Page 58 of Realm of Crows (Wings of Ink #5)
Forty-Three
Ayna
“Take cover,” Silas shouts as the first droplets hit the ground.
On instinct, I grab for his free hand, dragging him back under the segment of shields still holding. Together, we cower under the slim shelter while Clio hops under the next shield, wrapping an arm around the soldier’s waist to make sure they move in sync and don’t expose each other to the rain.
The magical roof above our heads must have faltered, or the rain wouldn’t be getting through. It only dawns on me what has happened when I watch another sphere soar across the other side of the army. I expect it to land and detonate when it hits the ground.
It never touches the ground, though.
Instead, a thick arrow chases it above the Askarean soldiers’ heads, piercing whatever holds the sphere together, and when it does, liquid sprays in all directions in a rain-like mist.
“Magic-nullifying rain,” I shout into the mind link.
There is nothing we can do but wait until it finishes dripping upon us and assess our damages.
At least, that’s what I think.
From the center of the army, an onyx wind rises above what’s left of the physical shields and shoves the rain back—back toward the Tavrasian front lines.
I don’t know how Myron does it, but I do recognize his dark power. I’d recognize it anywhere. Only when I notice the layer of clean air he’s pushing along with his black haze like a buffer do I understand his magic isn’t actually touching the serum.
Brilliant. I want to shout it at him, want to kiss him for thinking around the constraints and saving thousands of fairies from losing their powers and becoming easy prey for the Tavrasian soldiers, but a brief surge of emotion through our bond must suffice.
Because the cloud sweeps right over our heads, clearing the air above, and as we dare move out from under the shields, more Tavrasian soldiers are charging at us.
This time, Clio isn’t fast enough to cut off the man’s arm. She’s already busy in combat, her sword biting into a soldier’s shoulder while I fight back-to-back with Silas, engaging the three remaining Tavrasians .
The man closest swings his longsword at me in a blow so heavy I almost drop my daggers. My fae strength isn’t the problem; it’s the light weight weapons I’m wielding. The steel of my daggers is no match for the brute force the man is using. If I push too hard, they might break.
So I resort to the techniques that have kept me alive since I learned how to hold a dagger on the Wild Ray: speed and agility.
With a twist of my arm, I pull my dagger out of the way, stepping aside while at the same time grabbing Silas and dragging him to safety.
The Crow male doesn’t protest. Like a tree trunk, he plants himself in a wide stance, giving me leverage as I leap and kick the second soldier in the chest.
The man stumbles a few steps, backing into an approaching opponent who barely catches his balance.
“Hatchet,” I call to Silas, but he’s already on it.
Reeling me in with one arm, he aims and throws his hatchet at the third attacker, pinning him to the ground by the side of the neck.
Blood sprays onto our boots, more liquid for me to draw upon, and I craft new cords of water, leaving crimson powder behind where my magic touches.
The water I shove down the new attackers’ throats until they sag to their knees side by side, and Silas takes off their heads with a single blow of his axe.
A few feet away, Clio is rolling under a swinging sword, slicing the back of a soldier’s knees.
The man’s face is blue from the cold her magic sends into his blood through what little skin is exposed between layers of his magic-repellant armor.
The sight gives me no small amount of satisfaction, as do the tendrils of black power swirling along the battlefield here and there, as if Myron has sent out his onyx smoke to check in on the rest of us.
Around us, Askarean soldiers are cutting down Tavrasian men with their blades and figments of their powers wherever they see an opening, littering the ground with dead bodies until we have nowhere to step.
They still keep coming. Like an endless flood crashing against unforgiving cliffs, Tavras batters our army, while we hold the lines to allow the ones hit by the magic-nullifying drug to gather and regroup at the back of our formation.
“Shield!” Tori booms, and all physical shields rise to the air while the soldiers with the ability to manipulate air follow Myron’s lead and sweep the magic-nullifying drug from the sky as it rains down upon us anew.
It’s a godsdamned miracle none of us have been hit by droplets of rain sneaking past the shields, or that the soldiers we’ve cut down haven’t used the vials like the ones Myron and Kaira found on the battlefield in the clearing what seems like a lifetime ago.
