Page 128 of An Archer's Reckoning

Still, my heart could not cheer. I dared not revel in victory or in the vanquishing of our foes. I had no strength to praise the hard-won salvation of our people.

For in that moment, Órla was gone.

Chapter 52

Ayden

We knew the numbers before the first bolts were fired. The Kingdom army outnumbered our fighting men and women by several times. Despite the ranks of our Mages, there was little hope of beating them back. Even with the addition of Declan and his powerful new magics, our cause was little more than a dying ember on the coals of a wintry fire.

Everything had moved so quickly.

First, Grove’s Pass, then my flight to Fleet Town, and finally, our race to beat the Kingdom forces to Saltstone.

The moment I arrived, aside from a few blessed hours alone with Declan, an eternity of preparation and work consumed every waking moment. There had been no time to rest, no time to think, barely time to breathe.

When the Triad ordered the people’s evacuation, the Captain-Commander surprised me by sending my team of Rangers—they had become my team by wartime default—as armed escorts for the hundreds of thousands of fleeing citizens.

I resented the assignment at first. My men did, too. We were trained warriors, men of the Green. We wanted to fight beside our brothers in defense of our homeland. If necessary, we would fall as heroes of Melucia, mingling our blood with the blessed soil of our forefathers.

But that fate was meant for others.

No one could argue the import of keeping the people safe. They were, in truth, Melucia. Land was little more than untended dirt without them. Still, the task stung worse than any rebuke.

I had no magic.

I bore no Gift.

I was useless when the true battle came.

My rational mind knew the truth to be far from that self-loathing fantasy, but still . . .

On the morning following our initial escape, we encountered no enemy.

I thought it strange.

They had ringed the capital, intent on strangulation, then suffocation.

Then hammer against anvil until nothing remained.

This was not a war for conquest or dominance.

It was an extermination, and we were the vermin beneath their heels.

The sounds of battle echoed in the distance. Occasional flashes from the Mages’ tower drew my eye, each a reminder of the price I would likely pay before the day’s end, an unbearable price on which I refused to dwell lest it drag me beneath the murk of my own misery.

The people needed me. I had to be strong—or pretend to be—if not for myself, then for them.

I glanced around at the disorderly mass of humanity shuffling with bowed heads and bent backs. Most carried what belongingsa sack could contain. A lucky few led horses laden with packs. Those who spoke did so in hushed tones, as if the voices of the throng might call upon our enemies and invite their wrath.

Most remained somber and silent.

None believed they would see their homes again.

None dared hope.

When the sun arced toward the western sky, and we had still not encountered a single man soldier, a thin sliver of hope pricked my heart.

It was in that moment, when hope flickered before me, tawdrier than a whore waving to passersby, that calls rang out from the rear of our procession.

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