Aedion had imagined they’d all be killed where they stood, battling together until the end. Not picked off one by one as they fled.
He’d been forced far behind the lines when Morath plunged through, even the Bane having to peel away from the front. Soon, the rout would be complete.
Arrows still flew from deep behind their ranks, Ren having seized some order, if only to cover their retreat.
Not an orderly march to the north. No, soldiers ran, shoving past one another.
A disgraceful end, unworthy of a mention, unworthy of his kingdom.
He’d stand—he’d stay here until they cut him down.
Thousands of men charged past him, eyes wide with terror. Morath gave chase, their Valg princes smiling as they awaited the feasting sure to come.
Done. It was done, here on this unnamed field before Perranth.
Then a call went across the breaking lines.
The fleeing men began to pause. To turn toward the direction of the news.
Aedion skewered a Morath soldier on his sword before he fully understood the words.
The queen has come. The queen is at the front line.
For a foolish heartbeat, he scanned the sky for a blast of flame.
None came.
Dread settled into his heart, fear deeper than any he’d known.
The queen is at the front line—at the right flank.
Lysandra.
Lysandra had taken on Aelin’s skin.
He whirled toward the nonexistent right flank.
Just as the golden-haired queen in borrowed armor faced two ilken, a sword and shield in her hands.
No.
The word was a punch through his body, greater than any blow he’d felt.
Aedion began running, shoving through his own men. Toward the too-distant right flank. Toward the shape-shifter facing those ilken, no claws or fangs or anything to defend her beyond that sword and shield.
No.
He pushed men out of the way, the snow and mud hindering each step as the two ilken pressed closer to the shifter-queen.
Savoring the kill.
But the soldiers slowed their fleeing. Some even re-formed the lines when the call went out again. The queen is here. The queen fights at the front line.
Exactly why she had done it. Why she had donned the defenseless, human form.
No.
The ilken towered over her, grinning with their horrible, mangled faces.
Too far. He was still too damn far to do anything—
One of the ilken slashed with a long, clawed arm.
Her scream as poisoned talons ripped through her thigh sounded above the din of battle.
She went down, shield rising to cover herself.
He took it back.
He took back everything he had said to her, every moment of anger in his heart.
Aedion shoved through his own men, unable to breathe, to think.
He took it back; he hadn’t meant a word of it, not really.
Lysandra tried to rise on her injured leg. The ilken laughed.
“Please,” Aedion bellowed. The word was devoured by the screams of the dying. “Please!”
He’d make any bargain, he’d sell his soul to the dark god, if they spared her.
He hadn’t meant it. He took it back, all those words.
Useless. He’d called her useless. Had thrown her into the snow naked.
He took it back.
Aedion sobbed, flinging himself toward her as Lysandra tried again to rise, using her shield to balance her weight.
Men rallied behind her, waiting to see what the Fire-Bringer would do. How she’d burn the ilken.
There was nothing to see, nothing to witness. Nothing at all, but her death.
Yet Lysandra rose, Aelin’s golden hair falling in her face as she hefted her shield and pointed the sword between her and the ilken.
The queen has come; the queen fights alone.
Men ran back to the front line. Turned on their heels and raced for her.
Lysandra held her sword steady, kept it pointed at the ilken in defiance and rage.
Ready for the death soon to come.
She had been willing to give it up from the start. Had agreed to Aelin’s plans, knowing it might come to this.
One shift, one change into a wyvern’s form, and she’d destroy the ilken. But she remained in Aelin’s body. Held that sword, her only weapon, upraised.
Terrasen was her home. And Aelin her queen.
She’d die to keep this army together. To keep the lines from breaking. To rally their soldiers one last time.
Her leg leaked blood onto the snow, and the two ilken sniffed, laughing again. They knew—what lurked under her skin. That it was not the queen they faced.
She held her ground. Did not yield one inch to the ilken, who advanced another step.
For Terrasen, she would do this. For Aelin.
He took it back. He took it all back.
Aedion was barely a hundred feet away when the ilken struck.
He screamed as the one on the left swept with its claws, the other on the right lunging for her, as if it would tackle her to the snow.
Lysandra deflected the blow to the left with her shield, sending the ilken sprawling, and with a roar, slashed upward with her sword on the right.
Ripping open the lunging ilken from navel to sternum.
Black blood gushed, and the ilken shrieked, loud enough to set Aedion’s ears ringing. But it stumbled, falling into the snow, scrambling back as it clutched its opened belly.
