Page 88 of An Archer's Reckoning

“You rode from Grove’s Pass?” he asked without preamble.

“Yes, sir. Captain Whitman sent me here to retrieve as many men as you can spare. Kingdom troops—”

He waved a hand like he was swatting a fly from the air. “Your orders are stale, son.”

I bristled at being called “son” by a man only a few years older but held my tongue.

“Grove’s Pass and the headquarters are gone.”

He watched me closely as he spoke those words. When I didn’t react, he nodded once.

“Good, you heard already. Saves me the time of explaining.” He rose and rounded to sit behind his desk. “You are welcome to join us here, though I doubt you will have much work to do. The Kingdom’s forces march on Saltstone, stopping only long enough to raze small towns or villages in their path. They leave few alive.”

“Dear Spirits,” I muttered.

“Indeed.” He nodded gravely. “I fear the capital will share the same fate within a month.”

“A month? Surely, we can withstand a siege longer than that, especially in winter.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. We will soon see.”

“Sir, how many men do you have here?”

“Close to one hundred. Why?”

I thought a moment. “I was to take your men back to Grove’s Pass. What if I took them to Saltstone instead? As reinforcements? How far ahead are the Kingdom forces?”

He scratched his chin. “Only a day or two, and they have a longer haul with a lot more machinery. You could beat them there if you rode hard. But son, fifty men won’t make much difference against the whole of the Spires.”

“Sir, what choice do we have? We have to try.”

He stood and stared out a window that overlooked the sea. Tangy air ruffled the curtains that hung to either side of the opening.

“I can’t see what good you’ll do, but fine, fifty men. We have more than enough horses to see you to the capital. You’ll need to ride like the wind.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Spirits be with you, son.”

Chapter 31

Declan

Órla and I fell into the routine of war preparation—if there was such a routine.

I was surprised that only a small portion of our time was spent actually helping the Mages prepare. The bulk of our waking hours was consumed with appearances before troops, townsfolk, and leaders from across the country who came at the Triad’s call. We knew Quin and his Mages valued our input, but our presence—often aglowingone—buoyed morale in ways no one could have anticipated. Peoplebelievedthey could win because the folk of legends had come to life and told them it was so.

Each night, I returned to the Mages’ Guild to sup with my robed brothers and rest. A week had passed when, on one such night, a boy appeared at the elbow of the Arch Mage whispering some secret missive.

“Go on, boy, speak your news aloud. I trust no one in all the land above Declan Rea.”

I eyed Quin. There was a gleam in his gaze that spoke of mischief, an odd thing for a leader preparing for a siege.

The boy, no more than ten, struggled as he turned to face me, his eyes dropping to his muddy boots rather than meeting my own.

“Sir, sorry to disturb you, uh, Mister Rea—I mean, Ranger Rea—I mean Mister Son of Magic, sir.”

Quin chuckled. I shook my head and surprised the boy with a hand on his shoulder.

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