Now Asta climbed up behind him. Axel turned his horse and, seizing his chance, used the horse’s strength to push through the melee.
With the battle pushing deeper and deeper into the heart of Mellerad, they soon made open ground.
“Where are we going?” Asta cried in his ear.
“We have to fall back,” he called back to her. “If Pencador and Tonsberg have suffered the same fate as Mellerad, all hope is lost.”
“What about the people of Mellerad?” Asta cried. “Can’t we do anything for them?”
He dug his heels deeper into the sides of the horse. “No,” he cried. “Let’s just be grateful we escaped from that hellhole with our own lives.”
He felt a twinge in his side. Thanks to Asta, the enemy dagger had not gone in too deep but it had gone in deep enough to send shock waves through his body—he had just been too flooded with adrenaline to notice it before. Now he began to wonder if he could actually complete the next part of the journey without medical help. No need to share that with the girl.
“Are you going to surrender to Paddenburg?” Her voice again—jabbing him deeper than the dagger had.
“No,” he told her. “Not until I know what’s happening on the central plains. There is still some cause for hope.”
“You need to surrender,” she cried, louder than before. “Before more lives are lost.”
“I’ll decide when and if it is time to surrender,” he retorted, the pain of his wound flooding him with anger. “You might have saved my life back there, but I am Prince of All Archenfield now. It is my decision and mine alone what happens next.”
Thankfully, the force of his words was sufficient to shut her up. He hoped he had sounded strong and certain. In truth, he had never felt more unsure—it would be nothing less than a miracle if Pencador and Tonsberg were not subject to the same atrocities as Mellerad. And at this rate, it would be a minor miracle if he even got them to the central plains. Still, Axel knew he had no choice but to ride on through his dying Princedom.
North of Tonsberg
Prince Ven felt the blessing of the winter sun as he emerged from the forest at the head of his regiment. He imagined how he must look, riding in his golden armor on his mighty steed at the head of his unstoppable force: like a hero from the old folk tales… But no, not like a hero—he was the living embodiment of such a hero: he and Henning, and Lydia too.
He had thought it unnecessary for Henning to commission a suit of armor for Lydia, but his brother was smitten. He smiled to himself, thinking of the fourth suit of golden armor, of which only he was currently aware—the one he had made for Logan with their intertwined initials engraved beneath the breastplate. Of course, it would not be necessary for Logan to don his armor for the current campaign, but this was only the beginning of Paddenburg’s expansion through the Thousand Territories. Ven wanted to honor Logan’s integral part in the journey so far. His heart soared like a mighty eagle at the thought of seeing him again—the ruffians of Archenfield had better not have inflicted so much as a graze upon Logan’s perfect face, or there would be hell to pay. Though actually, a graze would only enhance Logan Wilde’s handsome features, he thought with a smile.
Riding on, he reflected upon his achievements of the past days. The first of the settlements he had taken had been Inderwick. Next, he had pushed back the ragtag army of Archenfield from Tonsberg, and fought them in the green shade of the forest. He had watched what was left of Archenfield’s force scurry back north with its tail between its legs. Now he had his next target in his sights: all he needed to do was push through the open grassland and Kirana would soon fall—with the ease of a leaf in autumn. After taking Kirana, he would rejoin Henning and Lydia at Grasmyre—the northernmost settlement before the palace of Archenfield. From there, it would be a short but glorious ride to the palace itself, where they would officially claim victory and grant Archenfield its new status as a domain of Paddenburg.
All three of them had played their part. Henning had taken Grenofen in the south, then moved on to Pencador. Lydia had been tasked with the smaller western settlements—Vollerim, Lindas and Galvaire. And then led her regiment to the fort at Mellerad. They had each triumphed, just as they had planned and promised. The relative ease of their success in no way diminished their achievements—it was testament to their intricate planning, their tenacity and the superior skills of their army, honed for many months in the diverse terrain surrounding the Black Palace. But their inevitable victory—for yes, it was inevitable—spoke of something more, something larger, of far greater import.
