Fire-red pain lances across my vision, radiating out from a solid crack in my chest. Sounds deaden against the roar of agony that fills my head, and something beneath me reeks of iron, wet and warm. But it’s not the comforting smell of iron mined from the Klaryns.
It’s blood.
The muted noises rise to a horrible ringing. I push up, one of my ribs screaming out in anger, but I don’t care as more cannons fire, more of Noam’s cavalry gets launched into the air.
It was a trap, and now there are more Spring men running at us around the cannons, and the remaining Spring soldiers we didn’t kill from the initial charge fly back to surround us. Here and there a few clumps of Cordellan riders stay up, hacking at enemies, firing blindly. But it’s no use. We’re too cut off from the bulk of Noam’s army, helplessly lost in our stupid rush to destroy Angra’s cavalry.
I scramble up. The armor and extra padding lock my broken rib in a pathetic makeshift cast and I’m able to stumble forward, debris clouding the air, bodies littering the way. The stench of blood and sweat clogs my lungs, growing with each explosion, each scream.
Mather. I think I shout it but I can’t hear myself. Maybe I only mouth it, a feeble cry in the dark. William!
A cannonball hits the ground nearby, knocking me down with its invisible force. I collapse on a body that reaches up, a bloodied hand gripping my shoulder. Panic numbs everything in me for one beautiful, horrifying second when I see who is grabbing me, how bloody he is, how mangled in the filth of battle.
Sir.
Whenever he described situations like this before, the scenario seemed like a distant, foreign thing I would never have to face. Injuries on a battlefield. Excessive blood loss, broken bones, ripped flesh—
This isn’t real. This can’t be real. Not now, not him.
A Spring soldier wails in front of me, a Cordellan sword through his chest. The sound of his dying scream warps in my ringing ears as Sir’s lips move. I lunge to him, shouting, willing the ringing to lessen enough so that I can hear him beyond warped screams and explosions.
His lips move again. “Meira.”
Blood and dirt and sweat make his fingers slick as I grip his hand. “What do I do?” I shout. “Tell me what to do!”
Sir smiles through the bloodstains on his cheeks. The blood trails down to show its source—a gaping wound in Sir’s stomach, ripping open half his chest. Dark blood pulses out, brittle white bone protruding from the cavity.
“Meira,” he says again. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb rubbing at my temple.
“What do I do?” I scream again. Another cannon strikes somewhere close by, closer and closer. They’ll hit us soon. We’re still in range. I have to move him, get a medic—
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes.
I can’t move. Sir’s eyes drift out and he stares vacantly at a space beside my head. When he looks back, his gaze is distant and hazy as if he’s seeing through me.
“No,” I growl. I shake his shoulders, trying to pull his focus back to me. “No! You listen to me, William Loren. You do not deserve this!”
Sir nods. “I served Winter.”
Another cannon. A Spring soldier howls above me, sword raised, and I reach for my crossbow. It isn’t there—it got torn away with the cannon blast. Before I can scramble for another weapon, a Cordellan arrow comes whirring out of the ashes, and the soldier crumples beside Sir’s legs.
So many bodies. Spring and Cordellan alike, so much death and blood piling up so quickly—
Sir’s thumb moves on my temple again. I bend over him, shielding him from debris, from blood, from all of this. “No,” I mumble. It’s all I can do, all I can say, eyes blurring with dust and hot, pulsing tears. “No, no, William, don’t—”
Sir wheezes. He looks at me again, and one last ray of clarity brings recognition to his eyes. “Meira,” he whispers. “You have to save them.”
“Of course,” I croak. “I’ll do it. I promise I’ll do it. But you have to help me. I can’t do it without you!”
Sir shakes his head. “Did you hear Bithai’s poem when we first arrived?”
I nod, and Sir presses on.
“No,” he says. “The words. Did you hear the words?”
When I shake my head this time, Sir inhales, closes his eyes, and lets memory say it. The gentle poem rolls out, past Sir’s wheezing breath, past his pain.
“Cordell, Cordell, today we come
To kneel before your blessed throne.
Let all who find refuge be glad
They hide behind your walls of stone.
Cordell, Cordell, if we must leave
To battle, travel, or to die,
Let those who do not come again