the wild men of the Fangs on the right flank, the khaganate royals on the left, Sartaq and Nesryn in the skies with the ruks. And Aelin and Rowan, with Fenrys, Lorcan, and Gavriel, would take the center.
The army had spread out as they’d neared the foothills beyond Orynth, the hills that would take them to the edge of Theralis’s plain, and offer their first view of the city beyond it.
Heart hammering, the Lord of the North unfaltering, Aelin had ascended the last of those hills, the highest and steepest of them, and looked upon Orynth for the first time in ten years.
A terrible, pulsing silence went through her.
Where a lovely white city had once glittered between river and plain and mountain …
Smoke and chaos and terror reigned. The turquoise Florine flowed black.
The sheer size, the booming of the massive army that thundered against its walls, in the skies above it …
She hadn’t realized. How large Morath’s army would be. How small and precious Orynth seemed before it.
“They’re almost through the western gate,” Fenrys murmured, his Fae sight gobbling down details.
The khagan’s army fanned out around them, across the hill. The crest of a wave soon to break. Yet even the Darghan soldiers hesitated, horses shifting, at the army between them and the city.
Rowan’s face was grave—grave, yet undaunted, as he took in the enemy.
So many. So many soldiers. And the Ironteeth legion above them.
“The Crochans fight at the city walls,” Gavriel observed.
Indeed, she could barely make out the red cloaks.
Manon Blackbeak had not broken her vow.
And neither would she.
Aelin glanced at her hand, hidden beneath the gauntlet. To where a scar should have been.
I promise you that no matter how far I go, no matter the cost, when you call for my aid, I will come.
There would be no time for speeches. No time to rally the soldiers behind her.
They were ready. And so was she.
“Sound the call,” Aelin ordered Lorcan, who lifted a horn to his lips and blew.
Down the line, heralds from the khaganate sent up their own horns in answer. Until they were all one great, bellowing note, racing toward Orynth.
They blew the horns again.
Aelin drew Goldryn from its sheath across her back and hefted her shield as she lifted the sword to the sky. As a thread of her magic pierced the ruby in the pommel and set it glowing.
The Darghan soldiers pointed their suldes forward, wood creaking, horsehair whipping in the wind.
Down the line, Princess Hasar and Prince Kashin trained their own spears at the enemy army. Dorian and Chaol drew their blades and aimed them ahead.
Rowan unsheathed his sword, a hatchet in his other hand, his face like stone. Unbreakable.
The horns blew a third and final time, the rallying cry singing out across the bloody plain.
The Lord of the North reared up, jutting Goldryn higher into the sky, and Aelin unleashed a flash of fire through the ruby—the signal the army behind her had awaited.
For Terrasen. All of it, for Terrasen.
The Lord of the North landed, the immortal flame within his antlers shining bright as he began the charge. The army around and behind her flowed down the hillside, gaining with each step, barreling toward Morath’s back ranks.
Barreling toward Orynth.
Toward home.
Onward into battle they charged, undaunted and raging.
The queen atop the white stag did not balk with each gained foot toward the awaiting legions. She only flipped her sword in her hand—once, twice, shield arm tucking in tight.
The immortal warriors at her side did not hesitate, either, their eyes fixed upon the enemy ahead.
Faster and faster, the khaganate’s cavalry galloping beside her, the front line forming, holding, as they neared the first of Morath’s back lines.
The enemy turned toward them now. Pointed spears; archers racing into position.
The first impact would hurt. Many would go down before they even reached it.
But the front line had to make it. They could not break.
From the enemy lines, an order arose. “Archers!”
Bowstrings groaned, targets were fixed.
“Volley!”
Great iron arrows blotted out the sun, aiming for the racing cavalry.
But ruks, golden and brown and black as night, dove, dove, dove from the skies, flying wing to wing. And as those arrows arced toward the earth, the ruks intercepted them, taking the brunt as they shielded the charging army beneath them.
Ruks went down.
And even the queen leading the charge wept in rage and grief as the birds and their riders crashed to the earth. Above her, taking arrow after arrow, shield raised to the skies, a young rider roared her