“Fucking marching. I hate marching.”
“How ’bout you, Tyde? What do you hate the most about battles?”
Tyde has his gaze pinned straight ahead, the only soldier whose serious expression hasn’t cracked.
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer, until finally he says, “The wait.”
His words and quiet tone sober everyone in an instant.
“You rush to make plans and defensive strategies. Rush to prep and pack and travel. Rush to arrive at the place where you’re going to take your stand. But when all that rush is over, all that’s left isthe wait,” he says, still looking ahead at the enemy army. “The wait is like a night that won’t end. You keep waiting for the sun to crest, but it doesn’t. So you gotta keep watching the horizon, because you know it’s coming, you know it’s inevitable, but the anticipation chews up your nerves and spits them back out. You don’t know when the wait is going to turn into something else. But it will. And that something else is really just death. It’s death that we’re waiting for. We just don’t know if it’s ours or theirs.” He pauses. “That’s why the wait is the worst.”
Silence stumbles between everyone. A clumsy presence that elbows its way in. It grows bigger, taking up all the empty space and infiltrating our thoughts.
“Changed my mind,” Varg finally says, breaking past it. “I think the worst part of the battle is the fucking conversation.”
Laughter snaps out, ease and humor returning to the soldiers. I don’t blame them one bit for embracing it. Boththis joking distraction or Tyde’s sobering words. Everyone faces battles differently. Everyone has their own way to cope.
If theydidn’tfind that way to cope, none of them would still be standing here. Because the army that marches toward us is unfathomable. There are so many that they don’t even seem real. Just some fae trickery to scare us away.
But theyarereal. And all we can do is stand here and watch death approach. Because Tyde is right. That’s what marches toward us.
Above us, the clouds begin to cough out chunks of snow in fits of hacking thunder. Below us, the fae get closer.
“Tyde?” I call.
The serious soldier is still staring straight ahead, frost gathered at his blond lashes. He’s ready to give me his report immediately. “Stone armor like river rocks. Swords seem to be made of some sort of stone too, maybe granite, though I wouldn’t imagine they’ll shatter as easily, so don’t count on that.”
His magic is sight. He can focus his teal-eyed view, the distance yanking in until he can see something as if it were right in front of him. A very useful power for spying or cataloging an incoming army.
“No weak point at the neck,” he goes on. “They have mesh from helmet to throat, and they’ve got stone gauntlets on their forearms. Under the arms are open, but it will be difficult to make that strike unless they’re lifting up their sword or shield. Their legs are the most vulnerable,” Tyde says, head cocked as he considers. “Though not the knees—those are plated with stone. The flesh of the thigh is open, their gloves and boots are simple leather. Helmets protect their skull and ears, but eyes and mouths are open for archers.”
Everyone takes in Tyde’s assessment with rapt attention, cataloging everything he said. It could be a matter of life or death.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Some are wearing different insignia badges, though I don’t know what they depict, but they’re only worn by a few of them.”
“Could be rank,” Lu offers.
I nod. “Could be.”
When we see the front lines of the enemy start to round the bend of a shallow dune of snow, I feel everyone tense.
“They’re passing the crevice now,” I say, though they can all see it for themselves. My heart gets stuck in my fucking throat as I watch.
I’ve calculated this. I’ve run through the scenarios a thousand times. We need the first battalion of fae to cross that part of the land, just like they’re doing right now. Then, I need them to shift slightly.
It’s time to draw them slightly away from Cliffhelm.
I look down the line of the wall. The tension has heightened, and although everyone made the voluntary choice to be here, I wonder if a part of them wishes they could run.
I wouldn’t blame them.
There is no room for error. Every single one of us knows that.
“I know we are facing an inconceivable mission,” I say, taking in each grim face. “But victories can still be earned even when the odds are stacked against us. The truth is, we aren’t here for ourselves. We’re not even here solely for Fourth. We’re here forOrea. Because this isourhome.Ourland. And we won’t sit by and let the fae take it.” Their heads nod, backs straightening. “So we will stand our ground until we can no longer stand.”
Determination fills in the cracks of their rupturing edges, replacing it with the purpose for our perseverance.
