was littered with dead, making movement difficult.
Nearly 150 of his warriors had fallen before the scouts reported Saric’s flanking maneuver from the west-at least a full division and another three hundred cavalry. They’d stockpiled two hundred bows and three thousand arrows in anticipation for a second wave of cavalry, and this time every able-bodied fighter had taken up with the archers and laid down a fusillade of screaming projectiles that had felled half of the rushing cavalry before they could scatter.
Roland had made his case clear: they would descend to the valley for the third phase only when the Dark Blood army had been cut by a full third or when the Mortals had suffered losses exceeding two hundred.
Over the last half hour Roland had lost another fifty fighters.
Two hundred dead. The thought shortened his breath.
To make matters worse, dark clouds had gathered at an alarming rate, covering the sky with a thick layer of gray like a lid. The wind was starting to pick up and would compromise the work of his archers. A storm would not bode well for them.
He pulled his mount up on the rise and wheeled around to where Michael’s horse waited. She dropped to the ground and swung up into her own saddle. Rom rode in hard from the west, tussled hair whipped by the wind.
“Too many!” he shouted, reining his mount back sharply. “We have to go
Roland’s attention was to the south, where Saric’s guard defended against a dozen Nomads firing into the Dark Blood lines from horses on the run. Every minute twenty or thirty of Saric’s warriors fell. He had lost four thousand men, leaving him with roughly eight thousand, but the toll on the Mortals was mounting. Only a hundred and fifty remained to fight on the plateau, waiting for the three hundred in reserve to be called into the third phase of the battle.
Impossible odds.
“I heard from the runner,” Rom said, breathing heavily. “They wait for your signal. The Dark Bloods are cut by half, maybe more. We have to go now.”
Roland nodded. “Pass the word. We transition to the valley. Follow hard on my heels.”
Rom spun, whistled and then took off, leaning over his mount, cutting the air with another whistle, which was picked up by another, and then another. The sound would be picked up even from this distance by Mortal ear, but Roland wanted to be sure even those in the din of battle would not mistake the call as planned.
He watched as fighters broke off their attack and swept north from across the plateau.
“Send the signal for the reserves.”
Michael pulled out a thin metal whistle that issued a high-pitched tone typically heard only by dogs and other animals with broader auditory ranges. Mortals could easily pick out the distinguished note from a significant distance. A runner half a mile south would pick up the sound and send another. Within seconds the signal would reach the reserves waiting to the south, and they would move toward the Seyala Valley at full speed.
She pressed the whistle to her lips and blew three long notes.
“Even with the reserves we’ll only be five hundred to their six thousand,” Michael said, shoving the instrument back in her pouch. “We’re down to a handful of arrows. Once we enter the canyon, we’ll be caged. If they don’t follow us-”
“I know the risk,” he said through gritted teeth.
“We could still break off and escape north. We could return later with guerilla tactics.”
“Saric will rebuild quickly and be twice as wary. He knows our strengths now. No. We fight to the end. If they don’t follow, we retreat north.”
“It’s not the retreat I’m worried about. It’s the battle into the valley. How many more will we lose, drawing them so close?”
“Do you want to lead? We knew the price of freedom would come at great risk. Don’t forget that the lives of those who’ve died today are on my head!”
“Forgive me.”
Roland looked away toward the line of Nomads just joining them along the shallow rise. “Today a new race rises, Michael. All along our people assumed victory would come under Jonathan’s rule. We were wrong. You and I, not Jonathan, will lead our people to victory. The world has never been reshaped without bloodshed. Today it’s our turn to spill what we must to ensure the place of our kind for centuries to come. We live or die for the sake of this race. These Immortals.”
“Immortals?”
“The zealots’ term. The Keeper says the power in our blood is strengthening, even as Jonathan’s weakens.”
She looked at him with wide eyes. “Jonathan’s?”
“Is now nearly dead. His blood has reverted to that of a Corpse.”
She blinked, aghast.
“Keep this to yourself, sister.”
He spurred his horse and rode down the line of Mortals gathered along the small rise. A stream of Dark Bloods was already fast approaching.
“Follow my lead!” he shouted. “We sweep west! Hold in the valley until they pursue. Hold your lines past the ruins until I give word. Today we prevail. Today we rise!”
Without a glance back, he veered to the west, leaned low over his mount’s neck, and spurred it into a full gallop.
The first thunder rumbled high above.
Saric spun to the cry of Varus, who’d held close at his demand. Nearly a thousand of his remaining eight thousand children had formed a thick wall of protection around his position, shielding him from skirting attacks as the enemy tore into his force with the fury of a lion rushing in to attack-only to retreat and attack again.
As he’d known, attrition had been the Mortals’ downfall. He’d cut down a full half of their forces in the last hour while suffering massive losses himself, but they were losses he could afford for the sake of the victory before him. His army was still a full eight thousand strong.
Meanwhile, Brack had fallen in the battle, taken by Rom Sebastian’s sword. The naive artisan who had thwarted him nine years earlier had found a backbone and the skills to keep it intact.
He followed his man’s line of sight in time to see the Nomadic Prince bent low over his mount, leading a growing contingent of his warriors as they streamed south along the plateau’s western edge.
“They flee!” Varus said.
“Into the valley,” he murmured, narrowing his eyes.
“They lead us into Feyn’s trap.”
He considered the meaning behind Roland’s sudden shift in plan. Feyn intended to betray him; that much had become clear. The precision of their preparations could only mean that the Mortals had fully expected him to arrive and engage as and when he had. Something more than conjecture-or some
But he had prevailed.
“The valley will only limit their movements,” he said. “A trap would involve more.”
“The canyons beyond,” Varus said, stilling his shifting mount.
“Yes, the canyons.”
His gaze swept the vacated valley to his right. The ruins with their bloodied courtyard sat unoccupied along the eastern cliff near the mouth of the valley. The valley floor narrowed as it ran north, ending at the mouth of a gorge that led into a canyon with a river along one side. The sandy wash provided ample room for ten horses abreast to pass. Even twenty.
By his count, the Mortals had initially brought only four hundred warriors to bear on the plateau and then replaced them as their own forces were depleted. But they were fewer than the seven hundred Feyn had reported, which meant the rest were either gone with those Mortals who could not fight or being held in reserve.
“If they enter, we hold back,” he said.