It’s like at the inn all over again. The soldiers come at us, fight with all they have, but they don’t use the magic-nullifying drug on us. Either they don’t have it on them as an offensive weapon—just the coating on their leathers and swords—or they are hesitant to use it.
I don’t get to ponder the reason why when five massive soldiers step into my path, grinning at me with the viciousness of someone ready to raze the battlefield with a single blink.
“There she is,” the one on the very left says, nodding at the one in the middle already lifting his sword .
Clio is engaged in combat behind me, but Silas is at my side in an instant, his axe flying for the talker—and sailing straight through him, leaving nothing but a slight ripple in what’s definitely a projection.
My eyes dart to the other four, checking their outlines for signs they are actually standing on this battlefield, but only one of them has dirty boots, and the strings on his leather armor float on the wind.
The others are as clean as a soldier can get after days of traveling.
Traces of dried soil and old blood mark their forearms and shoulders.
Their boots are a shade lighter than the ones exposed to the wet ground.
No specks of mud, and most importantly, the light is reflecting from the wrong side of their swords as they collectively aim it at us.
I don’t wait for Silas’s assessment as I lift a dagger and charge for the real soldier so fast he barely sees it coming before I run my blade through his eye.
A déjà vu of taking Jeseida’s eyes with my crow claws flashes through my mind, but when I pull back my blade and warm blood splatters my face, I send a tiny prayer of thanks to Shaelak for making me a full Crow—speed, strength, heightened senses, and all.
I wouldn’t last a minute on this killing field as a human.
“The Tavrasian soldiers are lasting pretty well against an army of fairies,” Rogue notes through the mind link, reminding me that our powers and senses aren’t what will win us this war.
With a kick, I throw the man whose eye I took to the ground, facing the four projections while Silas’s hatchet rips through their heads as he summons it with his magic.
“ Tell your king he can send at me whatever he wishes. He won’t win this war.
And Tavras will belong to the Milevishja bloodline once more. ”
The fear flickering in their eyes as the rippling of their forms fades is real, as is their threat to tell their master where exactly to find me, but I’m not afraid.
For the first time since this war started, I am not thinking about what comes after this battle, where I’ll go if we lose or what duties will await me if we win.
I’m right here, all of my focus on the bloodshed ahead, and I’m ready to live or die to save both of my peoples.
“Are you all right?” Myron’s voice travels down the mind link, a caress meant only for me, even when the rest of us can listen in. None of them comment, too busy fighting their own battles.
“I am.” It’s the truth because I know this battle means the end of this war one way or another. No more waiting, no more hoping.
A tendril of black smoke creeps along the ground, coiling around my ankle and up my leg in a careful touch. “I’m with you. Even when I’m on the other end of the field, I’m always with you.”
Tears burn behind my eyes at the sense of him so close to me, and I nearly bend down to stroke the string of his power.
A flash of silver power a few steps ahead makes me wish I hadn’t given in to the sensation of Myron’s touch, because the two soldiers standing right there aren’t human, and their magic just blasted fifteen fairies out of the way, leaving Silas, Clio, and me to face them alone while around us, the battle rages on.
Tongues of fire are licking on the corpses piled between us, polluting the air with the stench of burned flesh.
These two opponents are real, and they seem to have come straight from Eroth’s realm.
“You didn’t think you could hide, did you?” the Crow says. I don’t remember his face from my time in the Seeing Forest, then, does it make a difference if I know the name of whoever I’m about to send behind Eroth’s Veil?
“I wouldn’t call fighting at the front lines hiding,” I spit at him, pulling up my best unbothered expression while, in the pit of my stomach, a storm is brewing. “Would you?”
The Flame summons a fistful of fire, sending it toward me, but Clio’s ice magic snuffs it out before it can cross half the distance. She smirks at the males. “Where is Ephegos? Is he fighting at the front lines, or is he hiding somewhere in a palace while the rest of you are dying out here?”
Ire flashes in the Crow’s eyes as his features shift into the half-bird form from the curse. Talons grow from his hands, and he doesn’t even bother to draw the sword at his hip as he launches himself at the Fairy Princess.
A wall of frozen blood blocks his path long enough for us to step into formation, but the Flame uses Clio’s trick, melting down the barrier before it can do any real harm.