Page 195 of War Queen
It was a title that hadn’t been used in thirteen years. Phillip wept.
“High King,” Soren told him again, and he pulled him into a tight embrace.
Phillip held on to him, letting the emotion ripple through him. “It’s over,” he finally whispered. “Thirteen years, and it’s finally over.” He pulled back and looked up at Soren with tears in his eyes. Soren saw it—his release, the release that vengeance brought. The relief.
But Phillip was wrong, and Soren didn’t share his relief. It wasn’t over.
Phillip stilled, and his face sobered. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Soren’s gut turned as his mind recovered from battle, seeding horror with his next question. “Gregor’s right. He wasn’t the only one fooled. Thiswasa diversion. If that was Cyrus’s fake army, where’s his real one?”
Mikael walked the corridor of the mountain stronghold of Bahoul. He grazed his fingers along its stone walls, felt its foundation under his step. His bloodline had built this stronghold. Had lost it. And now he held it again. Being back in this place drew emotion from him that he wasn’t accustomed to, and hadn’t expected.
The last time he’d been here was with his father. The senior king had made sure he knew every defense, every strength, every weakness. Mikael ran through them now. He’d thought it likely not much had changed since he’d last been there. Of course, the Northmen had repaired the wall they’d crushed in taking it, and as much as he hated to admit it, they’d rebuilt it even stronger.
But he’d been wrong. A lot had changed.
The North was good at building things. Their isle capital had near impenetrable walls. They may not be a kingdom of warriors, for which he judged them harshly, but they were a kingdom of scholars. Their architectural calculations and tools made for the strongest of structures, and when reinforced with Mercian steel, no other kingdom could compare. Perhaps he should be happy Bahoul had fallen into their hands for a time. The structural improvements—improvements he would never have been able to make—weren’t lost on him.
The double doors at the entry had been replaced and were now Mercian steel, as were the side doors and defensive gates. No man would get through there. The rock foundations had all been reinforced and sealed, and battlements added to the walls. Impressive, it was. Perhaps when all this was over, he’d invite more Northmen to Kharav.
Mikael smiled sadly to himself. He knew he wouldn’t live to see that day. But still, it was nice to dream about. It was nice to dream about Salara—being with her. Happy. Their two kingdoms united, fortifying each other. Her dream had become his dream.
Salara.
He likely wouldn’t see her again. The thought brought him to a stop, and he let himself lean back against the wall. It gutted him.
No. He wiped his hand over his face and tried to push the crushing weight off. The past three years of his life had been the best he’d ever had. Even if it was all that fate would give him, he considered himself fortunate.
Mikael pushed himself off the wall and continued on. He needed to focus on the plan. The Northern army had diverted from Bahoul to join Aleon, where they’d meet the armies of Japheth and Rael. With luck, they’d push them down and progress them toward Kharav. He held a quarter of his army in the mountains, and when Soren and Phillip drew close enough, he’d join them to push the enemy armies back into the Canyonlands, where the rest of the Kharavian army would finish them.
It was a solid plan, even though they’d miscalculated the offensive. He hadn’t thought Rael would attack Aleon first. Neither had Soren. It had been a terrible time to be wrong, but hopefully they’d recover. Now he just needed to prepare. And wait. There wasn’t much else he could do anyway with only a quarter of an army.
Bells rang, and he paused. A messenger must have arrived. He strode to the stairs and took them up, two at a time, to the wall. He squinted as he stepped into the light, temporarily blinded. A group of soldiers were gathered.
“What is it?” he asked. They looked at him with eyes wide, then motioned past the base of the mountains. He shielded his eyes as he looked out, then stopped.
There was movement on the horizon, not singular, not small. A wave, like an ocean wave, spanned from sky to sky. It was an army—the largest he’d ever seen—headed toward him. A warrior stepped beside him, and his eyes widened.
Kiran. He was supposed to be with Salara.
“What are you doing here?” Mikael demanded.
The guard of the Crest held out a rolled parchment. “From Salara.”
Mikael glanced back at the sea of approaching men as he unrolled the message to find Salara’s words inside. But he didn’t need to read them to know her warning.
Rael wasn’t east. Cyrus wasn’t in Aleon. They came from the west to march on Bahoul.
Cyrus was coming for him.
Norah pressed the small group hard toward Aleon, after the Mercian army. She’d sent Kiran and the Crest to Mikael before leaving the stronghold, all except Bhastian and Titus, who’d flat out refused to leave her. Calla stayed with her as well, but everyone else she sent. With only a small portion of the Kharavian army, Mikael needed every man he could get, but she knew it wasn’t enough. Rael’s numbers threatened Aleon, Mercia, and Kharav combined. He couldn’t possibly stand against Lucien by himself, but she tried not to let panic take over.
Focused now on catching up to her army, she’d intended to set a fast but sustainable pace, but as her mind turned, she pushed them even faster. Cuts marred her hands twice while they rode, but she kept linen wrapped tightly around her palms and continued on. As evening fell, Titus pulled them up. “We have to slow, Regal High. We’re going to exhaust the horses.”
She forgot sometimes; Sephir didn’t tire as a normal horse. But they couldn’t slow. Mikael only had days before Lucien reached him.
Norah sat at the fire, clutching her arms. Days, he had.If Lucien hadn’t reached him already.
