Snow Like Ashes(67)

Mather shifts on his horse, eyebrows coming together in a question. You all right?

I nod. He shifts again, says something to Sir, who shakes his head fiercely.

My body thuds with longing. I should be there, back with them, not hiding among Noam’s archers. Come battle time, when Noam wills his regiments to move one way or another, I’ll be at a loss as to which way to go. If Noam wills his archers to shoot left and I let one fly right, it’ll give me away.

I shake off my worries, refocusing on the weight of the metal crossbow in my hands and the energy surging around me. Captain Dominick sits three rows ahead in the infantry, overseeing his men on horseback. No one says a word, no one shouts orders, no one even breathes too loudly. We’re all just waiting in the heart-shattering anticipation of death marching toward us.

The sun drops lower. Lower still. It’s at this moment, when the late afternoon’s heat is barely playing with us, that a ripple runs through the men. They stand straighter, all eyes sweeping south. Spring’s army has been spotted.

I’ve never seen a Royal Conduit–led battle before. Sir told me about them, of course, reiterated Spring-versus-Winter battles in such epic detail that I could almost smell the cannon fire on the air. Through the conduit, rulers can will entire regiments to move as one, shift people around like they’re arranging items on a tabletop. It’s not a forceful push; more like a subconscious suggestion—soldiers can choose not to follow their leader’s conduit-channeled instructions. But it’s usually in the soldiers’ best interest to follow their leader’s will.

Sir’s history lessons roll through my head alongside what I read in the magic book. Each Royal Conduit is like a horse; use it too much or too quickly and it tires out, and leaders have to wait for it to rest before they can use it again. Use it too often, too aggressively and, well, we don’t know what could happen—no one has ever been stupid enough to let it dry up completely, if it even could. The monarchs can feel when the magic gets low, a tug at their instincts like that uncomfortable feeling of something wrong. And it’s a passive magic—only when the bearer consciously chooses to draw it out does it work.

If Noam uses his conduit steadily, it could give Cordell a huge advantage. Angra never leaves his palace in Spring, so Herod won’t have the same control over his men. Angra’s magic may make their minds numb with a devotion to Spring that lasts beyond Spring’s borders, but he won’t be able to tell them how to move, where to attack, when to pull back. For all our sakes, I hope that advantage is enough.

When the Cordellan soldiers perk up, we do too. I risk one more glance behind me, noting who’s here and who’s not. Alysson’s the only one missing. Which leaves seven of us. Seven. Next to Angra’s approaching army, our odds are pathetic.

The archers raise their crossbows and I fumble to match their rhythm. The crossbow is so much heavier than my chakram, bulky and dense, but I can do this. I’ve done this before. I’ve just never done this as part of an army, wearing a constricting helmet.

I keep my finger on the trigger, my breaths coming slower and slower. No one fires yet, we just keep our crossbows aimed at the sky.

“Come on,” the man next to me hisses.

His anxiety pushes at me, a flame that catches and spreads like wildfire through the group. Soon everyone is twitching for the battle to start.

Then the one sound everyone was waiting for, the one ricocheting vibration that sends everyone’s anxiety rearing higher.

Cannon fire.

A single shot comes from somewhere distant, too far away to hit anyone. A warning meant to announce Spring’s arrival. The shot fades to an echo and Spring’s army rises up over the horizon in the fading sun of the late afternoon, their soldiers nothing but a black mass that sweeps down over Cordell’s distant hills like a plague. Another cannon fires, then two more, closer and closer—

Thwack.

The archers let loose the first round. I snap to fire with them, launching my arrow in an arch over the infantry. Are they within range already? Are they close enough to—

Yes, they are. Spring’s so close, in fact, that before our arrows even complete their arches, three cannonballs rip holes in the first lines of Noam’s infantry. The black mass of Spring soldiers is close enough now that I can see them running toward us, weapons raised, a shrill war cry tearing out of their throats.

Five seconds. Four seconds. Three.

Two.

One.

The force of the two armies colliding sends a shockwave through the men. They return Spring’s war cry with screams of their own, howling into the air as the familiar numbing focus of the fight sweeps over me. I fire three more rounds along with the archers before I realize the group has split in two, half running one way and half running the other, fanning out to spread Cordell’s force.