“For our children!”
A resounding cry rose up, lifting Saga’s spirits. Havoc hoofed at the snow, and she could sense his restless energy—his need to take to the skies.
The clansmother stepped forward, silver braids gleaming in the moonlight. She eyed Saga not with admiration, but with a resigned sort of acceptance.
“I will join you, tamer of horses.”
The rest went quickly from there—horses were readied, armor was donned. And within twenty minutes, a horde of three hundred horsewomen had gathered behind Saga on the snowy steppe.
Khiva directed her stallion beside Saga and reached into her pocket. Saga stared in shock for a moment at the fire flask held in her palm. “You might need this, queen of Íseldur.”
With a murmur of thanks, Saga slid it carefully into her pocket.
The clansmother edged up on Saga’s other side, watching her with stern, dark eyes. “What say you, horse tamer, to my warrior maidens?”
Again Saga felt herself in the strange position—hundreds of fierce horsewomen looking to her for an answer. This time, it was easy to push her uncertainty aside.
“To battle!” shouted Saga.
“To battle!” the clansmother called in reply, the roar of the horsemaidens lifting into the skies and carrying across the snow-swept plains. Saga’s heart hammered ferociously in her skull as her hands curled tightly into Havoc’s mane. Somehow, under darkness of night, the steppe felt a little less open; the skies less broad. Though she fought against the urge to bury her face in Havoc’s neck, Saga managed. And as the winged stallion launched into the skies, she looked east, toward the city of Kovograd.
“Hold on, Kass,” she whispered into the wind. “We’re coming.”
Chapter 45
Kovograd, Zagadka
The moment Kassandr Rurik tore the throat from Thorir the Giant, chaos erupted within the Urkan ranks. The berserkers that Rov and his Druzhina had held back broke through, desperate to spill Kassandr’s blood after he’d slain the mightiest among them.
In his beast form, Kass nursed injuries in his shoulder and thigh, and his forearm leaked an alarming amount of blood. He and the others fought in their animal forms—Rovgolod and Volk sleek wolves; his Druzhina a trio of mountain cats, a pair of wolves, and an elk with sharpened antlers. They fought, tooth and claw, for their country. For their honor. And in Kassandr’s case, for vengeance.
As much as he tried to see Thorir’s words as mere taunts, Kassandr could not forget the fact that Saga had not been seen for the better part of a day. He could imagine her doing this, his brave, beautiful Saga—throwing herself at Ivar’s feet and begging for mercy for Zagadka.
Thorir’s words burrowed under his skin, spreading until Kassandr’s heart was a blackened thing, churning rage and sorrow in equal amounts. With his kingdom burning and Saga lost, he had nothing to lose, and he fought like it. He lived in a world of reds and oranges—reds on the battlefield, where his claws spilled bloodacross the snow; oranges from the hungry flames consuming Kovograd’s walls and fortress.
The flurries of snow had eased, but as Kassandr looked around, he realized how deep into the Urkan lines he’d pushed while trying to reach Prince Bjorn. Now they were too near to that gods damned siege tower. It loomed over them, the arrows—impossible to see in the darkness of night—delivering silent death. One sliced through the air, missing Kassandr’s neck by a hair’s breadth, but as a scream came from behind him, he knew it had found purchase. They needed to retreat.
He growled low, a command to his Druzhina to follow him, but as Kassandr turned, he realized there was no escaping this death trap. Urkan warriors teemed all around them in impossible numbers, all semblance of order and battle tactics vanishing.
Behind him, the blackened beams holding Kovograd’s mighty tower splintered, and the bell gave one last tremendous toll as it crashed to the ground.
Kassandr released a low, mournful howl.
His home was burning, his friends falling on the battlefield all around him. Every reckless choice he’d made in the past months flashed in his mind—sneaking to Íseldur against his father’s wishes; burning his boat when he was not ready to leave Íseldur; kissing Saga in those gardens and taking her to his country against her will.
This last one haunted him above all else. How arrogant he’d been for thinking he could keep her and all of Zagadka safe. Kassandr wished he could see her one last time. That he could look into her eyes and tell her how sorry he was. But it was too late.
Sorrow pulsed through him as realization landed. He’d thought he was doing the right thing by taking a stand against the Urkans, but now he knew better. Kassandr was no savior of the future generations—he was the downfall of his people.
An arrow clipped his shoulder, the sharp hot pain yanking him back to the present. A fresh surge of Urkans crashed into battle, and Kassandr felt the weariness in every muscle in his body. His parrieswere too slow, his blows too weak. A black-bearded berserker charged for Kassandr, great axe hefted overhead, and he wondered if this was it—the moment death stopped flirting and came for him in earnest.
But a snarling gray figure barreled into the Urkan, sending the man sprawling into the bloody snow. It was Oleg’s wolf form, and Kassandr wondered if he’d ever been so glad to see his half brother. He did not allow himself to dwell on it—the berserker was twice Oleg’s size and quickly rolled on top of him. Before Kassandr could reach him, Kresimir’s grizzled mountain cat leaped onto the pair, sinking teeth deep into the berserker’s neck.
Blood spurted, and Kresimir shook the man with a savage snarl, allowing Oleg to escape from beneath him. But the berserker’s blade hacked down once, twice, three times, sending the mountain cat stumbling away. Kresimir yowled, then sprawled on the snow, his lifeblood seeping from multiple gashes.
Kill,snarled Kassandr’s beast, launching on the vile Urkan and finishing what Kresimir had started.Kill. Kill. Kill.
Beside him, Volk yelped as an arrow embedded deep in his throat. Sorrow and horror mingled inside Kassandr as he watched his chieftain’s lifeless body crumple to the ground. More arrows rained down, the animalistic shrieks telling Kassandr that many had met their mark.Where is your honor?he wanted to shout. The archers cowered behind that gods damned siege tower, picking the Zagadkians off.
