All the Rhulyn chieftains were with her on the summit, while the Gula leaders were with their men, strategically stationed among the dips and clefts of the Dureyan plain. Nyphron had positioned them the night before, saying he knew the places where Alon Rhist’s watchtower was blind. Persephone had been forced to repeat his instructions; the Gula refused to take orders from the Fhrey. A wild and vicious people, the Gula-Rhunes were little more than a pack of rabid animals—great when you needed that sort of thing, maddening when you didn’t.
Persephone forced herself to inch closer to the edge to get a better look at the world below. The northern boundary of the yellow plateau was a steep, jagged gorge that from their vantage point formed a curve resembling a frown. At the bottom of that canyon, the Bern River flowed, which historically marked the end of Rhulyn and the start of the Fhrey lands. Somewhere beneath Misery Rock, a worn path, appearing little more than a chalk mark on that open plain, ran north from Dureya to the gorge. The vague line ended at a set of white stone stairs that climbed to a bridge. For miles, the only place to safely ford the river was that span, which linked the Fhrey and human sides of the canyon like a single stitch in the gaping wound that was Grandford. On the other side was the city and fortress of Alon Rhist with its great dome and soaring watchtower, the whole of it protected by massive stone walls and a pair of impenetrable bronze gates.
Persephone had crossed that bridge of sculptured stone every year while married to Reglan. Each time had terrified her.
We had been invited, but I was still scared.
“They’re at the stairs,” Tegan announced. The Chieftain of Clan Warric looked like an overgrown dwarf with neat dark hair and a brushed beard. Possessed of a sarcastic wit, he had a sharp mind and had become one of Persephone’s closest advisers. Tegan pointed, and everyone on Misery Rock looked toward the Grandford Bridge.
“I can’t believe you agreed to this.” Raithe was shaking his head while looking at the sky.
“Nyphron knows what he’s doing,” Persephone said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. Her hands were clenched tight. She forced them open and made a deliberate effort to relax her shoulders.
“What if he’s wrong? What if they kill him?” Raithe asked.
“My people aren’t prepared for this,” Harkon said. “Most of Clan Melen are carrying farm tools. We can’t fight.”
“If that happens, we fall back. We already have a sizable lead,” Persephone told them.
“And Nyphron?” Harkon asked. “If things don’t go well, will he retreat?”
“I don’t think Nyphron or his Galantians understand that concept,” Tegan said. “They always assume they’ll win.”
“Let’s hope there’s good reason for that.” Persephone straightened up. She kept reminding herself to stand tall. Her mother had always complained about her bad posture. No one will respect the wife of a chieftain who hunches over like a troll. Her mother could never have imagined that Persephone would be a chieftain, much less the keenig, but Persephone guessed the advice was still valid.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Krugen said.
“Then pray this is not that time.”
True to his word, Nyphron hadn’t asked a single human to cross the bridge with him. Persephone’s army was barely in sight of the Fhrey forming on the far side of the Bern. The Gula were even farther away—more than a mile—having formed on the crest of the high plain. That was the way Nyphron wanted it. Persephone hoped that his plan was designed to give them ample time to scatter if something went wrong, but Tegan was correct: Galantians didn’t understand defeat. She agreed that the odds of Nyphron anticipating failure were equal to his expecting a day without a sunrise.
From the vantage point of Misery Rock, Persephone could see the Galantians approach Alon Rhist. The little troop of Fhrey appeared like a line of seven ants. They reached the bridge and without hesitation began to cross.
Trying to see better, Persephone took a step forward, forgetting—if only for that instant—that she was standing near a deadly precipice. Raithe caught her by the arm, silently reminding her of the danger and his concern for her. She glanced at him, and Raithe let go, looking embarrassed.
Harkon, the Chieftain of Clan Melen, shook his head in awe. “Fearless.”
“Crazy,” muttered Krugen, whose only interest beyond fine clothing was sleep—something the man did a great deal of, snoring far too loudly to hide the fact.
“Why isn’t anyone stopping them?” Lipit asked.
“Same reason you wait when catching rabbits,” Raithe replied. “Better to be sure you have them fully in the snare before pulling it closed.”
Persephone’s hands resumed their fists, and much to the dismay of her dead mother, she was imitating a troll again.
“What’s that?” Krugen pointed.
“Do you see it?” Harkon asked. “On the plain—on our side!”
“More Fhrey,” Raithe said.
Persephone saw them as well. Two dozen bronze-armored warriors had appeared out of nowhere, cutting off Nyphron’s retreat.
“Where’d they come from?” Tegan asked.
“Cracks,” Raithe explained. “The rocks out there are split with fissures and fractures. You can get into them, cover yourself in a dirt-colored blanket, and an enemy will walk right by. We did it all the time.”