I pause, thinking better of it for a moment, but I need to convince the female that Reed is telling the truth and it's not a trick of the witches. An act of faith to both of them, another sacrifice I’m giving in the times of war.
“Tell her that I have the support of the Goblin King as the Mother of the Ravenswyrd Coven, and I’m using that power to get the children to safety. Place your hand on each of them, and the glamor will shift. Tell her the Goblin King trusted my power and my coven’s reputation so much, he sent his son to Yregar with gifts for me, an offer of a powerful friendship.”
Reed's eyes widen at the admission, but I ignore him. “Whynn grew up in the goblin lands—she’ll understand exactly what an honor that is, and it should be enough to get her to follow you with her children. Be sure you touch each and every one of them, your palm on their skin, to pass the magic along. Go now, and hurry—I won’t face Kharl until you’re all safe.”
He scowls at me again before taking off without another word, but when he gets to the steps that climb up and over the wall, none of the other soldiers see him. Some glance around at the sound of his feet against the stones, but when they see nothing there, they focus back on the fighting in front of them, no time to waste on a trick of the ear.
How he's going to get past the ravenous hordes of witches clamoring at the inner wall, I have no idea, but I've interacted with the male enough to trust that he'll figure it out. I need him and the children safely within the inner wall before I can deal with Kharl—I just need Prince Soren and his soldiers to hold the line until then.
I move to another set of stairs that climb the inner wall farther along and behind the iron partitions that have been locked into place as extra protection. This section has been shut off in case the witches make it over, dozens of the metal cages put in place so if one section is breached, the others can still be contained. The soldiers here are protected as they fire round after round of arrows into the crowd. It’s smart, a solid defense tactic, but it’s not enough to stop the madness below.
When I reach the top of the wall, the sight I find waiting below me is sickening. Bodies of high fae soldiers already torn apart lie scattered at the base of the wall, and the village is overrun. There are far more witches here than the scouts had warned, a plague of them spilling out over the streets as they tear down any buildings that aren't made of solid stone. Fires burn and spread through the thatched roofs, the small bakery that was out of business burned to the ground. Horses whinny and scream below, commands are barked as the soldiers move into position to defend the castle. It’s clearly a last stand, as the witches dig into the siege, endless resources at their disposal as more witches stream through the outer wall as if conjured.
I can't see Prince Soren or any of his cousins in the bedlam surrounding me, but I watch as the orphanage door opens, my sight line perfect from this vantage point. Sending out a small pulse of light, nothing more than a glow bug dancing through the wind, I light a safe path through the village for the children’s escape.
Reed is smart enough to follow it, the long stream of children holding hands trailing behind him. The little ones are paired with the older partlings, the infants and toddlers carried as they firmly press their hands over their mouths with Whynn taking up the rear to ensure none of the children stray from the path. Reed must’ve been sure to warn them to stay silent to avoid detection, and they’re all obedient as they follow him through the village to the far side of the wall, my light guiding the way. I won’t make my move until they’re safe behind the inner wall.
I won’t leave them behind.
CHAPTERFORTY-TWO
Soren
Thanks to our preparations and cautiousness, the villagers are safe within Yregar as the never-ending wave of witches streams through the outer wall and the decimated fae door. I dismount from Nightspark to climb up the inner wall and watch as raving madness decimates the village.
The archers pick off as many as they can, but the witches begin to brace themselves against the gate, pooling there at an alarming rate until there’s no way to guess at their numbers. We stand on the wall and listen to the sound of sizzling flesh below, the masses pressing against the iron and getting burned horrifically, their screams rending the air. Still they push on, throwing themselves to a torturous death for the sake of their war, , their pain and suffering meaningless in the face of their leader’s aspirations for victory over the high fae.
Kharl’s blank eyes filled me with nothing but rage, that fire still burning as I stare down at the destruction of Yregar. My home and my charge, these people relying on me to see them safely through this carnage.
