The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood #1)

Lia stood awkwardly, her legs trembling. Her ankle was sore, but it supported her. How had it happened? How had she fallen asleep? Her mind was scattered with fragments, with memories all tangled and jostled together. Emerging from the shell of the tree, she stared at the fields near Winterrowd and watched as three walls of mounted knights surged across the clods of earth and grass at the tiny army led by Garen Demont. There were at least five rows of black-clad knights in each wall, lances stark against the dawn sun, charging against Demont’s men from every corner. Every one of Demont’s men were dismounted. She saw their horses tethered beyond their reach.

No! she wanted to scream. The knights charged, closing the gap, as Demont’s men waited for them to come. They were arranged in four lines, a square, each man facing outward, shoulder to shoulder with their swords drawn. The gap in the middle showed no reserves. Thunder churned the air, the thunder of warhorses. Lia bit her lip, watching helplessly at the slaughter about to happen. The slaughter Maderos had predicted.

Let him live, she thought silently. Please, let him live! I am not too late!

Thinking was not enough. She needed to act. To do something to aid him. The flutter and color of a dozen battle flags caught her eye, nearer to her than the charging knights. The flags were large and sweeping, fixed on poles and fluttering in the air like huge forked tongues to rally the king’s soldiers. They were held by mounted soldiers on a solitary hill near the wooded glen where she was hidden. It was near enough that she could see the slope of the helms, the detail on their armor, and hear the nickering of impatient steeds. One battle flag in particular caught her eye. It was red and gold, tattered, and charred black in places. Some fleeting memory darted through her thoughts like watery silver, something she had heard back at Muirwood. That the king taunted his enemies by flashing the banners of his defeated foes, a deliberate design to crush the will of his enemies, to weaken their resolve to fight, to seed their minds with doubts.

What was it about the broken red flag that seemed so familiar? Suspended from a long pole mounted on a giant spear, it hung vertically, split into two halves partway across and pointed. A symbol was in the center of the flag – a circle with two slash marks through it. At each point above, below, and to the sides, words had been sewn with gold thread against the red. Not just any words. The script was strange and elliptical and hauntingly familiar.

Reaching into her pouch, Lia withdrew the Cruciger orb and the thought struck her. The text on the flag was Pry-rian. The orb spoke to her in Pry-rian. It was the battle flag of the kingdom of Pry-Ree that caught her eye.

Emotions she did not understand engulfed her. She cried and choked at the same time, not certain which she should be doing but not able to help either. The advancing horses were closing the gap quickly, building speed. Lances glittered in the dawn. There it was, in all its blaze and glory – the battle flag of Pry-Ree. Her flag. The flag of her forefathers – her Family. The feelings were so strong, she could hardly breathe.

He is delivered into your hands.

Part of her mind opened again, just as it had in the Bearden Muir. Just as Almaguer and his men had been delivered into her hands, she realized that the king’s army was delivered up as well. Their arrival at Winterrowd was neither too soon nor too late. No, the Medium had allowed them to arrive deliberately. From down in the field, she could sense Demont’s thoughts, firm and resolute. He did not doubt. He did not fear. He led a small company of raw, young mastons with courage and belief, knowing that the Medium would save them and he had prepared his lines to defend against the rush of knights on every side. Even as death approached on churning hooves, Demont believed he could win and he chose action. The Medium had brought her to save them.

He is delivered into your hands.

If the king’s thoughts fed his army, if his will was imposed on them, then what would happen should he fall? Lia looked down at the orb in her hand. Where is the king?

The orb began to whir until the spindles pointed away from the charging horsemen and to the small hill and the tight ring of soldiers holding the battle flags. The one in the center wore a crown over his helmet, but he was not the king. He was a decoy. She knew that in her bones.

He is delivered into your hands.

Then she understood and gasped. The king held aloft the pole with the Pry-rian flag. Her flag. He could not have known that the one he had chosen was part of her ancestry. She had barely realized it herself days ago. It amazed her. If the king fell, it would change everything. It would alter the future of the kingdom, perhaps even ending the maston-killings. The Medium demanded action from her or Demont’s army would fail. She knew what to do.

Reaching down, she grabbed the ash bow that belonged to Jon Hunter. Confidence surged in her veins. She retrieved a single arrow from the quiver. She remembered all the steps that Jon taught her. How to hold it firmly. How to load it so that the odd-colored feather was on top. Gripping the taut bowstring with the tips of her fingers, she pulled and drew it back to the corner of her mouth. There was no aiming, not at that distance. She had never launched an arrow that far before or hit anything so distant with accuracy. Yet confidence whispered in her mind that the Medium would not let her miss. She never doubted it.