Page 99 of A War of Three Kings

I draw every last drop of my magic and throw it into the soil beneath my feet, sending the wield hopping from grass root to grass root, until I reach those trees. I split my powers, capturing five, then ten tall, pines, pouring my essence into them.

“NOW!” I bellow.

Liquid fire sears through me as all that raw power from so many sources floods into me, then straight down the path I have wielded, gathering in those trees. I am burning with the tempest that rages into me. My whole body shakes with the intensity of keeping it together. Of not combusting under the pressure.

It all happens in the blink of an eye. The horsemen are turning rapidly before the thicket, their mounts kicking up chunks of grass and mud. Their lips peel back from their teeth in sneers and mocking laughter.

Then I trigger my wield.

Ten massive trees explode with such force that sharp splinters the size of spears fly toward the enemy. Bodies are impaled with multiple projectiles and so much blood sprays out of them that, for a split second, they are shrouded in a red mist.

I focus on that flying shrapnel, grasping and guiding it with air weaves into more bodies until all that is left of our enemy is a pile of broken bodies on the ground.

Someone vomits behind me. A handful of my people slow their run, staring at the carnage in shock.

“Keep moving!” I scream, my voice savage. “There is another warband on our heels!” They jolt, then run with newfound energy.

Adrenaline rushes through me. It is the only thing keeping me on this horse, not contemplating the horror of what I have just done. I sway in my seat. Too much power. I used far too much power.

That horn sounds again. They are so close.

The Deadman’s Marshes are just ahead. A huge expanse of gray water stretches out to the misty horizon, dotted with tiny islands of scraggy grass, but no land seems to connect them. I glance at Fynbar with panic.

“There are sandbars just beneath the water, for those who know where to look for them. There are larger islands where we can camp tonight.” He grips his reins with one hand and holds his side with the other, where blood stains his shirt. I suddenly realize that this man is one of the injured, and I have been pushing him hard.

“Take us in,” I say.

The smell is the first thing to hit me. It is like many, many creatures have come here to die. Each time my horse pulls a hoof out of the shallow water, it drags up mucky sand and large bubbles. The people around me struggle to wade through the thick mud, swatting away flies.

“The path gets easier the further in we go,” Fynbar says beside me. “We should split our party across the two paths to confuse the enemy. It will make it harder for them to follow us. Galvyn also knows the way.” He tips his head towards anotherinjured soldier, who has a bandage wrapped around his head and one leg in a splint.

I glance over my shoulder at the ranks of the enemy racing across the plains behind us, and the frantic bottleneck of my people waiting to pass into the perceived safety of the marshes.

“It will help with that too.” Galvyn’s voice is hoarse.

“Yes. Let’s do it.” I jump down from my horse. Both men give me a confused look, but I quickly pull over two fatigued Mothers of Magic and boost them up onto the mount. There will be no galloping around and loosing arrows on horseback while we are in this bog, and they need the ride more than I do.

The mud is so much worse when standing in it. Freezing ankle-deep water slips into my boots and all kinds of bugs float on its surface, some attempting to climb up my legs. The long grass is razor-sharp, whipping painfully across the narrow bands of skin exposed at my calves. We move on anyway, fueled by fear.

The enemy’s pounding hooves and barking shouts only grow in volume.

Finally, the path splits and the two local men divide our party. Our progress speeds up. Another glance behind me shows the last of my charges stepping into the marsh, with the enemy half a mile away and gaining on us.

I reach for my magic, but I am completely drained. I will not be able to throw up any air shields to stop their arrows.

The warband gallops to the edge of the marsh and comes to a sudden halt, surveying us. Their leader rides to the edge of the water, examining it. To him, our party must look as though we are randomly spread out across the marsh, instead of following two paths of sandbars. He pulls the longbow from his back and nocks an arrow to it. My heart stutters and stops as he aims and fires, once, twice, three times.

I release a breath as the arrows fall and none of my people are hit. One arrow lands in a sandbar, most of its shaft poking out of the water, and two others disappear into deep pools.

It seems like the enemy stands there for an eternity, our fates sitting on the tip of a blade. Then the leader shouts out commands I cannot decipher. They gallop away.

“They will attempt to race around the marshes to catch us on the other side,” Diarmuid says from behind me. I jump, not realizing he crept up on me through the line.

“Or they will wait to ambush us just before Windkeep Stronghold,” I say. “It is clearly our destination from here.”

Dusk falls and the tide lowers enough to reveal islands of mud. Both parties led by Fynbar and Galvyn combine on a large expanse of rock, reeds and yellow lichen. I sigh in relief as I step out of the squelching mud and onto solid sheets of slate. The stench of decay is stronger here and a chilly breeze curls around the open space, freezing my soaked legs and making me shiver.

I make the call for us to spend the night on this forsaken island. I attempt to wash the mud from my feet in a deep pool of water and gasp when I find a steady stream of bubbles gurgling to the surface, uninterrupted. As I look around, I notice they are everywhere.

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