Looking ahead, he saw the country opening up before him. It was as if the land itself was welcoming him, begging him and his brother to take it into their arms. Don’t worry, Archenfield, he thought. We are here. Henning and I will take good care of you. You were only ever a second-rate Princedom with impostors for Princes. But now, you will become part of Paddenburg, where we know what it means to be a Prince. At last, your forests and mountains and fjords will be blessed with a light so much greater than that of the sun—the light that emanates only from truly great rulers.
He spurred his horse onward, the sun making a halo around his golden helmet.
South of Dalhoen
Axel rode out at the head of his regiment, but in many ways he felt he was utterly alone as he embarked on this new journey. He knew with grim certainty the task that lay ahead of him, as he and his force rode out to where Prince Rohan’s soldiers—the one tangible result of Jared’s quest for alliances—were fighting the regiments of Paddenburg under the leadership of Prince Henning. And, according to the latest intelligence, Logan Wilde’s equally demented sister.
He had left Asta and the boy from Mellerad at the army camp at Dalhoen, taking the opportunity to have his wound dressed and bandaged as he had been given the latest, grim reports from the last remaining battle sites. Reassuring though it had been to hear that the enemy dagger had not punctured too deeply, it still hurt like hell.
“Your wound will soon heal,” Asta had told him. She was talking about his flesh, of course: the deeper wounds that the Princedom had sustained and was continuing to sustain were another matter altogether.
They had reached the summit of the hill. Now, below him, he saw the scope of the battle. A column of Paddenburg’s forces, in the black armor that was now so horribly familiar, had divided into two the borrowed army of Rednow. He could see from this vantage point that Rohan’s men and women were having a hard time of it, and could sense the relief as his own force came into view. They must have seemed like welcome reinforcements, arriving in the nick of time.
He continued down the hill, feeling the sting of the bitter wind, until he was just above the level of the battle. He scanned the ranks of the black-clad forces for the telltale golden armor. Were Henning and Lydia Wilde in the fray or, as he suspected, were they hanging back to let their foot soldiers do their dirty work for them?
He could not see them and he could not delay any longer. He brought his horse to a standstill and, hands trembling with the enormity of what he was about to do, began to remove the single object he had carried with him from Dalhoen. The ropes came away easily and he held it in his hands. It was only a light piece of wood but, in his hands, it felt like the weightiest slab of Archenfield oak.
He could hear the cries of the dying carried on the breeze. No more. It was time to end this. He unfurled the white flag of surrender and lifted it high above his head, for everyone to see.
South of Kirana
The two opposing armies smashed hard into each other, and the fight was on once more. As he took up his sword anew, Jared felt the enormity of the task still ahead of him and his allies. They were obviously outnumbered now—it was like fighting a supernatural enemy that had the ability to keep replicating itself. But he knew that there was nothing magical about Paddenburg’s army. They had always had the advantage of numbers, and the more they diminished Archenfield’s forces, so more starkly was the difference in s
cale revealed.
Jared thought how different things might have been if he had succeeded in bringing the troops of Woodlark and Larsson—and even Baltiska—into play. But, though he might wish this situation to be very different, now was not the time to focus on where he had failed. He had to concentrate on the job at hand—one fight at a time.
Still, moving from one duel to the next, he felt a new weariness setting in. He realized that though he had acquitted himself well enough in the fight so far, his stamina was beginning to fail him. He just could not shake the sense that the battle was already lost. Any more death—on either side—felt utterly pointless. The fundamental outcome would not be any different after all. And where were these thoughts coming from? They were a trick. The battle was not over yet. He was still in the thick of it. It was simply fatigue and fear talking. He could not allow them to take hold. Fear and its paralyzing effects, allied with physical and mental tiredness, would only make him more vulnerable.
