Page 368 of Kingdom of Ash

Keep going. They had to keep going. Gavriel would wish him to. Had given his life for it.

Yet Rowan lowered his head. “I hope you found peace, my brother. And in the Afterworld, I hope you find her again.”

Rowan stooped, grunting at the pain in his thigh, and hauled Gavriel over his good shoulder. And then he climbed.

Up the siege ladder still anchored beside the western gate. Onto the walls. Each step heavier than the last. Each step a memory of his friend, an image of the kingdoms they had seen, the enemies they had fought, the quiet moments that no song would ever mention.

Yet the songs would mention this—that the Lion fell before the western gate of Orynth, defending the city and his son. If they survived today, if they somehow lived, the bards would sing of it.

Even with the chaos of the khaganate soldiers and Darghan cavalry streaming for the city, silence fell where Rowan strode down the battlement stairs, bearing Gavriel.

He barely managed a grateful, relieved nod to a battered and bloody Enda and Sellene, catching their breath with a cluster of their cousins by the remnants of their catapults. His blood and kin, yet the warrior over his shoulder—Gavriel had also been family. Even when he had not realized it.

The impossible, hideous weight at his shoulder grew worse with everystep to where Aedion stood at the foot of the stairs, the Sword of Orynth dangling from his hand.

“He could have stayed,” was all Aedion said as Rowan gently set Gavriel down on the first of the steps. “He could have stayed.”

Rowan looked at his fallen friend. His closest friend. Who had gone with him into so many wars and dangers. Who had deserved this new home as much as any of them.

Rowan closed Gavriel’s unseeing eyes. “I will see you in the Afterworld.”

Aedion’s golden hair hung limp with blood and sweat, the ancient sword in his hands caked with black blood. Soldiers streamed past him, down the battlement stairs, yet Aedion only stared at his father. A bloodied rock in the stream of war.

Then Aedion walked into the streets. Tears and screaming would come later. Rowan followed him.

“We need to prepare for the second part of this battle,” Aedion said hoarsely. “Or we won’t last the night.” Already, Enda and Sellene were using their magic to haul fallen blocks of debris against the western gate. The stones wobbled, but moved. It was more power than Rowan could claim.

Rowan turned to climb back up the walls, and didn’t dare let himself look behind them—to where he knew soldiers were moving Gavriel deeper into the city. Somewhere safe.

Gone. His friend, his brother was gone.

“Your Highness.” A panting, blood-splattered ruk rider stood on the battlement wall. He pointed to the horizon. “Darkness veils much of it, but we have an estimate for the oncoming army.” Rowan braced himself. “Twenty thousand at a minimum.” The rider’s throat bobbed. “Their ranks are filled with Valg—and sixkharankui.”

Notkharankui. But the six Valg princesses who had infested them.

Rowan willed himself to shift. His body refused.

Gritting his teeth, he peeled back the armor on his shoulder andreached for the wound. But it had sealed. Trapping the iron shard within. Keeping him from shifting—from flying to Aelin. Wherever she was.

He had to get to her. Had to find Fenrys and Lorcan and find her. Before it was too late.

But as the night fell, as he freed a dagger and lifted it to the sealed wound in his shoulder, Rowan knew it might already be.

Even though the gods were now gone, Rowan still found himself praying. Through the agony as he ripped open his shoulder, he prayed. That he might reach Aelin in time.

They had survived this long, against all odds and in defiance of ancient prophecies. Rowan dug his knife in deeper, seeking the iron shard wedged within.

Hurry—he had to hurry.

CHAPTER 109

Chaol’s back strained, pain lashing down his spine. Whether from his wife’s healing within the castle walls or from the hours of fighting, he had no idea.

Didn’t care, as he and Dorian galloped through the southern gate into Orynth, the two of them little more than unmarked riders amid the army racing in. Bracing for the impact of the fresh host marching toward them.

Night would soon fall. Morath would not wait until dawn. Not with the darkness that hovered above them like some sort of awful cloud.

What flew and scuttled in that darkness, what waited for them …

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