Queen of Blood and Vengeance (Secrets of the Faerie Crown #4)

84. Arran

84

ARRAN

The perfectly blue sky overhead. The jagged orange peaks. The waves of black that rolled against the terrestrial army, again and again, each time pushing in farther. Closer to the base of the mountains. Gwen had warned—if the succubus pushed us back to the foot of the mountains, there would be no escape. We’d be cornered and crushed. I knew—if it came to that, we’d already lost.

A wall of fire appeared in the distance, burning bright against the black horde. Lyrena. It must be. The flames cut through the succubus, right to the foot of the Tower of Myda. Veyka was still alive. Still fighting. The bond inside of me remained intact, but seeing that proof on the battlefield was more than a comfort. It gave me the strength for the next surge.

I had not asked Isolde to reexamine my magic. What change could a few days bring, after I’d had months to heal? Gaps in my power or not, I had to fight. I reached for his axe, shifting as I ran. The wolf gave way to the male. That power had not deserted me yet. Maybe the next time I tried to shift, it would. But next time was by no means a certainty.

My father’s northerners fought at the center, fierce with their assortment of deadly weapons honed against the brutality of the Spine. They remained fighting, their ranks still strong. Mordred was safe among them. I’d lied to myself when I said that I could not care for him. I could not stop myself from caring.

Veyka had done that to me. She’d opened my heart to love. Not just hers, but those around me. I’d never mourned the losses on a battlefield. It was part of what made me such a brutally efficient commander. But I would not have changed it. Not a single thing she’d given me.

I cleaved apart a succubus with my mighty battle axe. Sank the amorite-swirled blade Veyka had given to into its chest. Then spun to the next. And the next. And the next. The tide was never ending. When I turned again, the wall of fire was gone. There was no time for prayer; but my heart did the work of appealing to the Ancestors for my mate’s safety.

If she was alive, I could keep fighting. If she was alive, all hope was not lost.

She would save our realm. I would save her soul.

I swung and swung, destroying one succubus after another. Others fought around me—birds of prey, beasts of the night, flora-wielders who summoned power from the desolate desert ground. But one face caught my attention—its likeness to my own too strong to ignore.

I blinked, nearly losing my arm to a succubus for that pause.

Mordred. What is he doing here?

He was supposed to be with the northerners.

I fought my way toward him, unable to stop the pull. It was different than the connection I felt to Veyka, but it was strong. He should not be here.

He was a skilled fighter—he’d shown that against Veyka in the Pit. But summoning vines here was nearly impossible. There were no tree roots to call to aid, no grass to hold the succubus down. Just sand and sparse plants he’d never encountered before.

He swung and swung his hatchet, but there were too many of them. Too many between us. He needed an Ancestors-damned battle axe, not that puny hatchet. He needed me—

The succubus dragged him off his feet, down into the miasma of death that coated the ground. I shifted, my beast answering the call with a snarl that drew the eyes of every soldier in the vicinity. I hardly noticed. I surged through the horde, ripping off the heads of the succubus in my way. Shifted again, falling into the mud beside my son.

Blood leaked from a wound on his arm, but it was his leg… his entire left leg below the knee was gone. It would regrow. A fae could heal from nearly anything if given enough time. But too much blood too fast, and he’d lose consciousness. I had to get him behind the line guarded by the Gremog, to the healers. At least he had the amorite piercing. He would not be taken—

“What have you done?” His ear… it was empty. I checked the other, not believing what I saw.

Mordred coughed in my arms, bringing up blood with each heave. Ancestors, he had a chest wound as well. “The others… needed it…”

He’d given it away.

The hatchet still grasped in his hand was swirled with amorite. But he’d given his amorite stud to another soldier.

I fumbled for the piercing in my own ear. He was weakening. If he lost consciousness, the succubus would come for him, surely. They were everywhere, swarming around us. I did not notice which of my soldiers fought around me, giving me these last moments with my son.

The Ancestors’-damned earring wouldn’t budge.

The backing—I had to unscrew the backing. But my fingers were slick, a mixture of red and black that stank so strongly it defied description. It felt wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

“Mordred—”

He erupted into coughs again, the force of it nearly spilling him from my arms. But I held him tighter, unwilling to let him go.

“Father.”

Thank the Ancestors, he was still talking—but his eyes rolled back in his head, lids fluttering closed. He’d lost too much blood. He could be healed, but only if the bleeding stopped and he regained consciousness. I tried to push to my feet.

But a low hiss froze my muscles.

His eyes opened. The blood flowing from his wounds was no longer red. He lunged for my throat, and there was only one thing I could do. One last thing for the son I had not known, the son I had not been able to save. I shoved the amorite dagger into his heart.

For the seconds it took for the succubus who’d taken him to die along with my son, I sat there defenseless in the bloody sand. Only when his chest stopped, and every limb hung limp, did I stand.

I shoved the amorite back into my ear. The succubus would not take another person I loved from me today. Not one.