Page 94 of Rise of the Phoenix King (Crown and Crest 4)

“Yes, sir,” my squire says eagerly, his beloved horse dancing underneath him as if he, too, needs a chance to stretch his legs.

I turn, looking for one of my knight commanders in the group. When I spot him, I say, “Gavriel, you’re in charge until we return.”

Clover’s eldest brother nods, the torchlight glinting off his plate armor.

Using only the sister moons’ dim light, Ayan, Bartholomew, and I break away from the group, riding into the night, using the cover of the nearby trees to approach the army that moves like spilled ink across the meadow.

They’re still a good hour away, but we easily reach them in less than ten minutes.

We draw our horses to stop in the shadows of the grove, careful to avoid the silver glow that washes over the valley. We’re several hundred yards away, just close enough to make out individual figures.

“Look there,” Ayan says, nodding forward. “Toward the back.”

“Where?” Bartholomew asks, but I’ve already spotted her.

A figure rides on horseback, her long raven hair falling around her shoulders. She wears no armor—no protection whatsoever. Her mount is jet black and large.

“Is that her?” Ayan asks.

“Possibly,” I whisper, uneasy.

Bartholomew squints in the dark. “What’s she riding? Is that a horse?”

“It looks like a horse,” Ayan says, “And it moves like a horse, so…it’s probably a horse.”

“But it has a horn,” Bartholomew argues.

“It’s ahorse,” Ayan says, exasperated.

“It must be something else. Maybe a one-horned demon creature? What would you call it, Henrik?”

The two are antsy with nerves, but I’m too busy surveying Camellia’s army to answer. I’ve never seen so many necromancers in my life.

“Maybe a unicorn?” Bartholomew suggests. “One horn?”

“That’s the best you can come up with?” Ayan scoffs. “Let’s call it a sword horse.”

“A sword horse?” Bartholomew says incredulously. “You think that’s better?”

“Enough,” I command, waving my hand at them, hoping they’ll shut up. “We need to get back.”

We ride quickly, rejoining our men.

“Did you see Camellia?” Pranmore asks. He looks like a different elf in armor, wearing thick canvas and steel.

“Possibly,” I answer.

“She was riding a sword horse,” Ayan adds, and I roll my eyes.

“What’s a sword horse—” Pranmore begins, but I hold up my hand, begging him not to go there.

“They’ll be here soon,” I inform my commanders. “Tell your men to take their positions.”

Thirty minutes later, Camellia’s army appears in the wide valley. I wait atop my horse near the front of the lines, watching.

The soldiers are eager, shifting in their positions but holding their ground. I study them, taking in the faces of the men and women. They all have families, friends, and homes to go to when this is over. They trust me to lead them well.

We watch as Camellia’s army comes to a stop. The wind tugs at the necromancers’ cloaks, pulling on their hoods and making them look like dark, faceless wraiths. As the scouts said, there are High Vales in their ranks, along with human soldiers.

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