Page 40 of Fallen Nocturne

Then Blaire turns her head toward me, and Arescaine’s gaze does not follow her.

No. He is watching me.

“Rhianelle?” Blaire’s voice pulls me back.

“Sorry.” I shake off the strange feeling. “I’m here.”

She squeezes my arm gently. I look at her and see tears shining in her eyes as she tries desperately to blink them away.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she whispers. “You have no idea.”

“I’m glad you’re back safe too.” I rest my head on her shoulder as we walk. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Behind us, I swear I can still feel the vampire’s eyes on my back.

Chapter 6 Landon

Dorcha doesn’t like Hellsmouth.

I can feel it through our bond, the way her unease travels up the reins and into my hands. She circles lower, but her wingbeats are tighter than usual. Even from this height, the smell of rot and smoke reaches us.

The mountains rise beneath us in black, broken ridges, their peaks cutting through banks of low cloud. Snow clings to the highest slopes, but the valleys below are bare and scorched. Nothing grows near Hellsmouth except iron grass and the pale fungi that feed on old bones.

Dorcha rumbles beneath me, the vibration traveling through the saddle into my legs. Her dark wings beat harder as heated currents rise from the ravines. Hellsmouth appears beyond the next ridge.

I lean forward and stroke the scales at the base of her neck.

“Easy, girl.”

The fortress city crouches inside the mouth of an ancient volcano, its black walls built into the slopes. Smoke pours from hundreds of furnaces, staining the sky. Chains as thick as tree trunks span the ravines, supporting bridges, watchtowers and platforms crowded with soldiers.

But it is not the city that makes my stomach tighten.

It is the army gathered below it.

Mammoths cover the valley floor.

Dozens of them are assembled on the flat ground beyond the walls. Their hides range from ash grey to deep brown, covered in thick coats of braided fur. Iron plates protect their heads and flanks. Some carry towers strapped across their backs, each platform crowded with archers and spear throwers. The largest beasts drag siege engines behind them, battering rams and tower frames. I’ve seen mammoth cavalry before, but never this many in one place, armored and organized.

Eirik Bloodhound is not gathering an army to attack Aelfheim.

He means to crush it.

Dorcha lands at the tree line, far enough from the perimeter that the sentries won’t scramble. I dismount and scratch the soft place behind her jaw once.

Stay hidden and stay ready, I tell her through the bond.

She huffs against my shoulder. Her version of reluctant agreement.

I find Thanatos near the eastern pens.

Thanatos has grown broader since I last saw him. He wears mammoth-hide armor reinforced with iron bands, and his black hair is tied at the nape of his neck. A curved horn hangs from his belt, carved with the symbols of the northern herds. He is watching two handlers struggle to fit a new iron brace onto a mammoth that absolutely does not want to be fitted.

“Stop pulling against him,” Thanatos orders. “Loosen the rear chain and let him see the brace before you try again. He is frightened.”

One handler immediately releases the chain. Thanatos approaches the mammoth with one hand raised, speaking to him in a low voice until the enormous beast stops tossing his head.

The mammoth is nearly twice Dorcha’s height, an ancient bull with scarred tusks and one clouded eye.