Page 118 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

The men closest to the riverbed were already moving, ranks pivoting, arrows and spears flying.

The Gamdeshians and their horses were dying in droves, either to weapons or to falls on the treacherous rocks, but the faces of the men and women showed no fear as they pressed in around Kaira, bodies shielding her.

Dying to keep her alive to strike the ultimate blow against Marcus’s army, even though it would come at the cost of the city.

Felix shouted orders, reinforcements that had been guarding their rear moving to intercept, but they’d never make it in time.

The Thirty-Seventh were going to die. Were going to drown because of a mistake he’d made.

“Gibzen!” Marcus shouted. “Stop her!”

The Thirty-Seventh’s primus and his men didn’t hesitate. Flinging themselves onto their horses, they rode at a dead gallop to intercept Kaira.

“They aren’t going to reach her in time!” Drusus shouted. “She’s going to destroy the dam while our entire army is on the field. We’ll lose hundreds of men! Thousands!”

Marcus barely heard him because he was already running toward his horse. He vaulted onto the mare’s back and drove her into a gallop. His cloak whipped out behind him, and he pulled the catch to allow it to fall away, leaning over the mare for more speed.

Kaira and what remained of her soldiers burst past the last of the legion lines, horses stumbling on the slick rocks of the riverbed as they raced up the riverbed toward the dam.

Toward the explosives carefully placed by Rastag at its base.

Every one of them rode with the desperate determination of those who knew this was their only chance to strike a final blow in a lost war.

Faster, he willed the golden mare, and seeming to hear him, she put on a burst of speed and gained ground on Gibzen and his men.

Behind him, horns bellowed. Someone, likely Felix, ordering the men on the field away from the riverbed. Out of the path of destruction.

But thousands of men could only move so quickly, and Kaira had almost reached the dam.

Faster.

Kaira and Gibzen both broke ahead of their men, moving at a perpendicular course of interception, smoke from her torch trailing in the Gamdeshian princess’s wake.

Her horse stumbled and nearly fell, and she reined it up the side of the bank for better ground and dug in her heels.

Only for Gibzen to ride his horse into the side of her mount.

Both went down in a tangle of limbs, the horses screaming. The torch fell to roll a distance away, where it came to rest against a pile of dirt, still burning. One of Kaira’s soldiers leapt off his horse, reaching for it—

And a gladius separated his hand from his wrist, courtesy of one of Gibzen’s men.

Marcus’s bodyguards collided with Kaira’s in a scream of men and horses.

But the Gamdeshian princess was proving all the rumors about her were true.

Sword in hand, she cut down one, two, three of Gibzen’s men like they were untrained boys, moving faster than any person should, her blade a blur of steel. They tried to back off, regrouping to attack her as one, but Kaira didn’t give them the opportunity, throwing herself at the men.

More legion reinforcements arrived, the ground thick with men and glittering steel all intent on killing her.

But Kaira was the heart of this city, of this nation. Their spirit and motivation, and if she died, she would become a martyr to fuel the anger of generations.

“Don’t kill her!” Marcus screamed. “Kill the others, but not the woman!”

His men obeyed without hesitation and hurled spears at her soldiers, steel lengths punching through leather and armor.

Kaira fought on.

More men dropped, the ground littered with dying legionnaires. Yet within heartbeats Kaira stood alone, facing a bristling wall of shields and spears on all sides. Marcus saw the rage on his men’s faces over their fallen comrades. Their need for revenge.

Kill her, the voice ordered. She is your enemy.

Except that would be a mistake. That would ensure a never-ending war like in Bardeen and Chersome, generations falling only for their orphans to pick up their weapons and fight all the harder.

“Don’t hurt her,” Marcus roared, riding his horse in a circle around the men. “We need her alive!”

Too late, he realized his mistake.

Understanding flashed in Kaira’s eyes, followed with grim determination. Snatching up a fallen legionnaire’s spear, she threw the weapon.

Straight at Marcus’s face.

His mare reared, lifting him high even as the spear flew.

It struck him in the torso, punching through his breastplate.

Pain lanced through Marcus’s body, only instinct making him fling himself clear of the falling horse.

Marcus hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his chest.

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t order his men to hold.

Wrenching the spear from his breastplate, Marcus rolled onto all fours, gasping as he staggered to his feet. “Don’t…”

It was too late.

Kaira was on the ground, six spears embedded in her body.

“No!” He staggered through his men. “Get a surgeon! We need her alive!”

Falling to his knees next to Kaira, Marcus took in her injuries and knew there was no saving her. That even if one of the healers in Revat rode at a gallop, they wouldn’t make it in time to save the woman who’d fought so hard to defend the city.

Kaira’s brown eyes met his, hate filling their depths. “You might win this battle, Legatus,” she whispered. “But you will not win the war. And the Six as my witness, I curse you to die gasping for breath that will not come.”

Then she went still.

Marcus stared into her unseeing eyes, watching the light fade from them as death took her. Blood ran down his chest from where the spear had punctured his breastplate, but he barely felt the pain. What did it matter in the face of what was to come?

“Marcus!” Felix dropped to his knees next to him. “He’s injured! Get a medic!”

Marcus ignored him, his attention snapping to Gibzen, who stooped to retrieve Kaira’s still smoldering torch.

“No!” Marcus tried to shout, but it came out as a wheeze, panic and pain inviting an attack down upon him.

“Get a stretcher!” someone ordered, then he was being lifted out of the riverbed. Moved out of danger.

“Stop!” The word was nothing more than a whisper because Marcus could not breathe.

“It’s okay,” Felix said. “We’ve pulled the men back. They’re moving out of the flood path.”

Yet distant screams filled the air.

Marcus turned his head, eyes drawn to the city. One of the god towers tilted, fractured by the bombardment of the catapults.

It began to fall.

Slowly at first, then faster. Falling until it struck the tower next to it with a noise like thunder.

Yet for all the horror, Marcus’s instincts screamed that the threat was behind him. As everyone moved away from the towering dam of stone and wood that held back a lake full of water, his eyes tracked to Gibzen.

He was walking toward the fuse line, burning torching in hand.

Gibzen was going to flood the city.

Marcus had to stop him.

This wasn’t the plan, had never been the plan. Only a threat that he’d never intended to follow through on.

He had to stop his primus, but Marcus couldn’t get in the breath to speak the order.

“Marcus!” Felix tore at the buckles on his armor even as Marcus tried to push him away. He reached out a hand toward Gibzen, who was staring in fascination at the dam.

“Stop!” Marcus gasped. “Stop him!”

But the words were just wheezes of air.

“The rest of the towers are collapsing!” someone shouted. “Look!”

Like the death of one had been the death of all, one tower hit the next and the next, laying waste to Revat until only a singular black spike reared in the air.

The Seventh God’s tower trembled. Not with instability, but with laughter. It turned, flaming eyes staring into Marcus’s soul.

This is who you are, the voice whispered.

A part of Marcus, deep down, wanted to rail against the voice’s condemnation. Wanted to cling to the dream that there was another path forward for him. Another life. But every time he reached for that path, it hurt in every possible way.

Accept that this is what you are.

Do not resist this destiny.

Marcus tasted blood as he warred against that certainty.

Warred… and lost.

As he conceded to the voice, Marcus found that he could breathe again, each inhalation clearing away grief and terror and pain until only clarity of purpose remained.

He turned his head away from the towers to where Gibzen stood holding the burning torch. His Primus’s eyes locked with his.

Then Gibzen lit the fuse.