Page 123 of The Threadbare Queen

The inevitability of what was about to happen settled on his shoulders, heavy as a robe of chain mail, as Massi ordered Eduard and the other three to the back.

When they saw she wasn’t going, they were unhappy about it, but they went.

Tuart and Baclar were trying to sit up, Bartholomew helping them. Both of them were so much better than they had been, but Luc wondered how long they would last with Hurst’s assassins in the Jatan line. The moment they engaged, the two generals would be completely vulnerable—Bartholomew couldn’t protect them both against so many.

Luc could sense the moment of battle was almost upon them.

The Jatan’s second row was already fitting arrows to bows all down the line, and Massi lifted her arm and gave a signal.

Luc didn’t look back, but he knew his own archers would have just responded in kind.

“Stand behind me,” he said to her. “You can shoot over my shoulder.”

She moved slowly to do just that, as if every step weighed on her. “What is it that you’re wearing under there?” she asked, touching his back. “And where did you get it?”

Massi hadn’t been in Fernwell when he’d survived at least ten arrows shot at him in the street, she’d been securing their victory in Bartolo with Raun-Tu, and until now, he’d been able to give a convincing performance of ducking or bending at just the right moment, the arrow never actually touching him.

The arrow directly to his chest had eliminated that option.

“Special armor.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Ava?” she asked after a long pause.

He sighed. “Yes.”

“Maybe she and I will be friends one day and she’ll make some for me.”

“Maybe.” He hoped that would definitely happen, but now was not the time to discuss it.

The Jatan side looked like they were waiting for an order to attack, but Luc wondered if Hurst would commit that far. He would not want any of the blood that would soon be spilled to be linked back to him. Especially not the councillors and Baclar’s blood.

Luc glanced over at the high-general.

Bartholomew had been helping him, but when the archers had begun to pull their bows, he stumbled to his feet.

“Traitors,” he screamed at them, and Luc saw a number of them flinch. “When the armies of the Rising Wave come crashing down on your villages, will you be able to look your children in the eye and admit that the reason they are there is because of what you did today?”

Some of the soldiers lowered their weapons, and Luc sensed a deep unease move through the ranks.

This was not a united force, clear in their purpose.

Hurst may have whipped up some resentment for the councillors, and even Baclar, but he wasn’t leading anymore. Not when it came down to hard action.

Some of them might just be wondering why.

Others, though, were feeling enough nerves to do something stupid.

Luc’s soldiers behind him were quiet, they would have spread out on silent feet.

The tinder was dry, and the smallest of sparks would set it off.

He was aware of the stakes, but he was the commander of the enemy force. There was no way anything he said would sway the Jatan.

“Get ready,” he murmured to Massi, and then turned his head to where the councillors lay, where Ava was crouched, a wispy shadow amongst the sick and dead.

“Lower your weapons,” Bartholomew ordered, but he had already reached everyone he was going to reach. The rest were not going to listen to him.

One of the soldiers in the front line lifted their sword up and back, ready to run forward, and behind him, Luc heard the rattle of Massi’s quiver.

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