Tauron moves to a section of the wall to my left and secures the dividing cages in case the witches take the outposts. The iron structures separate the battlements from one another, a setup resulting from a lesson learned in the most catastrophic of ways.
Roan begins barking orders, still atop his horse as he rides around the inner wall and ensures the soldiers there are positioned and ready, moving them to better vantage points and securing the surrounding courtyard to protect the door and those most precious to us, who wait within.
Tyton takes up the far end of the wall that overlooks the river, his face no longer clouded but lines cut deeply around his mouth as he calls for the archers to fire, again and again. There’s a bow in his own hands as well, ready should he need to step in and take up arms.
We might not have anticipated Kharl's arrival at the castle, but we were prepared for one of his generals, a stronger witch than any we’d faced before, and even in our planning we prepared for the loss of the outer wall. The witches aren't the only ones with something up their sleeve.
Our information on the generals themselves may be limited, as is our information about the true happenings within the Witch Ward, but we’ve fought some before, and though they’re stronger than the other witches, we came out the victors. They’re not consumed by the madness of the masses—their witch markings are white, and their eyes are still clear—but they fight as though the Fates themselves command them, and they’re far more competent with swords than any other witches we’ve faced. None of them showed signs of the level of magic Kharl just wielded, though they certainly have more power than the small balls of stinging light that fizzle out against our iron armor.
I turn to Darick and nod to him, and the messenger runs with my instruction, his feet moving so fast he practically flies to move into our next defense.
Streams of soldiers work their way up each of the sections of the castle walls, dozens of pots between them filled to the brim with witcheswane. The poison has been stored and guarded within the barracks for centuries, in preparation for just such an attack on my home. I readied myself for this moment and took every lesson learned in the war into account, never needing to be taught twice.
We wait until the first of the climbers begin their ascent before we give the command, all three of us speaking as one. “Ready, take aim, hold…fire!”
Half the pots of witcheswane now have arrows sticking out of them, the wood soaking in the liquid, and the archers use the pots as quivers, pulling the arrows out and shooting rapid-fire. Our stores of weapons are enough to see us through continuous fire for a month, thanks to the hard work of my household, my obsession with the war and our protection holding us in good stead.
The other pots of liquid are shoved forward and hatches in the battlements opened. The liquid is poured down the stones, coating them, and as it splashes onto the witches pressed against the walls, their screams of agony fill the air, the smoke from their burning flesh an acrid scent that fills our nostrils and coats the backs of our throats. The sound of their agony is deafening, so loud I can’t think of anything but my grim satisfaction, hundreds of our enemy dying in a single sweep.
“Archers ready,” I call out once more, and the two soldiers that flank me both pull an arrow from the witcheswane pot and hold it up to the torches burning above us. The oil catches light faster than ever before.
I give the fire command, and they shoot at the writhing mass of witches at the bottom of the wall, their bodies lighting up like wildfire beneath us. Flames crawl up the side of the wall as the oil burns, and the hatches around me slam shut, the soldiers preventing that fire from reaching us.
The witcheswane is mixed with dragon oil, a substance that burns endlessly unless smothered, and water only spreads its devastation. Though there's every chance that Kharl will be able to perform such magic, he stays where he’s standing in the far corner of Yregar Village and watches as his streams of witches continue to pour in through the fae door. He’s unmoved by the screams of his burning soldiers, remaining unflinching as the witches sacrifice themselves for his ambitions.
The mass below continues to destroy the village, picking apart the buildings as though that’s their true intention here instead of getting through the inner wall.
Fraught minutes tick by as the arrows continue to rain down on their forces, but for every fifty witches we kill, a hundred more arrive, their population tenfold to our own. The arriving forces melt into the masses and press against the burning mounds of flesh, now silent in their death but still adding to the fight with their weight, and the gate below us—the single point of weakness of the inner wall—buckles beneath them all.
