Page 359 of Kingdom of Ash

For Terrasen. All of it, for Terrasen.

The Lord of the North landed, the immortal flame within his antlers shining bright as he began the charge. The army around and behind her flowed down the hillside, gaining with each step, barreling toward Morath’s back ranks.

Barreling toward Orynth.

Toward home.

Onward into battle they charged, undaunted and raging.

The queen atop the white stag did not balk with each gained foot toward the awaiting legions. She only flipped her sword in her hand—once, twice, shield arm tucking in tight.

The immortal warriors at her side did not hesitate, either, their eyes fixed upon the enemy ahead.

Faster and faster, the khaganate’s cavalry galloping beside her, the front line forming, holding, as they neared the first of Morath’s back lines.

The enemy turned toward them now. Pointed spears; archers racing into position.

The first impact would hurt. Many would go down before they even reached it.

But the front line had to make it. They could not break.

From the enemy lines, an order arose. “Archers!”

Bowstrings groaned, targets were fixed.

“Volley!”

Great iron arrows blotted out the sun, aiming for the racing cavalry.

But ruks, golden and brown and black as night, dove, dove, dove from the skies, flying wing to wing. And as those arrows arced toward the earth, the ruks intercepted them, taking the brunt as they shielded the charging army beneath them.

Ruks went down.

And even the queen leading the charge wept in rage and grief as the birds and their riders crashed to the earth. Above her, taking arrow after arrow, shield raised to the skies, a young rider roared her battle cry.

The front lines could not break.

Ironteeth witches on wyverns banked toward them, toward the ruks soaring for their exposed back.

In the city, along Orynth’s walls, a white-haired queen bellowed, “Push! Push! Push!”

Exhausted witches took to the skies, on broom and beast, swords lifting. Racing for the front of the aerial legion turning to the ruks. To crush the Ironteeth legion between them.

On the bloody ground, Morath aimed spears, pikes, swords, anything they bore at the thundering cavalry.

It was not enough to stop them.

Not when shields of wind and flame and blackest death locked into place—and sliced into the front lines of Morath.

Felling the soldiers braced for battle. Exposing those behind still waiting to raise weapons.

Leaving Morath wide open for the golden army as it slammed into them with the force of a tidal wave.

CHAPTER 107

Rowan’s breath was a steady rasp in his throat as he charged through the lines of Valg soldiers, screaming ringing out around him. Nearby, cutting a swath through Morath’s masses, Aelin and the Lord of the North fought. Soldiers swarmed, but neither queen nor stag balked.

Not when Aelin’s flame, reduced as it was, kept any in her blind spots from landing a blow.

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