“And Nyphron?” Harkon asked. “If things don’t go well, will he retreat?”
“I don’t think Nyphron or his Galantians understand that concept,” Tegan said. “They always assume they’ll win.”
“Let’s hope there’s good reason for that.” Persephone straightened up. She kept reminding herself to stand tall. Her mother had always complained about her bad posture. No one will respect the wife of a chieftain who hunches over like a troll. Her mother could never have imagined that Persephone would be a chieftain, much less the keenig, but Persephone guessed the advice was still valid.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Krugen said.
“Then pray this is not that time.”
True to his word, Nyphron hadn’t asked a single human to cross the bridge with him. Persephone’s army was barely in sight of the Fhrey forming on the far side of the Bern. The Gula were even farther away—more than a mile—having formed on the crest of the high plain. That was the way Nyphron wanted it. Persephone hoped that his plan was designed to give them ample time to scatter if something went wrong, but Tegan was correct: Galantians didn’t understand defeat. She agreed that the odds of Nyphron anticipating failure were equal to his expecting a day without a sunrise.
From the vantage point of Misery Rock, Persephone could see the Galantians approach Alon Rhist. The little troop of Fhrey appeared like a line of seven ants. They reached the bridge and without hesitation began to cross.
Trying to see better, Persephone took a step forward, forgetting—if only for that instant—that she was standing near a deadly precipice. Raithe caught her by the arm, silently reminding her of the danger and his concern for her. She glanced at him, and Raithe let go, looking embarrassed.
Harkon, the Chieftain of Clan Melen, shook his head in awe. “Fearless.”
“Crazy,” muttered Krugen, whose only interest beyond fine clothing was sleep—something the man did a great deal of, snoring far too loudly to hide the fact.
“Why isn’t anyone stopping them?” Lipit asked.
“Same reason you wait when catching rabbits,” Raithe replied. “Better to be sure you have them fully in the snare before pulling it closed.”
Persephone’s hands resumed their fists, and much to the dismay of her dead mother, she was imitating a troll again.
“What’s that?” Krugen pointed.
“Do you see it?” Harkon asked. “On the plain—on our side!”
“More Fhrey,” Raithe said.
Persephone saw them as well. Two dozen bronze-armored warriors had appeared out of nowhere, cutting off Nyphron’s retreat.
“Where’d they come from?” Tegan asked.
“Cracks,” Raithe explained. “The rocks out there are split with fissures and fractures. You can get into them, cover yourself in a dirt-colored blanket, and an enemy will walk right by. We did it all the time.”
“Shouldn’t Nyphron know about that?” Krugen asked.
“And there you have it—not as smart as he thinks,” Raithe concluded with a morbid, self-righteous tone. Persephone knew he was directing his frustration at Nyphron, but she felt it spilling on her. After all, she had been the one who had sanctioned this action. The callousness of his cold judgment stung because he’d been right, and she hadn’t listened.
“Do you think they planned for this?” Alward of the Nadak pleaded as if those gathered on that rock could grant wishes.
“The Galantians?” Tegan said with an incredulous expression. “They don’t plan for anything. Forethought ruins the adventure, I’m told.”
Alward frowned, his mouth still partially open, his shoulders slumping.
Persephone took another step forward. Once more, Raithe grabbed her arm.
The first time was bad enough; twice was uncalled for. Persephone was about to chide him, but then she looked down and saw she was less than a foot from the edge. Sucking in a short breath, she drew back.
“Can’t afford to lose both you and the Galantians in one afternoon,” Raithe said.
Lose them? The idea, so impossible, coalesced for the first time. What if they are killed or taken? What happens to them? What happens to us?
Persephone looked down at the hundreds of her people nearby and out beyond them at the thousands. She turned to reassure herself that Suri was still there. The girl had leveled a mountain, so she ought to be able to protect them from a few hundred Fhrey. That was why she was on the rock, why Persephone had insisted she come. But Persephone had no real clue how magic worked, what Suri was really able to do. And the mystic had embraced Arion’s distaste for killing. A good thing, Persephone often told herself, but just then she wasn’t so certain.
She noticed the black patch on the plain, the village that had once housed forty families, and she wondered if she’d made her first and last mistake as the Keenig of the Ten Clans.
* * *
—
Clutching the rolled-up flag in his right hand, Nyphron led his Galantians across the Grandford Bridge toward the bronze gates. Forty feet above the entrance, the crossed-spears symbol of onetime fane Alon Rhist frowned down. It would have been damn hard to erase, but the fact that Petragar hadn’t tried illustrated the difference between the current ruler of the Rhist and himself—one of the differences. Only Ferrol knew how long that particular list might be if anyone thought to sit and compare. Nyphron imagined that he and Petragar didn’t even chew food the same way. If the situation were reversed, Nyphron’s own symbol would have replaced the mark of Rhist. Nyphron didn’t have a symbol yet, but he would soon—a dragon or perhaps a lion—something fierce, something powerful, something worthy. All great leaders needed to leave their mark on the world, and he would have already chiseled his on that wall.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Sikar said, standing first and foremost among a brace of shields at the far end of the bridge. He wore full armor, as if he expected trouble. He also wore the red-plumed crest on his helm, an indication that the spear commander had risen in rank since the Galantians’ banishment.
“Couldn’t stay away.” Tekchin threw out his arms and puckered kisses at Sikar. “We missed you too much.”
Sikar frowned and shook his head. The captain of the Rhist wasn’t in a joking mood. “You’re an idiot, Tekchin.” His gaze moved to Grygor and paused briefly on the wooden box the giant carried, then it shifted to the flag in Nyphron’s hand. “Surrender or truce flag?”
Elysan, an older Fhrey who had been a close friend and adviser to Nyphron’s father, stood on Sikar’s right and answered first. “Truce. When have you known the Galantians to surrender?”