Rowan had seen the golden light flaring minutes ago. Had battled his way here, cursing the iron shard in his arm that kept him from shifting. Fenrys and Lorcan had peeled away to pick off any Morath grunts trying to attack those fleeing for the southern gate, and overhead, ruks bearing the healers, Elide and Yrene with them, soared into the panicking city.
He had to find Aelin. Get their plans in motion before it was too late.
He knew who likely marched with that advancing host. He had no intention of letting her face it alone.
But this task—he knew what lay ahead. Knew, and still went.
Rowan found Gavriel before the western gate, dozens of the dead piled high around him.
A veritable wall between the gate and looming enemy host.
The light faded with each minute. Lingering Morath soldiers and Ironteeth fled toward their oncoming reinforcements.
The khagan’s army tried to kill as many as they could as they hurtled for the southern gate.
They had to get inside the city. By any means possible.
Hoisting up siege ladders that had been knocked to the earth only minutes or hours earlier, the khagan’s army climbed the walls, some bearing the injured on their backs.
His magic little more than a breeze, Rowan gritted his teeth against his throbbing leg and shoulder and hauled away the Morath grunt half-sprawled over Gavriel.
Centuries of existence, years spent waging war and journeying through the world—gone. Rendered into nothing but this still body, this discarded shell.
Rowan’s knees threatened to buckle. More and more of their forces scaled the city walls, an orderly but swift flight into a temporary haven.
Keep going. They had to keep going. Gavriel would wish him to. Had given his life for it.
Yet Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.”
Rowan stooped, grunting at the pain in his thigh, and hauled Gavriel over his good shoulder. And then he climbed.
Up the siege ladder still anchored beside the western gate. Onto the walls. Each step heavier than the last. Each step a memory of his friend, an image of the kingdoms they had seen, the enemies they had fought, the quiet moments that no song would ever mention.
Yet the songs would mention this—that the Lion fell before the western gate of Orynth, defending the city and his son. If they survived today, if they somehow lived, the bards would sing of it.
Even with the chaos of the khaganate soldiers and Darghan cavalry streaming for the city, silence fell where Rowan strode down the battlement stairs, bearing Gavriel.
He barely managed a grateful, relieved nod to a battered and bloody Enda and Sellene, catching their breath with a cluster of their cousins by the remnants of their catapults. His blood and kin, yet the warrior over his shoulder—Gavriel had also been family. Even when he had not realized it.
The impossible, hideous weight at his shoulder grew worse with every step to where Aedion stood at the foot of the stairs, the Sword of Orynth dangling from his hand.
“He could have stayed,” was all Aedion said as Rowan gently set Gavriel down on the first of the steps. “He could have stayed.”
Rowan looked at his fallen friend. His closest friend. Who had gone with him into so many wars and dangers. Who had deserved this new home as much as any of them.
Rowan closed Gavriel’s unseeing eyes. “I will see you in the Afterworld.”
Aedion’s golden hair hung limp with blood and sweat, the ancient sword in his hands caked with black blood. Soldiers streamed past him, down the battlement stairs, yet Aedion only stared at his father. A bloodied rock in the stream of war.
Then Aedion walked into the streets. Tears and screaming would come later. Rowan followed him.
“We need to prepare for the second part of this battle,” Aedion said hoarsely. “Or we won’t last the night.” Already, Enda and Sellene were using their magic to haul fallen blocks of debris against the western gate. The stones wobbled, but moved. It was more power than Rowan could claim.
Rowan turned to climb back up the walls, and didn’t dare let himself look behind them—to where he knew soldiers were moving Gavriel deeper into the city. Somewhere safe.
Gone. His friend, his brother was gone.
“Your Highness.” A panting, blood-splattered ruk rider stood on the battlement wall. He pointed to the horizon. “Darkness veils much of it, but we have an estimate for the oncoming army.” Rowan braced himself. “Twenty thousand at a minimum.” The rider’s throat bobbed. “Their ranks are filled with Valg—and six kharankui.”
Not kharankui. But the six Valg princesses who had infested them.
Rowan willed himself to shift. His body refused.
Gritting his teeth, he peeled back the armor on his shoulder and reached for the wound. But it had sealed. Trapping the iron shard within. Keeping him from shifting—from flying to Aelin. Wherever she was.
He had to get to her. Had to find Fenrys and Lorcan and find her. Before it was too late.
But as the night fell, as he freed a dagger and lifted it to the sealed wound in his shoulder, Rowan knew it might already be.
Even though the gods were now gone, Rowan still found himself praying. Through the agony as he ripped open his shoulder, he prayed. That he might reach Aelin in time.
They had survived this long, against all odds and in defiance of ancient prophecies. Rowan dug his knife in deeper, seeking the iron shard wedged within.
Hurry—he had to hurry.
CHAPTER 109
Chaol’s back strained, pain lashing down his spine. Whether from his wife’s healing within the castle walls or from the hours of fighting, he had no idea.
Didn’t care, as he and Dorian galloped through the southern gate into Orynth, the two of them little more than unmarked riders amid the army racing in. Bracing for the impact of the fresh host marching toward them.
Night would soon fall. Morath would not wait until dawn. Not with the darkness that hovered above them like some sort of awful cloud.
What flew and scuttled in that darkness, what waited for them …
Dorian was nearly slumped in his saddle, shield strapped over his back, Damaris sheathed at his side.
“You look how I feel,” Chaol managed to say.
Dorian slid sapphire eyes toward him, a spark of humor lighting the haunted depths. “I know a king shouldn’t slouch,” he said, rubbing at his blood-and-dirt-splattered face. “But I can’t bring myself to care.”
Chaol smiled grimly. “We have worse to worry about.”
Much worse.
They hurried toward the castle, turning up the hill that would take them to its doors, when a horn cut across the battlefield.
A warning.
With the view the hill offered, they could clearly see it. What sent the soldiers racing toward them with renewed urgency.
Morath was picking up speed.
As if realizing that their prey was on its last legs and not wishing to let them recover.
Chaol glanced to Dorian, and they reined their horses back toward the city walls. The khagan’s soldiers did so as well, running down the hills they’d been scaling.
Back toward the battlements. And the hell soon to be unleashed upon it once more.
Slumped against a dead wyvern, Aelin drained the last of her waterskin.
Beside her, Ansel of Briarcliff panted through her gritted teeth while healer’s magic pulled the edges of her wound together. A nasty, deep slice to Ansel’s arm.
Bad enough that Ansel hadn’t been able to hold a weapon. So they had halted, just as the tide of the battle had shifted, their enemy now fleeing Orynth’s walls.
Aelin’s head swam, her magic down to the dregs, her limbs leaden. The roar of battle still buzzed in her ears.
Covered in gore and mud, no one recognized either queen where they’d fallen to their knees, so close to the southern gates. Soldiers ran past, trying to get into the city before the army at their backs arrived.
Just a minute. She needed to only catch her breath for a minute. Then they’d hurry to the southern gate. Into Orynth.
Into her home.
Ansel swore, swaying, and the healer shot out a hand to brace her.
Not good. Not at all.
Aelin knew what and who marched toward them.
Lysandra had returned to the skies long ago, rejoining the rebel Ironteeth and Crochans. Where Rowan now was, where the cadre was, she didn’t know. Had lost them hours or days or lifetimes ago.