Page 116 of The Cradle of Ice

For most of the day and well into the night, Mikaen had waged this war in the shadow of the mountainous Shaar Ga. The volcanic peak glowed in the distance through the dense pall of ash and fumes that had spewed endlessly from its fiery cone. What seemed like ages ago, he had arrived at the smoky wall of the Breath, the leagues-wide band of ash and fumes that divided Hálendii from the Southern Klashe. He had intended to ambush one, if not both, of the giant Klashean warships, to drive them back to their homelands.

Regrettably, the two warships had split off before he could engage. Mikaen was left with only one stubborn target: the Hawk’s Talon. It was said to be captained by one of the emperor’s sons. His opponent proved to be craftier than expected, coming close to escaping Mikaen’s ambush—until finally the Talon and its escorts had been pinned down and trapped against the fiery flanks of Shaar Ga.

The battle that followed had been fierce, but the end was inevitable.

Mikaen tilted onto his toes to stare below the raft as it circled toward its target.

The Talon hung crooked in the skies under them, smoking from countless fires. Its balloon had been shredded by bombs and fiery spears. Only a couple baffles of its gasbag still billowed and rocked, but they were not enough to hold the ship aloft. Its draft-iron prow—sculpted into the crested crown and hooked beak of a mountain hawk—pointed high, as if struggling to hold on to the sky. Its stern lay low, dragging through the pall.

All that was holding the ship in the air were two huge grappling cables that had snagged the Talon’s flanks and ran up to Mikaen’s warship, proving his Winged Vengeance had the sharper claws.

A large hand clapped Mikaen on his shoulder. He glanced back at the crimson countenance of the Vyrllian knight, the captain of his Silvergard. The left side of the man’s face bore a tattooed sigil of a sun and crown, a match to what was etched on Mikaen’s mask.

“Well fought, sir,” Thoryn said. “Your father will be proud.”

Mikaen turned away, shaking off the man’s large hand. He had not flown out into the darkness of the Breath and fought so tenaciously for mere accolades. That was not what fired his fury, his determination.

Instead, he pictured Othan and Olia, suckling on his wife’s breasts. The twins were all that mattered. His chest tightened at the thought of them. Even now, he could taste the sweetness of that milk on his tongue, where he had gently licked the drops from Myella’s broad nipples, bonding him closer to his children.

Months ago, he had sworn an oath upon their birth, amidst the blood and squalling.

No harm or hardship must ever come to them.

He would die before he let that promise be broken.

“The battle is not over yet,” Mikaen growled back at Thoryn.

Below, on the tilted deck of the Talon, a ferocious fight continued between the Hálendiian knights and the last of the Klashean guardsmen. The brawl was lit by flames. Bodies lay everywhere.

“Get us down there,” Mikaen gritted out, bristling with frustration. He was determined to shine, if only at the end of this battle.

While the Winged Vengeance was under Mikaen’s captaincy, he had not truly led this campaign. Before the fleet had left Azantiia, the king had foisted the kingdom’s new war leader, Liege General Reddak vy Lach—freshly promoted from head of the Vyrllian Guard—upon Mikaen. While the prince’s counsel and input had been listened to, often even heeded, it was Reddak who had final say.

Still, over the course of the day, Mikaen had come to respect the stern warrior’s knowledge of tactics and strategy—if not his overly cautious nature. Mikaen had been kept back from the worst of the battle. Reddak had circled the Vengeance at a safe distance from the fiercest fighting, mainly plying the warship’s bulk to keep their prey trapped. Only after the Talon had been defanged was the Vengeance allowed to swoop in for the kill.

Still, while Reddak had been distracted, Mikaen had gathered his nine Silvergard and abandoned the Vengeance, flying off in one of the warship’s sailrafts. He was determined to bloody his sword, and more importantly, he must be the one who ultimately secured the Talon.

The sailraft made one final circle, then dove under the ruins of Talon’s massive gasbag. The pilot proved his skill by expertly skidding the raft across the smoky deck and coming to a hard stop.

Mikaen turned toward the back as the stern door crashed to the planks outside.

Thoryn blocked his way with a steel-clad arm. “Stay close to us.”

Normally, Mikaen would have rebuffed such an order, but Thoryn had earned his status as captain of the Silvergard. If not for the Vyrllian, Mikaen would have suffered far worse than a scarred face from that ax blow. In respect for that act, Mikaen simply nodded. But there would come a time when Mikaen must step out of the man’s considerable shadow, to shine like a silvery sun and herald a new dawn for Hálendii.

Until then …

Thoryn barked and tightened the Silvergard around the prince. Together, they pounded out of the raft’s stern. The heat struck like a fist, both from the scatter of fiery blast holes in the deck and the scorch of Shaar Ga’s smoke. Flaming ash swirled all around. Screams and cries pierced the winds. The strike of steel echoed everywhere.

“This way!” Thoryn called out.

Mikaen followed at his back, using Thoryn’s body like a shield. The other Silvergard closed a sharp phalanx around them, forming a deadly arrow. They sped across the deck toward the stubbornest fighting, climbing toward the ship’s forecastle.

Upon reaching the snarl of armor and ringing steel, they crashed headlong into the midst. Mikaen did not hold back or shy away. With sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, he let loose his frustrated fury. He had been hard-trained in the Legionary and sparred regularly with Thoryn. He wanted to scream and bellow as he fought, but it was Thoryn who had taught him that the most skilled fighter was the silent one.

With his lips clamped, breathing through his nose, he hewed and stabbed and slashed. Thoryn stayed at his shoulder, adding to his effort but giving Mikaen full rein. The captain only corrected—teaching even now—whenever the prince misstepped.

Together, they forged through the remaining Klashean guards. While Mikaen savored each kill, he knew it was enabled by the trembling exhaustion in this last stand of defenders. It was less a glorious battle than a quick slaughter.