Galloping hooves drowned out the battle, and then Chaol was there, sword flashing, driving into the unending tide that rushed from the tower’s entrance.

“To Lord Chaol! To the queen!”

How far they both were from Rifthold. From the assassin and the captain.

Arrows rose from the army beyond the wall, but a wave of icy wind snapped them into splinters before they could find any marks.

A dark blur plunged past, and then Lorcan was at the siege tower’s mouth, his sword swinging so fast Aelin could barely follow it. He battled his way across the metal bridge of the tower, into the stairwell beyond. Like he’d fight his way down the ramps and onto the battlefield itself.

Below, a boom began. Morath had brought in their battering ram.

Aelin smiled grimly. She’d bring them all down. Then Erawan. And then she’d unleash herself upon Maeve.

At the opposite end of the field, the khagan’s army pushed, gaining the field step by step.

Not helpless. Not contained. Never again.

Death became a melody in her blood, every movement a dance as the tide of soldiers pouring from the tower slowed. As if Lorcan was indeed forcing his way down the interior. Those who got past him met her blade, or Rowan’s. A flash of gold, and Gavriel had slaughtered his way into the siege tower as well, twin blades a whirlwind.

What Lorcan and the Lion would do upon reaching the bottom, how they’d dislodge the tower, she didn’t know. Didn’t think about it.

Not from this place of killing and movement, of breath and blood. Of freedom.

Death had been her curse and her gift and her friend for these long, long years. She was happy to greet it again under the golden morning sun.

CHAPTER 58

Elide wasn’t even on the battlements, and she already wished to never endure another war again.

The soldiers who were hauled in, their injuries … She didn’t know how the healers were so calm. How Yrene Westfall worked so steadily while a man was screaming, screaming, screaming as his internal organs poked through the gash in his belly.

The keep shook every now and then, and Elide hated herself for being glad she didn’t know what it meant. Even as it ate away at her not knowing how her companions fared. If the khagan’s army was close enough so that this nightmare could end soon.

It would be hours yet, the dark-skinned, sharp-eyed healer named Eretia had claimed when Elide had vomited upon seeing a man whose shinbone stuck clean through his leg. Hours yet until it was over, the terse healer had chided, so she’d better finish heaving and get back to work.

Not that there was much Elide could do. Despite the generous gift of power that ran through the Lochan bloodline, she possessed no magic, no gifts beyond reading people and lying. But she helped the healers pin down thrashing men. Rushed to get bandages, hot water, and whatever salves or herbs the healers calmly requested.

None of them shouted. They only raised their voices, magic glowing bright around them, if a soldier was shrieking too loudly for their words to be heard.

The sun was barely over the horizon, judging by the light at the windows set high in the Great Hall, and so many already lay injured. So many.

Still they kept coming, and Elide kept moving, her limp becoming a dull, then a sharp ache. A minor pain, compared to what the soldiers endured. Compared to what they faced on the battlements.

She didn’t let herself think of her friends. Didn’t let herself think of Lorcan, who had not come to the chamber last night and had not sought them out this morning. As if he didn’t want to be near her. As if he’d taken every hateful word she’d spoken to heart.

So Elide aided the clear-eyed healers, held down screaming, pleading men, and did not stop.

Farasha did not balk from the Morath soldiers who made it onto the battlements. From the ones who emerged from the second siege tower that docked down the wall, or those who made it up the ladders.

No, that magnificent horse trampled them, fearless and wicked, just as Chaol had predicted. A horse whose name meant butterfly—stomping all over Valg foot soldiers.

Had his breath not been a rasp in his chest, Chaol might have smiled. Had men not been cut down around him, he might have laughed a bit, too.

But Morath was launching itself at the walls and gates with a furor they had not yet witnessed. Perhaps they knew who had come to Anielle and now hewed them down. Aelin and Rowan fought back-to-back, and Fenrys had plowed his way down the battlements to join Chaol by the second siege tower.

Chaol’s sword arm didn’t falter, despite the exhaustion that began to creep up as an hour, then two passed. Far across the sea of enemy soldiers, the rukhin and Darghan armies herded and smashed Morath between their forces, driving them toward the keep walls.

Morath, it seemed, did not think to surrender. Only to inflict destruction, to break into the keep and slaughter as many as they could before meeting their end.

His shield bloodied and dented, his horse a raging demon herself beneath him, Chaol kept swinging his sword. His wife lay within the keep behind him. He would not fail her.

Nesryn ran out of arrows too soon.

Morath did not flee, even with the might of the Darghan riders and the foot soldiers upon them. So they slowly advanced, leaving bodies clad in black as well as gold armor in their wake. More Morath soldiers than their own, but it was hard—near-unbearable—to see so many go down. To see the beautiful horses of the Darghan riderless. Or felled themselves.

The rukhin took losses, but not as many. Not now that an army fought beneath them.

Sartaq led the center, and from where Nesryn commanded the left flank, she kept an eye on him and Kadara. An eye on Borte and Yeran, leading the right flank to the far western side of the battle, Falkan Ennar in ruk form with them. Perhaps she imagined it, but Nesryn could have sworn the shifter fought with renewed vigor. As if the years returned to him aided his strength.

Nesryn nudged Salkhi, and they dove again, the riders behind her following suit. Arrows and spears rose to meet them, some Morath soldiers fleeing. Nesryn and Salkhi rose back into the air coated in more black blood.

High overhead, twin rukhin scout patrols monitored the battle. As Nesryn wiped the black blood from her face, one rider dove—right for Sartaq.

Sartaq was soaring away a heartbeat later.

Nesryn knew he’d kick her ass for it, but she shouted to the rukhin captain behind her to hold formation, and steered Salkhi after the prince.

“Get back in line,” Sartaq ordered over the wind, his skin unusually ashen.

“What’s wrong?” she called. Salkhi flapped harder, falling into line with the prince’s ruk.

Sartaq pointed ahead. To the wall of mountains just beyond the lake and city.

To the dam that he’d so casually mentioned breaking to wipe away Morath’s army.

With each flap of Salkhi’s wings, it became clearer. What had sent him into a mad dash.

A group of Morath soldiers had taken the night not to rest, but to sneak through the abandoned city. To scale the foothills, then the mountain wall. To the dam itself.

Where they now, with battering rams and wicked cunning, sought to unleash it.

Salkhi swept closer. Nesryn reached for an arrow. Her fingers curled around air.

Sartaq, however, had two arrows left, and fired both upon the thirty or so Morath soldiers heaving a mammoth battering ram into the center of the dam. Wood, and stone, and iron, ancient and foreboding. A few cracks, and it would come down.

And then the upper lake and river penned up behind it would rage across the plain.

Morath did not care if its own forces were washed away. They would lose today anyway.

They would not allow the khagan’s army to walk off the plain, either.

Both of Sartaq’s arrows found their marks, but the two soldiers who went down did not cause the others to drop the battering ram. Again, they heaved the ram back—and swung it forward.

The boom of wood on wood echoed up to them.

They soared near enough that the iron enforcements at the tip of the battering ram became clear. Thick iron casing, capped with spikes meant to shred and pierce. If Salkhi and Kadara could reach it, they could rip the ram from their hands—

Metal groaned and clanked, and Sartaq’s warning cry shattered across the air.

Salkhi banked on instinct, spying the massive iron bolt before Nesryn did. A bolt fired from a heavy-looking device they must have rolled up here. To keep ruks away.