Page 100 of Through Battle and Blades (The Wolf Queen 2)

“They’ll form the vanguard then, yes?” This was Lord Hale, and I despised him as soon as I laid eyes on his spoiled, pampered face. He sat in an elegant chair, plucking grapes idly from a bunch before popping them into his mouth. “No point sending our best soldiers out first. The Reavers can slake the worst of their hungers on them and hopefully be wearied, wounded, or dead by the time we take the field.”

“No—” My voice was a whisper. Less than that. Nothing that any of them would’ve heard, because when I’d woken up from a short nap, I’d done so feeling a deadly intensity.

The sun was dying in the sky outside. We would fight on the morrow, somehow I knew. Thunder rumbled, threatening to force all of us to endure a damp night, something the lordlings had whined about. But it wouldn’t rain. As the clouds boiled and the air became charged, enough of an electrical current present in the air to set your hair slightly on end, I could feel what was happening.

“My magic was never the dramatic displays of power that people tell tales of,” Nordred had told me when I’d awoken. “I can encourage the elements to perform in certain ways, but it takes time.”

“We will fight in the storm,” I said, my head feeling empty and full, all at the same time.

“We will be the storm,” he assured me.

But not these men, not this indulgent pack of puppies, and as my eyes flicked to General Rath, I saw the signs of his irritation in the slight tightening of his mouth, the hardening of his gaze.

“We must strike hard, fast and decisively with our best men,” Rath countered. “All reports tell us that the Reavers are a savage but undisciplined force. That they fight with tooth and claw and all the might of a berserker, but with no finesse whatsoever. A strong frontline could smash through their number and then...”

I watched the general move markers around on a map, my eyes taking in the terrain, the spread of men symbolised there. I caught sight of flashes of lightning as he did so, seeing men streaming across the fields, then wolves. We flanked the unruly Reaver force, curling around with our much greater numbers, boxing them in…

“A classic pincer manoeuvre.”

“We create a kill box.” Ulfric’s face lit up. “Yes, I agree with Rath. This will be our plan and we will fight with the vanguard.”

Rath went very still then, his face perfectly smooth, not betraying a reaction.

“But Your Majesty—” Hale and the other lords crammed in here began to splutter.

“Strelae is at war.” Ulfric’s voice rang out through the tent, several men peeling away from the walls of the tent and coming to stand behind him. The rest of his pack, my pack’s uncles, I quickly realised. I was surprised to actually see them now as they had previously seemed to be almost superfluous. “And no king, no lord will rule over it that is not prepared to fight for it.”

No people would throw their support behind a king or a lord who refused to fight for them, rather, I thought darkly.

I watched him stand there, delivering his speech in a way designed to grab the hearts and minds of the listeners, and felt nothing. Not until he turned to me.

“I will fight with the Lady Darcy by my side.”

“And your sons, of course.” Weyland stepped forward then and when he did, so did the rest of my pack. “As your heirs and Darcy’s mates, we will be with you, Father, every step of the way.”

I watched the man’s eyes narrow, his lips thinning, all that golden light seeming to sour inside the king. Probably because he would never have been able to sustain it.

“Of course, my son.” Ulfric inclined his head our way, but did the others see the effort that it took for him to unbend? “I will be proud to fight by your side.”

But he wouldn’t be. Somehow, I knew that. This false king frantically tried to insert himself where he had no place in being, all the while trying to hide the very desperation that burned inside him.

When we were given leave to depart, when we emerged from the tent, Nordred waited for us outside. The crisp wind of the building storm played across my face, feeling like it whipped away all the toxic residue of what had happened inside that tent. I strode over to him, staring up into his eyes for a full second before I asked my question.

“How do I make an offering to the Morrigan?”

“The Morrigan?” Dane asked with a frown, but Nordred just nodded.

“Many do before a battle. She’s the form of the goddess you’re most likely to meet there, so it pays to try and keep the old witch sweet. She requires a sacrifice, of something precious, of something you don’t want to lose.”

I looked down at myself then, trying to work out what that could be. I had swords I wanted to take with me in battle, but there was nothing significant about these ones. I could melt them down in her honour, but I’d just go and find others before battle. The knives, the bow I’d brought held no particular sentimental value. I’d taken nothing with me from Grania, and not collected any trinkets or jewellery since. The wind gusted again, pressing loose strands of my hair into my face, forcing me to scrape it back. And that’s when I went still.

“No,” Weyland said as I gripped my braid in my hand, then wrapped its length around my fingers. “No, Darcy.”

“Would this be sufficient?” I asked Nordred, ignoring the protests of my mates.

“A woman’s hair is often described as her crowning glory,” Nordred said, then nodded. “It should do.”

“Burn a knife or one of your jerkins,” Weyland argued as Nordred led me through the camp, up to the edge of the field. Wheat rippled, whipped back and forth by the wind, my hair pulling loose, ready to be cast to the winds as I loosened the leather thong.

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