“Raina!” Keris broke into a sprint, racing after her.
She crossed blades with one man, kicking him in the knee and then gutting him, but as she turned to engage another, a shadow flitted up behind her. As the individual stepped out from behind the wagon, Keris recognized him as the man who’d disrespected her at Southwatch, his face bright with glee.
“Look out!” Keris screamed, snatching up a fallen weapon.
But it was too late.
Grinning, the man lunged and shoved his sword into Raina’s back, the tip appearing through her chest. She gasped as he jerked it back out, and Keris threw himself forward, catching her as she fell. “What are you doing? They are our allies!”
But they weren’t; Keris knew that. Or rather, he knew that his father was no ally to Ithicana.
He lowered Raina to the ground and pressed his hands against the gaping wound in her chest. Blood bubbled up between his fingers, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly as she fought to breathe. As she fought to live.
Beyond, several of his father’s soldiers were feeling along the floor of the bridge; then a stone hatch popped open on silent hinges, the fresh scent of the sea filling the air. “Right where she said it would be,” one of them muttered. “Get down and get out, and we should be right in front of Midwatch.”
She.
Lara.
Then the man who’d stabbed Raina stepped into Keris’s line of sight. “I’m afraid your trip to Harendell is to be cut short, Your Highness. Will you be a good little prince and sit here nicely while we take Ithicana, or do we need to resort to ropes?”
Keris lunged, but the soldier was ready, and in a heartbeat, three of them had him pinned, another wrapping ropes around his ankles, then around his wrists. They proceeded to arm themselves with more of the weapons from the wagon before dropping down the hatch.
Then there was nothing but the thunder of his heart and Raina’s ragged, wet breath. He met her gaze. “I didn’t know.”
A tear ran down her cheek.
“This is the last thing I want.” His eyes burned. “I’m sick of war. Tired of the endless fighting. It’s the reason I was going to Harendell—not because of the books, but because I can’t stomach any more killing. I wanted a different life.”
Wasted words.
Wasted sentiment.
Because the eyes staring back at him were still as glass.
4
ZARRAH
Zarrah drew her blade over the Maridrinian’s throat, then let him drop, his last gasping gurgles filling the air as she strode to where her soldiers were laying out bodies. “How many?”
Yrina, her closest friend and second-in-command, rose from where she knelt next to a farmer’s body. “Ten, we think. We’ll need to let the flames die down before we can check the ashes.”
So many. Zarrah’s stomach hollowed even as her eyes passed over the dead, all farmers. All Valcottan. All people she was sworn to protect. “Children?” It was hard to ask, but she made herself do it, swallowing a swell of sickness as she waited for a response.
Yrina shook her head. “Those who could fight managed to hold back the raiders while the children and infirm hid in the woods. A small mercy.”
Small indeed. Many of those children were now orphans of violence, much as Zarrah was herself. Like her, they’d seen the Maridrinians slaughter their parents and destroy their homes. A moment that would forever change the course of their futures, and she wondered how many would pick up weapons so as to never see themselves hurt like this again. How many of them would join the fight against their nation’s nemesis. How many of them would, like her, dedicate their lives to achieving victory in the Endless War.
“It could’ve been worse,” Yrina said. “Every member of every family could’ve been lost, but they weren’t. We got here in time to help, and they’ve you to thank for it.”
Not in time to help everyone, Zarrah thought, staring at the dead farmer, his stomach sliced open by a Maridrinian sword.
She’d taken command of the Nerastis garrison the moment they’d sailed back into the harbor, caring little when her cousin Bermin shouted and raged about being stripped of the role of general. The first thing she’d done was triple the number of scouts watching the border for raiders and double the number of patrol camps stationed up and down the countryside. Already it had paid dividends, her soldiers having intercepted several raiding parties before they had a chance to work their devilry. But the Maridrinian rats had generations of practice at this form of warfare, and they were adapting to her tactics, as today had proved.
“The horns are a mistake!” a deep voice boomed from behind her. “We’d have killed twice their numbers if we’d used stealth.”
Zarrah turned from the bodies to find Bermin riding up behind her, his massive mount splattered with blood and her cousin equally covered in gore. “It looks as though you caught more than a few fleeing rats.”
“Some.” He spit on the ground, then dismounted. “Their horses are fast, so many more will escape back across the border. An opportunity they wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t warned them we were coming.”
It was one of the many strategies they disagreed on. Bermin preferred to approach the raids with stealth so as to kill as many Maridrinians as possible, whereas she preferred to put the run on them with signal horns, thus saving as many Valcottan lives as she could. But the bigger difference between how she and Bermin worked was that Zarrah never limited her strategies to just one element.
No sooner had that thought rolled through her head did Yrina say, “Smoke,” and the group all turned to look at the crimson puffs in the distance. Zarrah smiled in satisfaction before turning back to Bermin. “Just because you didn’t kill them doesn’t mean they got away. I had archers waiting to pick them off.”
Her cousin huffed out a breath, crossing his thick arms. “You dedicate too many of our forces to defense, Zarrah. It’s been weeks since we crossed the border. Makes us look weak. Makes Valcotta look weak.”
The Maridrinians had lost more soldiers in recent weeks to Zarrah’s strategies than they had in the last year of Bermin’s, so Zarrah doubted weakness was the word the rats were spitting as they licked their wounds.
“Gather the bastards’ heads,” she ordered, taking the reins of her horse from one of her soldiers. “Burn the bodies.” She turned to Yrina, about to give the order for soldiers to remain to dig graves for the dead farmers, but motion caught her attention. Shading her eyes from the brightness of the sun, Zarrah peered at the brush. Someone was hiding. “I thought you found all the children?”
“We did,” Yrina answered, but Zarrah was already walking toward the brush, her hands up to indicate she meant no harm. The child would be terrified, and though Zarrah was one of his or her countrymen, she was still a soldier. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You can come out now. It’s safe.”