Page 7 of A Dawn of Gods & Fury

But my feet are stalled as I take in the suffering around us. “The living” includes many who are barely doing so if the agonizing moans hint at the truth. I cringe at a soldier in Ulysede’s golden armor doubled over, his hands on his stomach to keep his guts from spilling out. Horik once arrived in the same manner after a fight with a hag, and it took Gesine all night to save him. Nearby, a pale-faced soldier uses a nethertaur corpse for support, his left arm hanging at his side, attached by nothing more than tendons.

“Romeria,” Zander calls out, realizing I’m not following him. “We must continue.”

I shake my head in a silent refusal to go on, to walk past as the others can. Some of these soldiers won’t survive their brutal wounds, despite their elven ability to heal. “We need to divide all the soldiers into groups, those with the worst injuries in one area, so they can be treated first.”

With a sigh, Zander retraces his steps, his expression softening. “You cannot heal any of them. Not until you rest,” he says gently. “And even then, you will not be able to help all of them.”

“I know. But there are healers across the bridge.”

“You assume they aren’t busy repairing limbs and flesh on their side.”

“There are no sides anymore. We’re all in this together.” He’s right, though. We have no idea how Ybaris managed with the barrage of beasts. The sky was alight with constant blasts of fire and rocky explosions from Mordain’s Shadows. Anything that got through them would have met Ybarisan blades, led by Kienen.

Is my new Ybarisan commander alive? God, I hope so. He’s the only person I trust in Ybaris, other than Agatha, the old caster and Gesine’s coconspirator who stowed away in a wagon to find me.

Could the Master Scribe have survived last night?

Zander purses his lips but nods. Waving over a soldier, he relays the order to gather and separate the injured by severity.

“Bring the most critical to the officers’ tents,” Gaellar adds.

Zander turns to Elisaf. “Bring back healers on orders of Ybaris’s queen. As many as they can spare.”

Elisaf inhales sharply—no one is keen on crossing the rift after seeing what crawled and flew out of it—but he nods. “Consider it done.” He marches back the way we came.

Zander collects my hand. “Is that better?”

“No,” I grumble, watching as able-bodied men hoist those unable to walk. “I feel so helpless.”

He offers a soft smile. “I know you ache for others in a way my kind doesn’t seem capable. And it is commendable. But we have done what we can by delegating that work. Now we have a pressing issue that we cannot delegate to anyone else.”

“The Kettling army.”

“The Kettling army. Atticus’s army.” He jerks his chin at Abarrane. “Get us horses.”

In minutes, we’re in saddles, our small company making ground quickly, soldiers parting for us as we charge past the camp’s outer borders.

Gaellar wasn’t exaggerating. The cavalry is a thundering cloud rolling across the vast terrain, the green flag waving high in the air.

“They are not slowing down,” Jarek notes, his gelding shifting on its front legs, likely sensing its rider’s apprehension.

“We’ll make them slow down.” I slide out of my saddle, my legs nearly buckling from exhaustion. “Hold on to him, will you?” I toss my reins to Jarek.

Zander frowns. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’d rather not get thrown off a horse today.” I put some distance between myself and the others before I seek out the terrifying creature on the wall, like a monstrous, fire-breathing gargoyle. She hasn’t moved, but I can feel her violet eyes on me, even from this distance.

I swallow my apprehension, praying this works. “Caindra! I need you!”

With a shrill screech that ricochets through the skies, the dragon launches herself into the air, her mammoth wings pumping with enough force to swirl dust below.

A mixture of awe and trepidation swells inside me as I watch her massive body sail toward us, the sun glinting off her scales, highlighting the indigo and rose gold.

Our horses dance and tug on their reins as they sense the predator’s approach. It would be nothing for her to pluck them in her claws. I’ve seen her do it before.

Zander slides from his saddle and joins me on the ground. “How did you know she would come?”

“I didn’t. It was a hunch.” I sense a connection between her and me. Maybe it’s that I know her secret—her alterative life as a brothel owner, hiding in plain sight among commoners and kings alike—or maybe it’s that she has declared herself an ally.

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