Aedion ran harder, now thirty feet away, the space between them clear.
The ilken who’d gone sprawling on the left was not done. Lysandra’s eye on the one retreating, it lashed for her legs again.
Aedion threw the Sword of Orynth with everything left in him as Lysandra twisted toward the attacking ilken.
She began falling back, shield lifting in her only defense, still too slow to escape those reaching claws.
The poison-slick tips brushed her legs just as his sword went through the beast’s skull.
Lysandra hit the snow, shouting in pain, and Aedion was there, heaving her up, yanking his sword from the ilken’s head and bringing it down upon the sinewy neck. Once. Twice.
The ilken’s head tumbled into the snow and mud, the other beast instantly swallowed by the Morath soldiers who had paused to watch.
Who now looked upon the queen and her general and charged.
Only to be met by a surge of Terrasen soldiers racing past Aedion and Lysandra, battle cries shattering from their throats.
Aedion half-dragged the shifter deeper behind the re-formed lines, through the soldiers who had rallied to their queen.
He had to get the poison out, had to find a healer who could extract it immediately. Only a few minutes remained until it reached her heart—
Lysandra stumbled, a moan on her lips.
Aedion swung his shield on his back and hauled her over a shoulder. A glimpse at her leg revealed shredded skin, but no greenish slime.
Perhaps the gods had listened. Perhaps it was their idea of mercy: that the ilken’s poison had worn off on other victims before it’d gotten to her.
But the blood loss alone … Aedion pressed a hand over the shredded, bloody skin to staunch the flow. Lysandra groaned.
Aedion scanned the regrouping army for any hint of the healers’ white banners over their helmets. None. He whirled toward the front lines. Perhaps there was a Fae warrior skilled enough at healing, with enough magic left—
Aedion halted. Beheld what broke over the horizon.
Ironteeth witches.
Several dozen mounted on wyverns.
But not airborne. The wyverns walked on land.
Heaving a mammoth, mobile stone tower behind them. No ordinary siege tower.
A witch tower.
It rose a hundred feet high, the entire structure built into a platform whose make he could not determine with the angle of the ground and the lines of chained wyverns dragging it across the plain. A dozen more witches flew in the air around it, guarding it. Dark stone—Wyrdstone—had been used to craft it, and window slits had been interspersed throughout every level.
Not window slits. Portals through which to angle the power of the mirrors lining the inside, as Manon Blackbeak had described. All capable of being adjusted to any direction, any focus.
All they needed was a source of power for the mirrors to amplify and fire out into the world.
Oh gods.
“Fall back!” Aedion screamed, even while his men continued to rally. “FALL BACK.”
With his Fae sight, he could just make out the uppermost level of the tower, more open to the elements than the others.
Witches in dark robes were gathered around what seemed to be a curved mirror angled into the hollow core of the tower.
Aedion whirled and began running, carrying the shifter with him. “FALL BACK! ”
The army beheld what approached. Whether they realized it was no siege tower, they understood his order clearly enough. Saw him sprinting, Aelin over his shoulder.
Manon had never known the range of the tower, how far it might fire the dark magic rallied within it.
There was nowhere to hide on the field. No dips in the earth where he might throw himself and Lysandra, praying the blast went over them. Nothing but open snow and frantic soldiers.
“RETREAT!” Aedion’s throat strained.
He glanced over a shoulder as the witches atop the tower parted to let through a small figure in onyx robes, her pale hair unbound.
A black light began glowing around the figure—the witch. She lifted her hands above her head, the power rallying.
The Yielding.
Manon Blackbeak had described it to them. Ironteeth witches had no magic but that. The ability to unleash their dark goddess’s power in an incendiary blast that took out everyone around them. Including the witch herself.
That dark power was still building, growing around the witch in an unholy aura, when she simply walked off the lip of the tower landing.
Right into the hole in the tower’s center.
Aedion kept running. Had no choice but to keep moving, as the witch dropped into the mirror-lined core of the tower and unleashed the dark power within her.
The world shuddered.
Aedion threw Lysandra into the mud and snow and hurled himself over her, as if it would somehow spare her from the roaring force that erupted from the tower, right at their army.
One heartbeat, their left flank was fighting as they retreated once more.
The next, a wave of black-tinted light slammed into four thousand soldiers.
When it receded, there was only ash and dented metal.