip of her thumb as it falls. She thinks about how his face has hardly changed since they were children. “I won’t be far,” she tells him, though even to her, it sounds flimsy. An unlikely contingence. “I’ll never be far,” she promises.
And this, at least, she means.