Page 95 of The Jasad Crown

Death arrived at dawn, dressed in the blue and white of the Omalian flag.

The ground rumbled with the pounding of hundreds of horses. Light dispersed in front of the woods as a horde of Omalian soldiers rode toward the wall at full speed.

In the main road, the villagers had crowded together, their weapons pressed dangerously close to the backs of those in front of them.

Terror itself could not have found a more fitting homage to its name; from eldest man to youngest child, it ravaged the Omalians. They stood beneath the fading painting of the Awaleen, the siblings regarding the proceedings from the side of the building with their usual indifference. The older villagers pressed their hands to the painting of Kapastra, the Awala of Omal, for strength.

As if Kapastra would lift a single finger to help anyone in this village. I gave her my back.

“Do you think it will work?” Namsa murmured. I belatedly noticed the grip she had on my sleeve, the whiteness of her pinched lips. Namsa might have killed before, but I doubted she had seen serious combat. There was a reason Arin had been chasing them across the kingdoms for years: the Urabi were experts at avoiding capture, and their reliance on those survival skills had prevented them from cultivating others.

On my other side, Efra grimaced. Unlike the others, I had not given him any instructions on when to use his magic. I watched his hands tremble with the urge to ease the buildup of emotion pressing in on him from the Omalians.

I needed Efra’s magic at full strength. I couldn’t express that if what I feared came to pass, his power might be the only thing to save us.

As one, we held our breaths as the first riders raced through the gap in the wall. This was it. The fate of Mahair, hinging on a single minute.

Shouts rang out as soldiers tumbled from their horses. Hooves strained to free themselves from the netting hidden beneath mounds of mud at the wall’s entrance. The snap of frenzied reins struck a chord of relief through us, music to our ears.

I shared a triumphant grin with Namsa. We had just enough time and netting to put a small bank of mud around the perimeter of the wall. I had reassured the village the mud would hide the netting, and felling the riders at the front would give us a precious advantage. I didn’t need the surge to fall back.

I just needed them to slow.

As the fallen set of soldiers tried to push their horses from the net, the next dozen rode in at full speed and collided with the stuck soldiers. They flew from their saddles, taking one another down in the impact. Horses huffed, stomping on the underfoot men.

“Go over the wall!” shouted one of the soldiers. “One at a time!”

Horses began to leap over the wall, clearing it in a single bound. The village shook as they landed.

“Medhat, now!” I bellowed.

Medhat stepped away from the crowd. He touched the inside of his wrist to the other, the tips of his fingers kissing as flames gathered in the space between his palms.

The Omalians watched him, spellbound, while I watched them. A revived Jasad would not last long without allies. One day, we would need them, just as today they needed us.

Medhat crouched, cords of fire linking his separating hands and pulsing between them. He turned his palms outward andhurled.

Howls saturated the air as fire erupted at the top of the wall, racing along the perimeter. A horse screamed as it cleared the wall and found its underside scorched, landing on its knees and sending its rider pitching forward. The crack of his skull against the earth echoed over the burning soldiers’ screams.

I lifted my sword and signaled Fairel, who had taken cover at the top of the building bearing the painting of the Awaleen. An arrow sliced the air, and a soldier staggering to his feet crumpled as it buried itself in his heart.

At the signal, motion finally burst in the crowd. They rushed at the soldiers, every weapon we’d scrounged lifted high, along with some pans and wicker carpet dusters.

“Medhat, can you hold it?” I asked. Rivulets of molten red flowed in the cracks of his hands. As long as Medhat prevented them from leaping over the wall, they could only enter through the front opening. At most, it fit five riders at a time. Without the benefit of their numbers, we could pick them off as they came.

He blew me a kiss. “Anything for you, Malika. I am but your humble subject.”

“I’m telling Kenzie you said that.”

“Wait, wait—”

Spear aloft, I bolted toward the fighting. The others had their instructions, and I had to hold faith they wouldn’t choose such a precarious moment to defy me. Even Efra.

More soldiers poured through the opening, and swords collided in an ear-piercing howl of metal behind me.

Screams rang out from our side of the wall. My stomachchurned as I cut down a soldier running toward the keep. If I had miscalculated… if it would have been better for everyone to hide…

I couldn’t think about it.

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