Page 83 of Frost Like Night
But it’s just Trace, and he drops off his mount. “I rode—ahead—to warn—”
I grab his shoulders, holding him in place. He meets my gaze, his eyes holding such sadness I wonder how he hasn’t cracked to pieces.
“We were escorting the refugees back,” Trace says. “Three nights ago, we realized Phil had gone missing—”
“What?” I shake my head. “Missing? How?”
“Henn sent Phil to scout ahead—and he never came back. Hollis went out to search for him, but he was justgone.” Trace gulps in a breath, steadying himself more. “We think Angra’s soldiers got him, because—”
“Where?” My voice is shockingly level despite the panic that itches at the back of my throat. If they were too close to Oktuber, the Cordellan soldiers stationed there under Angra’s command could have—
But Trace cuts off my analysis. “There’s more, my queen,” he says. “Hollis saw something when he went out searching. He came back with news of an army marching from Oktuber. Marchinghere.”
I jolt back from him. “What?”
“We still haven’t found Phil,” Trace continues. “If the Oktuber soldiers got him—we don’t know. We don’t know, but they’re coming.Now.”
Conall is already moving, loading up the weapons scattered around his tent. Nessa stays beside me, steady and quiet.
If soldiers are marching from Oktuber, they aren’t Angra’s full forces. They’ll be Cordellan, mostly, but still heavily armed. How do they even know where we are, though? This camp should be hidden—
Memories of Paisly nearly send me to my knees. Of Phil, broken, frantic, apologizing for what he told Angra.
And now, if he’s been taken again . . . it won’t be hard at all for Angra’s men to break him even more.
My heart turns to lead and drops into my stomach, gagging me with the force. But no, no, I won’t piece together any theories, not until I know for sure.
“How long until they arrive?” I ask Trace.
He shakes his head. “They should already be here.”
My body goes cold. I take off running, Conall, Nessa, and Trace falling in behind me.
Screaming pulls at my awareness from the northeastern corner of camp. It’s muffled at first, startled yelps that speak to the confusion in my own body—too fast, this shouldn’t be happening, how did this even happen?
The northeastern corner of camp is already a battlefield. Conall, a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, plasters himself on one side of me, Trace on the other, Nessa panting behind us.
Soldiers stream in from the forest beyond, pouring between tents, slicing through fabric, attempting to form battle lines in the camp’s haphazard streets. They take advantage of the element of surprise by hurling themselves into each skirmish faster than our soldiers can keep up. Autumnians race around me where I stand, stricken, in the middle of the dusty road not five paces from the edge of the battle.
The battle, the fight we needed as the distraction, it’s happeningnow, right now, in the middle of a camp filled with innocents.
I grab my chakram and hurl it into the fray, the magic inmy chest leaping after it. That push encourages the blade faster, harder, slicing through enemies in a swift arc of defense. The first line of soldiers falls, their armor clanging as they drop, and my chakram returns.
More soldiers come, more and more.
I grab Conall and Trace. “We need help!”
They nod over the cacophony. Nessa, her face blank, squares herself alongside me, and I hate the irony of this situation—we had just resolved to be apart for the final battle, and now here we are, she at my side. I expect her to run off to be with the children in the other part of camp, but she stays, rushing alongside me as I holster my chakram and push on.
The main tent isn’t far—so close to the fight,tooclose—and I angle inside just as Caspar and Sir fly out, fury in Caspar’s black eyes, severity in Sir’s.
“Queen Meira,” Caspar says. “Angra’s soldiers have—”
“I know,” I cut him off. “But they aren’t Angra’s.”
Sir jerks to me, but one of Caspar’s generals flies out of the tent and Caspar turns to him.
“What?” Sir presses me, his brow creasing.