Up ahead, in the heart of the melee, he saw a flash of gold. As he moved, he saw the legendary suit of golden armor. He had heard tell of this, but not seen it until now. He knew that beneath that suit of armor was either Prince Henning or Prince Ven or Logan Wilde’s sister, Lydia—unless it was a trick and they had employed a decoy. With the Princes of Paddenburg, anything was possible.
Jared felt drawn toward the golden armor, intrigued to learn which of his enemies might lie within its protective shell. He knew, deep down, that he didn’t have much fight left within him, but the thought of taking down just one of the architects of the invasion and conflict was fueling him with new energy. Just to do this one last act for his Princedom would give him solace before his fight gave out and the vast opposing forces consumed him. He felt fresh adrenaline flooding his veins as he dug in his heels and directed his horse toward his target.
He had to unseat several other combatants to clear his path, but nothing was going to stop him now. He felt possessed of a strange new power as he wielded his sword with exquisite prowess. He realized this strength was fed by a well of anger deep within his core: anger at the wanton killing of his brother and sister-in-law; the near-fatal attack on Nova; the motiveless invasion of Archenfield; the cruel plot to take the Princedom back into a time of conflict, when his people were only just becoming familiar with peace. Anger too about having the throne stolen from under him, when he had been doing all he could to make his land and his people safe.
As he made his way ever closer to the rider in the golden armor, Jared felt as if he were confronting a dragon, responsible for all the hurts he and his people had suffered during the past few weeks. Suddenly, slaying that dragon was the one and only thing that mattered. And suddenly, there was no longer anyone separating them.
“Who are you?” he interrogated the armor. “Which of my enemies?”
There was a pause, then a strangely disconnected voice, perhaps distorted by the curves of the helmet, emerged. “I am Prince Ven of Paddenburg.” A pause. “And you? Who are you?”
Jared felt his heart pounding. “I am Prince Jared of Archenfield,” he cried.
There was a hollow laugh, which echoed from within the helmet. “So it is true. This land is being governed by a child.”
Jared saw no reason to inform his adversary that he was no longer the legitimate ruler of Archenfield.
“We’ll fight,” he said. “One to one, you and me. Then we shall see if I am just a child.”
Prince Ven did not reply at once, and Jared felt his anger increasing. Was his opponent’s arrogance so vast that he was going to refuse to even fight him?
“All right,” the reply came at last. “Though it hardly seems fair.”
“You have never cared for fairness,” Jared spat. “Why start now?”
He had no desire to trade further verbal blows with his enemy. Not when his sword would do a far more satisfying job.
Their battle was swift and furious. Jared could feel the greater weight of his opponent every time Prince Ven’s sword made contact with his own. But that weight worked both for and against Ven—it added power to his strikes, although Jared’s lighter armor enabled him to move more swiftly on his horse and to switch position with greater agility.
As they traded blow after blow, Jared knew that this duel was more important than any of those he had fought until now—an importance both real and symbolic.
Countering the latest of Ven’s attacks, Jared saw that his opponent had become unseated in his saddle. Seizing his opportunity, he barged into him and attacked with his sword, forcing Ven out of his saddle entirely. The golden-clad Prince tumbled to the ground in a clatter of metal, down into the sea of mud below.
Jared did not waste any time. He jumped down from his own saddle and stood astride Ven, holding down one of the armored arms with his boot as he threatened the other with his sword.
Ven’s helmet had come loose in the fall. At last able to see his enemy, Jared felt a sense of shock. Stripped of his golden helmet, Prince Ven was slight, and clearly only a few years older than himself. His eyes were as wide as the night sky.
Ven stared up at him, his face contorted with hatred. “What next?”
Jared considered his answer. He brought the tip of his sword to Ven’s exposed Adam’s apple. It was satisfying and terrifying at the same time to know that he now had the power to decide whether Prince Ven of Paddenburg would live or die.
“Do it, then,” Ven spat out the words. “If you have it in you. Run your sword through me. It won’t make any difference. My brother will still claim this Princedom from you. But I will die the death of a hero, my Paddenburg blood bringing much-needed nutrients to the arid soil of Archenfield.”
