We stare at each other. If she expects me to change my mind, she will be sorely disappointed. Recognition sparks in her gaze. She looks to Prince Sláine, then Prince Lyne. Whatever she sees in their faces confirms her decision. “So be it. Fight with us, prove your rabble worthy, and you will have your parlay.”
It’s Lugh who steps forward now. He rests a hand on my arm, a warning to not speak, and demands, “Swear it.”
The queen’s glare freezes my blood, but Lugh faces her without fear. Once more, he dares to chase a prize I never dreamed possible. A faerie promise is binding. He intends to win me one from the Queen of Air and Darkness herself.
“I promise,” Queen Mab hisses and the temperature jolts as her glamour reacts, tying her to her words.
Prince Lyne glances from her to Lugh and me. I’ve no idea what his true expression is under the glamour he always wears, but he has the grace to incline his head before asking, “Will you gather your troops?”
His courtesy is heady. I offer him a scant bow of my head in return, grateful to be acknowledged as someone of value, even if he’s only doing it to appease me because I can offer military support. “To honor our agreement of a parlay, I will.”
He rises from his seat. “Good. We march in an hour.”
* * *
A shard of the full Mainland army, maybe two hundred fighters, sits and laughs around their campfires as the afternoon slips into midwinter dusk. Goodfellow’s tent is toward the center and he’s appeared outside of it enough times to prove he’s here. It makes this a tempting trap, despite the danger posed by the army’s iron weapons.
And a trap it surely is.
Smith, Lugh, his older brothers, and I stand at the head of the battalion beside the queen. After so long riding with the Hunt, standing horseless on the edge of a battlefield feels wrong. Our three hundred troops—fifty of my Sluagh and the rest from the Unseelie ranks—wait impatiently for a command to attack. At Queen Mab’s orders, the few Seelie troops Princess Aislinn could spare remain in the sídhe with Sebastian. Due to the iron weapons involved in tonight’s battle, Queen Mab wanted the Sluagh to accompany her forces, hoping to even the odds a bit more. My warriors didn’t argue her request. They know we only have one chance to succeed in this and are eager to kill the usurper.
Prince Lyne, who watches in silence from Lugh’s side, is far more cautious than his fighters. The furrow between his brows grows deeper and deeper the longer he takes in the scene. We must share the same doubts. We had wanted to fan out to surround the encampment. However, once we leave our forested hill, we have to cross a narrow expanse of beach. Goodfellow’s forces will see us coming. Taking them by surprise will be nearly impossible. Prince Lyne knows this. He’s a tactician. Brilliant, cold, and levelheaded, his battle prowess is legendary in the sídhe. Yet, in an ominous sign for the coming clash, he hesitates.
His mother will not. Queen Mab, dressed in chain mail and holding ice daggers, stands within a circle of her redcap guards. There was no question of her leading this attack. She’s always been a fighter. She spilled blood to escape the Seelie Court and establish her own in a new seat of power. She led skirmishes to defend her lands until her Court was formally recognized by the Pantheon. She led the Unseelie and Pantheon forces to prevent the death of the Green Man in the first Faerie Civil War. Observing her now, seeing how her piercing gaze flicks over the assembled forces before returning to Goodfellow’s tent, I understand how her legacy has survived. She is a wolf, a predator undeterred from her prey, and her unmitigated fury has found an outlet at last.
She flicks a knife toward Prince Lyne. “No mercy, Roark.”
“Yes, Mother,” he says. He glances past Lugh to me. “Keiran?”
My Sluagh press forward. I nod and Prince Lyne lifts a hand. Behind us, the small army shifts. The rustle of their chain and leather armor—lighter and quieter for the surprise assault—melds with the ocean’s surf. Kermode’s and Thorburn’s warriors breathe at my back.
When I went to camp to gather forces, I told them what Queen Mab promised. They understand what our success here means to their people. They understand how badly I need to prove myself, and their support is unwavering. I pray the gods are on my side tonight too.
Roark’s hand drops and we run down from cover and onto the clear, open battlefield of the beach. My warriors break ahead of the regimented redcap soldiers Prince Lyne leads and I run with them, fear and panic and exhilaration lending me speed. Lugh’s at my side, his sword drawn.
Goodfellow’s men scramble the moment our rush rises over the sea’s sound. They grab the nearest weapons—swords, axes, and spears—and turn to face us. My warriors crash into them and it begins. The belt stings from the familiar panicked rush when I bury an axe into the neck of the first man to stand against me. I rip it free, blood spattering, and turn to meet the next attack. Lugh spins with me, protecting my back, and his sword rings as he hits out against a metal-banded shield. At the sound, we reverse again. He finishes the soldier I was trying to kill, while I hammer at the shield, throwing all my strength behind each blow. The wood of the shield cracks and splinters. The man holding it finally cries out when I break through it and bury an axe in his arm. I step to the side, pulling his arm away from his chest, and open him up for the swift stab Lugh delivers.
It’s a small triumph in the midst of the slaughter raging around us. Our fighters—bloodied and injured—continue doggedly to fight. The Unseelie redcaps fare worse. Some of Goodfellow’s men use the iron weapons to their advantage, darting about the battlefield to land small cuts or pricks with their weapons, ensuring iron poisoning without having to engage in a true fight.
Queen Mab notices. Her blades are deadly, but she wields her magick with even greater devastation. Soldiers flash freeze, only to be smashed into pieces by redcaps as they rush by. Smith works near her side, casting out hexes that turn soldiers into pillars of ash. Sometimes his attacks only land partially, and someone’s scream will cut off as half their body drifts away from the rest of their collapsing corpse. Prince Lyne defends both his mother and his husband, though most of his jagged ice sets up defensive walls around Smith.
We continue to push into the camp, past the first wall of tents, then the second. We’re within sight of Goodfellow’s tent when he emerges, unbothered by our threatening presence. His soldiers retreat behind him, and the discord of the fight dies. He examines what remains of our small army with a faint smile. Lugh winces and mouths something to himself, but Goodfellow doesn’t notice. When he finds Queen Mab in our midst, his unnerving expression changes, twists his face with unnatural glee.
“You came,” he whispers to her across the expanse, and lifts a hand in her direction.
Thorned vines rip from the ground around us. Some of my warriors are too close to them and the vines wrap around their legs, twisting them to the ground, or ripping up and out through their chests. One comes for me. Lugh gets to it first, his movements fluid, but slower than normal, leaving his cheek torn open from an errant thorn as he slashes it down. Prince Sláine shouts something from behind us and walls of earth rise up, deflecting the newest vines.
Goodfellow doesn’t seem to mind the failed attack. He glances over his shoulder and orders, “Fire.”
Archers.
My stomach drops out. Rather than shift, I grab Lugh and drag him to my chest, turning my back to Goodfellow and bracing for the pain. Arrows whisper as they fall. Worse, I see more of Goodfellow’s troops running down the beach from a distant hiding place to cut us off from escape. The trap’s been sprung, just as we knew it would.
Smith blazes alight. His hair flutters in the calm air and his skin casts shadows around us. He lifts his hands up and braces a leg back as if he could hold something back—
Overhead, the arrows sizzle and vanish into clouds of dust as they hit the shield he built.
“Retreat!” Prince Lyne calls, ignoring his mother, who stands there, staring at Goodfellow with an unreadable expression. Roark spins to indicate the direction to our troops, only to see the second wave of soldiers coming toward us. He transforms before my eyes. No signs of fear or fury, nothing on his face but ancient resignation.