Page 105 of Storm to Victory
How much more destruction would it take before Mongavaria surrendered? The Alliance had batteredMongavaria to its knees. Would Fieran and his family have to level the entire kingdom before Empress Bella let go of her pride? Surely she couldn’t be that heartless, right?
“There will be no one left to rule if we don’t surrender!” Even protected within Pip’s shield as he was, the crown prince had gone white and shaking, all defiance gone.
Would Fieran, his dacha, and his siblings do it? They held the lives of every man, woman, and child in Mongavaria in their hands. Would they kill them all if that was what it took to keep the Alliance safe?
In that moment, Fieran couldn’t be sure just how far he’d go. This war had stripped him of his naïveté, leaving a ruthless warrior behind.
Empress Bella swept a glance around, as if taking in her burning city, her fallen empire. She gave a shuddering sigh. “Mongavaria surrenders. Please present your terms.”
Fieran breathed a magic-laced sigh, a sudden exhaustion pressing on him. How was he going to release all this magic without destroying everyone and everything?
Dacha’s magic swept over his, as if gathering it up like a harvest. Fieran followed his dacha’s nudging and sent his magic rushing toward the far Escarlish-Mongavarian border. Dacha’s magic herded Adry’s and Louise’s magic as well. Rhohen’s resisted a moment longer before he, too, sent his magic toward the border.
The residue of all the magic Dacha, Uncle Rharreth, and Uncle Weylind had poured into the Wall still remained, marking the location of the border. With Dacha’s magic binding theirs into one great rush of magic, they slammed their unleashed magic into the ground. It sought the remnants of Uncle Rharreth’s and Uncle Weylind’s magic, anchoring it in place.
Perhaps it was Fieran’s imagination, but the ground beneath his knees shook, even this far away. Or perhaps he was shakingas he released his magic, his limbs dissolving into the tired trembling of an exhausted body.
He slumped, his swords stabbed into the ground the only thing propping him upright. It took all his remaining strength just to crack his eyes open, his vision too blurry to focus.
Figures in gray and white uniforms were marching, taking up positions around them. Voices spoke, an indistinct rumbling.
A hand settled on Fieran’s arm, the grip as trembling as Fieran felt. “Sason.”
“You’re right.” Fieran’s words rolled slow and slurred off his thick tongue. “Draining your magic is uncomfortable.”
Then Pip was there, kneeling before him, her hands cradling his face. “Fieran.”
He couldn’t seem to focus on her. Or keep his eyes open.
Another voice rang near Fieran’s ear, and it took his sluggish brain a long moment to recognize his cousin Rokyd. “Let’s get you aboard my ship. You look like you could use some rest. And a shower. Maybe not in that order.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Fieran mumbled, not sure if anyone even heard him.
As strong arms lifted him, he tumbled the rest of the way into peaceful darkness.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Freshly showered and wearing a set of gray dungarees loaned to her by one of the female crew members, Pip sat on one of the beds in the female ward of the sick bay on Rokyd’s ship.
One of the blue-garbed elf healers inspected the gash across Pip’s upper arm before adding a hint more magic. “This is healing nicely. It will be fully healed by tomorrow night. You will need rest, both to assist healing and to replenish your magic.”
Pip nodded, the exhaustion of the past day weighing on her. She hadn’t slept the night before, she’d had her magic partially drained, and she’d held two shields in place for several minutes, then a single shield under the onslaught of whatever annihilating magic Fieran and his dacha had unleashed.
But she had no plan to rest until she’d seen for herself that Fieran was all right. He’d passed out and had to be carried by Rokyd onto the small motorboat and from there onto the ship.
Fieran’s dacha had made it as far as the launch before he, too, had collapsed. Prince Edmund had been in little better shape, also needing to be more or less carried to the boat and onto the ship.
At least Rokyd’s shore party had assembled between the Mongavarians and Fieran, his dacha, and Prince Edmund so the only enemy who might have seen their weakness was the Mongavarian crown prince, whom they’d taken along as their prisoner to ensure continued cooperation until the official surrender terms could be signed.
Pip sat still while a nurse bandaged her arm, the picture of cooperation until the healers and nurses moved away.
Once no one was paying attention to her, Pip slid off the narrow hospital bunk and tiptoed to the door—hatch—of the female ward and peeked into the male ward, prepared to duck back if anyone inside wasn’t fully clothed.
Thankfully, all four of the men on the beds were dressed. Prince Edmund lay on the bed in the corner to her left, wearing a hospital gown with a white blanket pulled up to his chest. He had an intravenous drip attached to his arm, and his wounds already appeared better than they had an hour ago.
Wearing a set of gray dungarees, Prince Farrendel sat on the next bed beside Prince Edmund’s, facing him as the two of them talked in low tones. Prince Farrendel, too, had an intravenous saline drip.
