Page 9 of The Queen and the Half-blood
Lara’s heart kicked. Gaze narrowing, she watched as, one by one, the tall wooden ladders inched up the stacked-stone walls. She couldn’t see how they could work any quicker. Warriors were now scaling them—men and women clad in leather with iron helms jammed upon their heads to protect them from above.
But fast and nimble as their warriors were, the Shee were swifter.
Many of the archers shifted focus now, aiming directly below. And even from this distance, Lara spied the cauldrons the Shee had dragged to the edge of the walls. As she looked on, they emptied one of them—a stream of hot oil followed.
Screams knifed through the cool, damp air.
Bodies fell, writhing into the spike-filled ditches beneath the walls.
Nausea washed over Lara. How had her father stomached this? Talorc mac Brude had made many mistakes during his reign and created a mess that she wasn’t even close to untangling, but he’d loved the chaos of battle. She’d never seen him afraid, not even on that fateful day he’d led his army to Cannich and met his doom. The High King had possessed nerves of iron, but he’d been callous too. His people, even his kin, were tools for him to use.
Lara’s mare shifted under her then, tossing her head. She leaned forward, stroking Bracken’s neck. “Hold fast,” she murmured.
Bitter smoke caught in Lara’s throat, and she coughed. Eyes streaming, she watched as flaming arrows hailed down on Marav warriors from the walls. Even from here, she could see her army was struggling, staggering with exhaustion as they pressed on.
They’d held fast—but they were close to breaking now.
It was the afternoon of the third day since they’d begun their siege of Doure—and in that time, they hadn’t managed to breach the walls as she’d hoped. They’d gotten close, but each time, the Shee foiled them. Their longbows had quite a reach, and they seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of boiling oil, rocks, and flaming projectiles within.
“Yield, you bastards,” she muttered.
“You’d be surprised just how tenacious they can be,” Bree replied, her voice hoarse from the drifting smoke.
Lara breathed a curse. They wouldn’t have any warriors left at this rate.
Bodies—most of them Marav—filled the deep ditch at the foot of the defile. They’d broken like waves against the walls ofthe fort, yet were no closer to getting inside, and the Shee had destroyed their battering ram by raining down hot oil upon the siege weapon and setting fire to it. She’d brought six hundred warriors north—fierce men and women carrying spears, axes, and swords—and had already lost too many.
The mist had burned off this afternoon, revealing a pale sky where buzzards now circled. A salty breeze feathered in from the sea, pushing the stench of offal and burned flesh over the hill where Lara waited.
“Fall back!” A male voice, rough with fury and exhaustion, cut through the chaos below, drifting up to the hill to the west.
Lara’s breathing hitched.
Captain mac Tav had just ordered a retreat.
Dizziness swept over her.No!
Roth was indomitable, but The Reaper was standing over them now. She too could feel his cold breath.
Tears stung her eyelids—although not from the smoke now. Instead, frustration pummeled her like heavy fists, impotent rage thumping through her. “Withdraw!” she shouted.
A few yards away, one of her escort heeded his queen. Grim-faced, he unslung the battle horn from over his shoulder, lifted it to his lips, heaved in a deep breath, and blew.
The deep bellow shook the smoky air and echoed into the defile, reaching the warriors and druids who fought there. Moments passed, and then, slowly, the army started to retreat.
A fur cloak slung about her shoulders, for the wind held a bite this evening, Lara moved through the crowd of bloodied warriors. Bree stalked at her side, hand upon the pommel of her longsword. The High Queen’s shadow.
Their encampment, fifty furlongs west of Doure, was in chaos this evening. As the last of the long twilight drained from thesky, those who’d survived the day’s siege limped across the perimeter, where enforcers were laying ward stones.
Lara’s gaze roamed the blistered, grime-smeared faces of the warriors and druids gathered around cookfires. She noted their bound wounds, as well as the gathering despair in many of their gazes.
They were holding on by a thread.
Gods, so was she.
Their despair worried her. If they lost hope, this was over. She couldn’t let them give up. Fire had to keep burning in their bellies.
“We shall rally,” she assured them, wishing her voice were stronger. “Dourewillbe ours.”
