Before she got to the next viable tactic—be as noisy as possible—the wolf sprang forth.
Amarande dove right.
A mistake.
The promise of a bone-shattering fall blew in an upward gust against her cheek as she landed on the edge of the plateau, the width narrower here. Her hair dangled in the breeze, the lip of stone spilling pebbles to the ledges and earth below.
The princess rolled onto her back to distance herself from the plateau’s edge and certain death. Her boots and palms struggled to gain purchase as the wolf bounded off the mass of rock she’d used as cover and vaulted back in her direction. She crab-walked back, sword pommels scraping the dirt from an indefensible position, heels shuffling as she tried to get the balance to stand.
“No, don’t—”
Again, the wolf came. Its paws connected high on her chest plate, the metal driving into the diamond necklace beneath thelace of her gown’s neckline. Her heels released as she fell, and she whipped her shins and boots up, hitting the animal broadside against the concave target of its belly. The creature flipped, head over heels. Amarande spun to her feet and stood, swords out, the scent of the wolf’s rank breath full in her nostrils.
The creature regrouped, teeth bared. But before it took the first step in a new attack there came a piercing whistle—so high Amarande thought it might be a keen of pain. But then the wolf sat, as docile as a dog, its eyes still over her shoulder.
The princess turned, now half-recognizing that stand of rocks to be not a boulder and stones, but the makings of a rock-hewn lean-to. A whoosh that was not the wind came and, following it, a sudden, intense stinging at her neck, right beneath the edge of her kerchief.
The princess dropped Egia, her hand flying to her hair and brushing it aside to find a dart, sticking straight out from the cluster of veins that made up her jugular.
“Who—” she started, her voice slipping from her lips before petering out, her thought dying with the sound.
She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t move; she couldn’t even blink—everything was still beyond her breath.
Amarande fell then. The red dirt coating the plateau top swirled before her eyes as her body hit, Luca’s chest plate clanging as it made contact with the unforgiving rock.
As the edges of her vision bled into darkness, a face appeared before her, only the proportions and stature giving away that it was a man.
“This one is both our penance and our entrance, Beltza. Yes. The stars have given us a mighty prize indeed.” The voice was haggard but pleased. Amarande heard it like an echo, her ears not complying. Not the men from before. A new threat.
And then her vision died out completely.
CHAPTER
16
GENERALKoldo sat atop her horse, paused for a moment after a night and half a day of relentless push.
She’d arrived at the junction of the southern kingdoms’ borders with her troops ahead of the caravans from Basilica and Myrcell with intention. She wanted King Akil and King Domingu to get a good look at her and her regiments before they passed into their sanctuaries of home.
Sendoa’s voice whispered in her ear, loud enough to startle, though it was just a memory of him and his sayings.
Sometimes a look is all it takes to halt something unsavory in its tracks.
These kings had bold plans to satisfy their greedy hearts, but they also wanted nothing more than to survive. No way to enjoy new, far-reaching power while bleeding out on the throne.
Thus, if they were to strike, the kings would need to believe with absolute certainty that they’d win.
It was her job to stare them in the eye, her trusted men and women at her back, and give them pause.
King Domingu was old enough to know the price of war. King Akil was young enough to fear the cost of failure.
And so she would wait. Her encampment was already set, the ornate garnet tent perched above the road that split to divide the kingdoms from Ardenia—left to Basilica, right to Myrcell. It gave herthe perfect vantage to be seen by those kings as they passed, but even better, it afforded her a fantastic view of both the kings’ encampments. Soldiers huddled at the mouth of each border like silt in a delta.
One command from attack. One command from banding together, the southern kingdoms assaulting the north. One command from turning on each other.
But not yet.
General Koldo idled long enough for her horse to graze at the stomped-in grass beneath its hooves. In her gloved hands was a spool of parchment delivered to her by a lone rider who’d come so far, so fast, his horse nearly collapsed.
