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With a nod to the others, Charlie rode out of the column toawait the end of the battle, or the end of the world.

Sorasa’s own language curled under her breath, so low only Dom could hear. He did not understand the Ibalet, but she kissed her palms as Charlie had, offering prayers to her goddess.

Next to him, Andry and Corayne clasped hands, bending their heads together.

“With me,” Dom heard Andry mutter, and Corayne repeated the words, turning to draw the Spindleblade.

The ancient sword sang free of its sheath, joining the melody rising with the smoke.

Dom knew death now, better than many. He could not pray. His gods were not upon this realm to listen. He could not sing, with no cry of his own to add. The Vedera remained silent, still, coiled in wait for the fight ahead. Even now they seemed detached and cold, set apart from the lives around them.

But we all die the same.

As he had before the temple, Dom thought of Cortael and so many already dead. So many lost for Taristan’s foolish greed. He drew on that rage, letting it fill him up. The anger was better than fear.

“The gods of Infyrna have spoken, the beasts of their fires awoken.”

Dom shuddered and Valtik’s voice rang out through the army, as if she spoke in every ear. Her horse bucked, rearing up on its hind legs. The old woman held her saddle without blinking, her focus trained on the gate and nothing else.

“Storm and snow, wind and woe,” she chanted, reaching into the folds of her long coat. To Dom’s disgust, she pulled out a legbone far larger than any in her pouch. It was old and yellow, and human. Her skeletal fingers clawed to either end.

All down the line of the Jydi, other raiders did the same. Like Valtik they wore braids and long robes.More witches,he realized. Almost a dozen femurs rose in the air, brandished like spears.

They mirrored Valtik’s movements, each witch holding a bone skyward, their eyes on the spiraling snow. Their lips moved as one, chanting the language of the Jyd.

The wind howled cruelly at their back, blowing over the army toward Gidastern.

Valtik’s horse bucked again and she held firm, grasping the horse with only her knees. The old witch went grim, her maddening laughter long forgotten. Her grip on the bone tightened, her knuckles white beneath her pale skin. Her eyes stood out against the black paint, blue as ice, blue as the heart of a roiling hot flame.

The roaring and scratching kept on, nearly drowned out by the rallying army. Pieces of the gate fell away, the iron bands peeling back as the wood splintered. Fire licked between the planks, and then came a pair of long, clawed paws. They scratched and kicked, slamming into the gate over and over again, like a prisoner rattling the bars of his cell.

“Let the ground quake,” Valtik hissed. “Let the stormbreak.”

The leg bone snapped in her hands, split clean down the middle. The crack drove through the air, louder than any sound, even the wolves. Twelve more cracks answered, as the bone witches broke a dozen femurs in half.

The blizzard followed, white and raging, falling in a blindingcurtain, until there were only the walls and the fire within.

The gates jumped on their hinges, pulsing with every blow.

Oscovko rattled his shield one last time and raised his sword. Too many blades to count rose with his own, Dom’s greatsword included. Snow lashed the length of his steel.

“Charge!” the prince screamed, and Dom roared with him, a guttural sound exploding from his throat.

His horse shuddered and exploded into a gallop to match the rest of the war band. Their column jumped out ahead of the soldiers on foot, the first wave of the assault. The blizzard blew at their backs, as if pushing them all forward.

The immortal settled into himself as instinct and memory took over, his long years in the training yard directing his body. His grip changed on his sword, and his muscles rolled in his back, drawing the blade to strike whatever came through the gates.

He expected the corpse army. Gallish soldiers. Taristan himself.

When the gates burst open, shattering out toward them, Dom’s immortal heart nearly stopped beating.

At first glance, he thought they were gigantic red wolves, but they were so big, taller than a man. Their legs were too long, black from the shoulder down, as if dipped in charcoal. Flame licked over the creatures but did not burn them. Because itcamefrom them, marching down their spines like a ridge of raised fur. Snow swirled around their bodies, melting on their flaming coats. They screamed and barked, keening at the charging army, the insides of their mouths glowing like fiery coals. The dead grass sparked beneath their paws and sweeping tails, bursting into flame.

The edge of Dom’s sight went black, his vision spotting, buthe fought through it. His horse bucked beneath him, screaming in protest, trying to turn away from the hounds of Infyrna. But Dom kept a firm grip on the reins, forcing her back on course with the other horses. The war band surged forward, the Companions with them, their eyes filled with the flaming light.

There was no going back now.

A volley of Jydi arrows sailed over the charge, sizzling as they shot into the hounds. Most missed their mark or burned to nothing, but a few hounds screamed, pawing at the iron arrowheads deep in their flesh. The flames on their back flared white with pain. One even guttered out, the hound turning to ashes as it died.