Page 203 of War Queen
But they weren’t moving forward. They were being pushed back. The armies of Mercia and Aleon were formidable, but as the sea of Rael swept through them, the realization hit her that it wouldn’t be enough. Rael came in floods, and the northern kingdoms were now losing ground. She set her eyes on the stronghold in desperation. She had to make it to Mikael. Where was he?
She couldn’t see through the battle; she only felt herself being driven backward. A Raelean soldier leapt at Adrian, and she caught him midair with her sword.
“That was luck!” Adrian shouted with the hint of a smile.
But she couldn’t smile back. They needed more. They weren’t enough. They needed the rest of the Kharavian army. “We have to hold until Katya gets here with the army!” she yelled over the deafening clash of battle.
“They’re already here!” Adrian yelled back. “No one else is coming.”
What? The rest of the Kharavian army was already there? She scanned the bloody scene around them. The Raelean forces were so many that Kharav seemed so few. But they were all here. They were all dying.
No one else was coming. That wasn’t entirely true—Tahla hadn’t reached them yet, but the forces of Rael were too overwhelming. The numbers of the Uru wouldn’t matter.
She swept her eyes desperately around her. And she froze.
The north wall of the stronghold had crumbled. How had they brought down the wall? It was breached. Bahoul wasbreached. Rael was both outside and within.
Panic threatened. Where was Mikael?
A pain sliced through her hand—no!Not now! But it was just the left hand that bore the cut. The right didn’t come.
She tried to ignore it and focus on the chaos around her. They were falling. Mercia and Aleon were falling to Rael.
She turned her mind to the only thing that mattered now. “Where’s Mikael?” The stronghold was overrun. “Where’s Mikael?” she screamed.
Chapter fifty
MerciaandAleonwerefalling. Kharav was falling. Soren had been hit and knocked from his horse. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Adrian now, desperately trying to hold the line and keep Rael from driving them away from the stronghold—away from Mikael. Caspian worked on the north side to keep Rael from flanking them, and Phillip cut south with the Aleon army, but they were slowly losing ground.
Salara fought with a vengeance, striking down man after man. He realized they weren’t trying to kill her. She did, too, and used it. Soren had thought he’d be focused on keeping her protected, but she’d saved even him a time or two. If they lived through this, he had every intention of dragging her to Salta Tau for the markings.
The Northmen loosed arrows as fast as they could draw them, but it merely dented the waves of Rael. The enemy numbers were staggering. Slaves had flocked to the army of the Blood King, but no one could have imagined how many. Most of them weren’t warriors, but they didn’t have to be. Their numbers alone were overwhelming.
Salara’s scream stopped him cold, and he whirled to see her dragged off her horse by two Raelean soldiers. Soren snarled and tried to cut through the wave of men that had rushed between them, but a sharp pain sliced across his side, dropping him. He took the head of the man who did it before he paused to check himself. Blood poured from his side, but it looked worse than it was. It would make for a painful continuation, but he’d be all right.
Soren pushed forward and shaved the field with his battle-axe, showering the Raelean soldiers in their own blood. But it didn’t stop them. They kept coming. He tried to push through to Salara, who had been dragged farther from him now. “Salara!” he bellowed. But he couldn’t see her.
He swept his axe for blood again, only this time, it was met with the strength of steel—that had equal power behind it. Around him moved soldiers of Rael. Not slaves. He knew fighting men when he saw them. These were the blood sport fighters freed from the arenas of Rael, men who lived battle every day. The Blood King’s trusted—his best, saved for the end.
Because the end was near.
His eyes flicked between them. Four, five, six. But one in particular caught his attention. A man with skin of night, not like the others, and almost as large as Soren. The way the other men’s eyes flicked between him and Soren—he was clearly a man of authority. Their leader. A thumb’s smear of dark crimson marked his forehead.Blood. Purposeful blood. Soren’s mind turned. That was how the Blood King talked to him, how he coordinated his army. How many men bore the king’s blood? How many men could send messages?
Soren dropped his axe and pulled his two short swords from his back. He bared his teeth. Well, he had a message for the Blood King.
Their dance was a battle within the battle, a tempest of steel and blood. All around him they swarmed. Just as he kicked one back, he had to spin to face another. Each of their blows carried the strength of death.
Another sting bit his thigh, almost sending him to the ground, but miraculously he stayed upright, fighting on. Soren dropped two of them, he wasn’t sure how.
A blow hit his stomach, and he doubled over, only to catch a knee to the face. He blocked the second and sliced through his opponent’s leg, severing it.
Behind him came another, and he spun again.
He almost didn’t feel the blade as it pierced through the low of his left shoulder, just narrowly missing his heart.
Their leader.
The blood sport soldier pushed the sword through Soren all the way to the hilt. Face-to-face, they stopped, close enough to feel each other’s breath. And they both looked down between them.