“You’re no hero,” Jared told him, pushing the sword deeper into Ven’s flesh. He was keenly aware of all the reasons to take this man’s life; all the atrocities that Ven had been responsible for. He had never been possessed of such pulsing anger before. But although Jared was no stranger to killing, something held him back.
“No, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Ven sneered up at him. “You don’t even have a proper suit of armor! You shouldn’t even be out on the battlefield, but back in the palace nursery, where children like you belong.”
That pushed Jared over the edge. He lifted his sword. It would be so easy. Sword held aloft, he became aware of a hand on his shoulder, Hal’s voice at his side.
“Don’t kill him, Prince Jared.”
He did not remove his eyes from Prince Ven’s hateful, taunting face. “Give me one good reason not to,” he rasped.
“Prince Axel has surrendered.”
Jared laughed bitterly. “He has? Then what difference would one more death on the battlefield make?”
Now, for the first time, he saw genuine fear in Prince Ven’s face. He couldn’t deny that felt good.
Hal spoke again. “It would make all the difference in the world to the future of Archenfield,” the Bodyguard told him. “Prince Axel was very specific. We have surrendered—there must be no more bloodshed.”
“Yes,” Jared said. “So you tell me. But surely you understand—I have little care these days for what Axel Blaxland desires.”
Hal’s voice remained strong. “You have always been guided by what is best for Archenfield. How many of your people will be slaughtered in retaliation for this act? Would you sacrifice the life of even one of them for this kill? For that reason alone, you must let the bastard live.”
TWO DAYS AFTER INVASION…
FORTY-ONE
Archenfield
NOVA COULD HEAR THE DRUMMING OF A THOUSAND hooves advancing on the palace grounds. “Here they come,” she announced, with grim resignation.
Queen Elin did not respond. Her slender fingers remained pressed against the cold, leaded window of the Queen’s Chamber. It was as if she were incapable of separating herself from the palace that she had fought so long and tirelessly for.
Nova watched the serpentlike trail of the Paddenburg advance par
ty pass beneath the avenue of trees on the road leading up to the palace. She recalled the weight of her armor and the blood of battle drying in her wild hair—then, it had been midsummer and a rich canopy of emerald leaves had shaded them from the sun. Her beloved Anders had ridden beside her. He had come home a hero. Nova wondered if Elin was also lost in the memory of her eldest son’s victorious return from war. This day, however, brought with it no such cheer. These riders—in their purple uniforms and hideous black armor—were an advancing enemy, and winter was now upon them all. The avenue had lost its leaves. In fact, Nova reflected, as she took in the bare, skeletal branches, the trees looked as if they were dead.
The first riders turned onto the final approach to the palace. The column of cavalry moved steadily behind them: merciless as a machine, unstoppable as the river. Nova sought out the two Princes of Paddenburg. That must be Henning and Ven, there at the front, armor audaciously hewn from gold. There was a third rider in golden armor too. Presumably this was Lydia Wilde, the Poet’s sister. Nova’s attention swiftly moved to another horse and rider, just ahead of the Princes.
She heard Elin gasp beside her.
The horse was moving erratically, pushing ahead of the press behind it. It was dressed in the colors of Archenfield, yet it was the distinctive cross on the breastplate of the rider’s armor that revealed more clearly his identity.
The rider was Father Simeon. His hands gripped the reins just as tightly as his thighs pressed close against either side of the saddle.
But it was only when Nova looked more closely, in shock, that she discovered the true horror of it.
Father Simeon was riding back to the palace without his head. Where it should have been was a dark stump.
Nova could barely control the bile rising like lava in her throat. She thought of the old folk tale of how the day the Headless Horseman rode up to the palace gates would mark the end of order and the coming of chaos. She had always thought that story was a parable—had certainly never expected to see such a brutal scene played out before her eyes. And yet, as horrible as it was to watch, she could not draw her eyes away from the grotesque sight of Father Simeon leading the forces of Paddenburg along the road.