Except…he’s not the only one with magic.
I might not be as flashy, might not be able to shove around a bunch of rocks and build a fortress in the middle of nowhere, but my glamour magic has helped me plenty of times over the years.
I’m hoping it can help me now too.
I dart around the back of the fortress. The snow is deeper here, so my footsteps sink down, forcing me to slog through and leave an obvious trail behind me.
Can’t do anything about that.
When I get behind the building, I glance back at the bridge, watching the slow but steady stream of Stone Swords filing in, some of them slipping as they make the transition from dreary gray to icy Orean ground.
I’m not sure exactly how many Stone Swords Carrick is sending—I wasn’t able to get a clear count while in the prisoner’s cart. But so long as these soldiers are coming down the bridge, it means that the Gore aren’t yet. And that’s a good thing.
It’s going to be a verybadthing the second they’re unleashed into Orea, but maybe I can stop that from happening.
Turning back around, I eye the edge of ground to my right that looks like it’s been torn right off. As if a goddess was once here, and she took the entire world and ripped it like a sheet of parchment, leaving behind the jagged edge of this frozen land to float with the fog. Maybe the other torn half floats somewhere else.
If it does, I really hope they don’t have a stupid Stone King. One of him is enough.
I rush to the far corner of the fortress and then peer around it before I start making my way up its side. I sidle past the tower and then carefully look around the corner. From here, I’m blocked from view of the bridge, but I’m able to see all the Stone Swords converging into organizing groups.
The door of the fortress scrapes open, and I lurch back just as Carrick comes striding out. As he goes, he moves his hands, and stone erupts in front of him from the snow. I nearly fall from the shake of the ground, hand scrabbling to hold myself up against the wall.
He yanks up stone from the earth that looks like layered cake. He makes a rocky path to walk upon so his polished boots don’t sink in even an inch of snow. Then pillars start to erect ahead of him, making soldiers rush out of the way.
Ten pillars lift up to the sky, more stone flattens on the ground between them, and then a pitched roof forms above with the sound of grinding stone and cracking rock. He’s made a large pavilion, presumably for some of the soldiers to stand beneath, getting somewhat of a reprieve from the elements.
Carrick keeps walking and then stops at the edge of the structure. Then he lifts his hands again, and the earth shakes, some of the rifts widening as he pilfers from the land’s depths.
From the snow, more pillars of stone rise. About as tall and wide as himself this time. A dozen of them form. Then two dozen. Three. A hundred. Maybe more.
I frown at the sight.What is he making?
My frown turns into a wide-eyed look when he stops jutting up more stone and instead starts to form them. Their bulk shifts, the sounds echoing as the rock twists and morphs, until a hundred stone soldiers stand like armored statues in the snow.
My breath hitches in my chest.
The king seems to test these new forms, his hands controlling them, making them move in unison, longswords clutched in their granite hands.
Shit.This is not good.
The other fae soldiers stand around, watching these new statues in a combination of awe and wariness as the stone figures move and shift. I had no idea the king was able to do this with his magic.
Orea is in big trouble.
Whatever win they managed to have here isn’t going to matter. Not if the king can just pop lifeless soldiers up fromthe ground. The Oreans are going to be leveled. Completely decimated. How can they go against soldiers that don’t bleed? That don’t feel fear or pain? How do you even destroy one of these hewn bastards?
More dread grows in my stomach, like spreading spores of moss that latch on. King Carrick has to be stopped. Hehasto, and there’s no one else around in this sea of soldiers—both real and rock—except for me to do it.
Reallyunfair that it’s only me.
But no time to feel sorry for myself. Ludogar died by King Carrick’s hand. My parents too. Just like so many other Vulmin and Oreans have been killed, all because of him and his predecessors.
Determination stiffens my back, and I harden my features as I watch Carrick settle his creations and then erect one last building on the other side of the pavilion. He disappears into its walls before the roof even starts forming. A trail of Badges follow behind him, probably to make more war plans.
I need to get in there. But first, I need a weapon…or three.
Time to go foraging.
