The Volgar began to shift and scream, batting their wings and snapping their beaks, the scent of blood stealing their sense and luring them into a collective lean.
“Arrows!” Kjell yelled, and the villagers shielded their ears with bloodied palms, preparing for Boom to repeat the word.
“Arrows,” Boom repeated, the word reverberating over the wall and down into the trees. The archers obeyed.
The eager screeching became desperate confusion as birdmen fell and others teetered, abandoning the exposure on the ramparts for the blood below. Bodies began to collide with the vines, and the people of Caarn began the coordinated slaughter of hundreds of Volgar birdmen.
“Lances—”
“Scatter!”
“Circle—”
“Attack!”
Kill and repeat. Jab and retreat. One by one, the Volgar fell beneath the onslaught, ensnared and skewered or trapped in the vines beneath the bodies of the dead and dying. The volley from the forest continued, urging the birdmen to drop from the wall into the nets below.
The Volgar were not the only ones to fall. A birdman broke through, his talons extended, and sunk his beak into the back of the Sea Changer before being brought down by a dozen lances.
Kjell dragged the man to a barrel of ale and stuffed him inside, commanding that he change. The wounded man became a silvery trout an instant before Kjell plucked him out again and tossed him to the ground. The Changer morphed immediately, dripping and naked, but completely healed. He donned his sopping clothes and took up his spear.
Each time the Volgar would break through, a skirmish ensued, circling villagers with upraised spears facing the talons and beaks of enraged birdmen, and more often than not, bringing them down.
When the net began to bulge and break, the edges snapping like frayed rigging in a hurricane, Kjell gave the warning to abandon the bailey.
“Gate!” Kjell shouted.
“Gate!” Boom repeated, and the villagers in the courtyard ran for the entrance, pressing themselves against the castle walls as they filed out beneath the hastily-raised gate.
“Burn it down, Isak,” Kjell commanded, making sure the bailey was clear.
Isak began to pummel the air, his fire-filled fists swinging left and right, releasing flames that billowed upward, engulfing the center of the enormous net in fire.
The archers had heard the signal and were waiting to provide cover. As the people began to spill out the castle gate, the Volgar who’d resisted the lure of fresh blood and avoided the arrows of the archers in the trees, began to dive from the ramparts, desperate to snatch supper from the chaos. One woman was seconds from being swept up when suddenly she was the size of a small mouse. She scurried away, unscathed as the birdman above her collided with the ground and was instantly surrounded and impaled.
Some birdmen tried to fly, their wings on fire, only to tumble to the earth, unable to continue. But when the winds chased the fire, and the rain chased the flames, the remaining birdmen took to the sky, their numbers a tattered fraction of what they’d been before.
***
Kjell began to move through the villagers, closing the oozing cuts across their palms, seeking out the wounded and the dead. The villagers clutched his hands in thanks, their eyes heavy with gratitude.
“Do you think they will return, Captain?” they asked, hopeful and hesitant.
“If they do, we will destroy them,” he reassured, and they nodded, believing him.
So many had been destroyed. The smoldering pile of Volgar remains tinged the air with a green haze. Bits of flotsam floated and flurried, causing the people of Caarn to cover their mouths and cough as they found each other amid the smoke. Tiras had changed and now circled the skies above Caarn, keeping watch in case of an unexpected return.
“Is everyone accounted for?” Kjell pressed, his eyes on the triumphant archers flooding the bailey from the woods, embracing each other and recounting the battle from where they’d stood.
His question was met with blank stares and furrowed brows, as one man questioned another, unable to give him a response.
“Is everyone accounted for?” Kjell raised his voice above the din. “Where are your wounded?”
“The kitchen, Captain. The queen, the midwife, and Tess are providing aid, water, and bandages there,” Jerick answered, pushing through the bailey toward him.
“And King Aren?”
“He was in the rear with me. We almost lost Gaspar, but His Majesty was able to briefly spin and give him cover. The birdman got a beakful of green leaves before we took him down. The king was shaken but unharmed, and Gaspar has a broken arm. He might appreciate a Healer in the kitchen, although the queen might not.”
Jerick grinned as if it had all been a marvelous adventure, as if he enjoyed irritated females and the smell of Volgar flesh. Kjell found himself grinning back. If Sasha’s irritation was the worst he would suffer this day, he would count himself a lucky man. She had not been pleased when Kjell had ringed her with his men. She’d clutched her sharpened stick with annoyance and sliced her palm alongside the others, but she’d been shadowed and preempted with every parry and thrust. Kjell had known exactly where she was every second of the conflict.
He moved through the corridors to the kitchen, taking stock and counting heads as he went. When he saw her, the pressure in his chest and the ache in his belly eased. Her nose was smudged with soot and a few curls twined around her cheeks, but she was whole. Well. Busy. Kjell looked around for Gaspar and immediately located the watchman, curled in the corner. Gaspar’s face was pale with suffering, his arm clutched against his abdomen, his cat-eyes glittering with pain. Kjell crouched in front of him and touched his thrumming heart, listening for the tone that would ease his suffering. Gaspar had come to Caarn after the border had opened. It would take no effort to heal him.
Gaspar’s healing sound was more like a purr—cats were not famed for their song—and Kjell pulled the rattling vibrations into himself, setting the broken bone and quelling Gaspar’s pain with an ease that had him stepping away and looking for someone else to assist.
“The king is still in the woods, Captain,” Gaspar exhaled, his relief so great his words were slurred and his eyes fluttered closed. “He wanted a moment by himself, but you should see to him. He was . . . troubled.”
The king was not hard to find. He stood propped against the gate that led to the western wood, his eyes on the queen’s garden, a hand pressed to his heart as though lost in pleasant remembrance. It was a peaceful spot, and Kjell could not fault the man for needing a chance to collect himself.
“We’ve defeated them, Captain,” Aren said as Kjell approached. He remained slumped, his eyes still clinging to his own thoughts.
“Yes. For now. Maybe forever. But some of the villagers were injured. Some were lost, Majesty,” Kjell answered.
“Most were saved,” Aren replied, and his gaze shifted from the queen’s garden and rested on Kjell. He pushed himself away from the wall with the hand that had rested on his chest.
“You’re wounded,” Kjell gasped. The king’s hand was slick and scarlet with blood. Kjell yanked the king’s cloak aside, revealing a saturated tunic and Aren’s arm tucked firmly against his body, attempting to stem the flow.
The king staggered, and Kjell took his weight, easing him to the ground.
“You are the son of Koorah, Captain. Of that I have no doubt. I can see her in you. Like you, she was convinced she had nothing to offer. She never wanted to be queen. But she would have been a good queen. And you will be a good king,” Aren reassured.