Alarik. She had to help Alarik.
Where the hell was Alarik?
She climbed on to the bench, straining to see through the fire and smoke. The entire First Regiment had descended into combat, the armies clashing violently as they fought for control of the foothills. Panic clawed at Greta’s throat as she searched for a man in black armour. He was there, right on the front line, the blade of his sword gleaming red as he brought it down, over and over again. He roared in tandem with Borvil as they ripped through a line of soldiers, the king slashing viciously at anyone in his path as they pushed hard and fast towards Hunter’s Pass. Desperate to reclaim the path Regna had dared to seize.
There was no sign of the Vaskan queen on the front line.Rotten coward, thought Greta, as she returned her gaze to Alarik, a king riding and fighting for his country. He was not alone at the helm of his army. Princess Anika was guarding his back. She was easily discernible now by her glittering pearlescent armour and the sheath of blood-red hair tumbling out of her helmet. She was riding a Gevran stag, wielding a pair of battle axes that were at least half her size. She brandished them with the ease of a lumberjack, spraying a sea of blood wherever she went.
The Felsings were as loyal and ferocious as each other. Beautiful and brutal. Gevran to the bone. The sight of them defending their kingdom without a breath of fear or hesitation made Greta’s heart pound like a war drum.
A new strength rippled through her. The king and the princess of Gevra were giving every inch of themselves to this battle – to this land – without a second thought for themselves. She owed it to them to do the same, to seize every drop of courage in her heart and rise to this new challenge.
For today, for her king, Greta could be a beast, too.
She leaped from the sled, her breath hissing out of her as she ran towards the animals, yelling her first command.
They surrounded her, fearless and growling for blood. Greta took heart in their bravery as she went to work, corralling the wolves, snow leopards and tigers into an urgent attack formation, while ordering the bears into a vicious wall of defence.
As more of Regna’s forces spilled out from the pass and pierced the east flank of the First Regiment, Greta mounted a running wolf and thundered into the mouth of battle, her command pouring from her like a war cry. ‘CHARGE!’
CHAPTER 29
Alarik
There was a rhythm to war, the thwack of blade meeting bone, then the gurgled gasp of a dying foe. Alarik found the flow with such ease, he felt like he had never left the battlefield. As Regna’s troops bore down on him from every direction, he felt no fear. Only purpose. He gave himself over to war, revelling in the familiar rush of his adrenaline. He rode it right into the heart of battle, where he slashed his way through every crimson-armoured soldier who dared raise their sword to him. Blood sprayed all around him, a fountain of red painting Borvil’s once-gleaming silver armour. It covered Alarik, too, but left no stain. His armour was as black as the mountains before him.
The mountains Queen Regna had dared to take for her own.
Strike by strike, and inch by inch, he railed against her troops, roaring like a rabid beast. Red-breasted soldiers swarmed him, some even managing to nick him, but Anika was there in a heartbeat, bringing her axes down in crushing blow after crushing blow.
She knew the rhythm, too.
Together, they were unstoppable.
‘You still remember how to fight!’ yelled Alarik, as he charged a pair of Vaskan soldiers, skewering both on his sword.
‘I never stopped!’ crowed Anika, easily dispatching two more. ‘Did you forget how good I was?’
‘How could I, after you shattered my ankle when we were teenagers?’ he said, laughing.
‘That’ll teach you to push me into a lake!’
As they fought, Alarik kept one eye on Hunter’s Pass, expecting Regna to come barrelling through it, but there was no sign of the cowardly queen. Only the soldiers she had sent to die for her.
Despite the onslaught from the skies, the king’s army was slowly gaining ground, the weaver elk and their riders guarding the west flank and helping to push Regna’s forces back towards the mountains and through the main pass. To the east, his wrangler rode at the head of his beasts, her silver armour glittering in the afternoon sun. Alarik would have known her anywhere – that determined tilt of her chin, the ease with which she rode on wolf-back. Her voice arced above the fray, orders flying like arrows as the beasts struck in perfect formations, making rag dolls of Regna’s troops.
Alarik burned with pride. His wrangler was a force of nature, as brave as her brother and twice as fierce. Here, in the bloodied heat of battle, she had become a fighter. A soldier. A leader. Together with his beasts, she was a living, breathing work of art.
Behind Alarik, Captain Vine led the ground assault while Hale fired the lances and cannons, knocking gliders out of the sky with the help of the falconer and his birds. They made a formidable team,all of them. After hours of fighting ceaselessly, they managed to regain the frozen flats and clear the foothills.
They continued to push north, Alarik’s blood singing with the beginnings of victory as they sealed off Hunter’s Pass. Regna’s forces were dwindling, but he was careful not to let his guard down. Not while the cunning queen refused to show her face, or play the fullness of her hand.
His instincts soon proved true.
As they ventured up through the foothills, the mountain bled fresh troops, two thousand more of Regna’s soldiers pouring out of the old mining tunnels and appearing like spectres before them.
And there among them, towering in height and clad in spiked gold armour, with her long white hair streaming behind her, was Queen Regna. Vask, made flesh. Gleaming and lethal, and baying for blood.
Let her try and take it from him.
