Lain woke after a night of restless dreaming and left her tent, blinking against the glare on the river. The wyrms were still, their dark bodies stretched along the shallows, scales glimmering like wet obsidian.
After her morning ablutions she sat on the grass for a moment, steadying her hand on the earth. Instead of seeking out the Underserpent, she felt the faint vibration of the small wyrm she’d summoned when they’d first come to the river. It moved restlessly in its sleep, responding to her presence. She drew her cloak tight and listened more deeply. The pulse came again, steady and patient.
The bloodwyrms nearest her stirred faintly, their manes rippling. She wondered if they liked the other serpents. She wondered if they could sense them, too.
Sena was crouched by a nearby fire, boiling water for tea. “You didn’t sleep,” she said.
“No one did,” Lain murmured.
“Have some tea.” She passed Lain a cup. “The air’s too clean. It feels like something’s about to break.”
Lain took the cup and let it warm her hands. The sun caught on the water and turned the whole river into a sheet of white.
“Sena.”
Sena hummed in acknowledgement.
“Can you feel the wyrms, too? When you put your hand to the earth?”
Sena smiled, the expression small and tired. “Of course I can. I’m Kelthi.”
“Do they listen when you ask them things?”
She frowned. “No. That’s only the Tuned. Though we can share feelings, through the bells sometimes – small things. But not words. All the Kelthi sing to them though. They like the sound of bells and voices alike.”
“Do you have a bell?”
Sena’s smile faltered. “Once upon a time.” Her gaze drifted toward the city. “But I lost it, when I lost my family. I think about it sometimes, the way it sounded. I still dream of that chime.”
Lain put her hand on the bandolier crossing her chest. Her fingers brushed over the two bells fastened there – hers, and her father’s. She brought out the older one.
“This bell was my father’s,” she said. “I never knew him. Elder Tanel kept my bell. He gave it to me before I – before the sacrifice.” She swallowed. “It just occurred to me he probably wasn’t supposed to do that. He was probably supposed to destroy it.” Her eyes watered. “So many little things. Little acts of love.” Sena watched her carefully and Lain swallowed. “I still have it. But maybe, if you were family, my father’s bell will resonate with you.”
Sena blinked, startled, as Lain pressed the bell into her hand. It was cool from the morning air, smooth and unassuming, yet the moment Lain shared it, the faintest tremor passed through both hands.
“Family,” Sena said softly. “You’d call me that?”
“I already do.” Lain’s smile trembled. “When this is done, when the wyrm is free, I’ll take you to Vaelun.”
“What’s Vaelun?”
“A Kelthi village. It’s a secret place, you mustn’t tell anyone. But it’s safe there. I want you to see it. Promise me you’ll tell no one. Not even Morgan.”
“I promise.” Sena looked down at the bell again, rubbing it gently with her thumb. “I used to think I wasn’t afraid of anything. But I am.” Her voice cracked. “I’m afraid of being alone again. Of outliving everyone who’s ever cared about me.”
Lain’s chest ached. “You won’t.”
Sena smiled faintly. “Don’t make promises like that.” She drew a long breath. “You know what’s strange? I think Rhalir understands that fear better than anyone. He hides it, but I see it sometimes. The way he watches others, like he’s already memorizing the shape of their graves.”
Lain put a hand on her shoulder, the Tuning affirming her thought. “You care for him.”
Sena looked away with the ghost of a laugh. “It’s foolish. He treats me like a refugee half in need of saving. Maybe he’s right. There’s no time for anything like that now anyway, not while Morgan’s fighting to hold all this together. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t distract him.”
“You’re just loyal, Sena. There’s nothing foolish about that.”
Sena’s hand tightened around the bell. “It’s not just loyalty. It’s longing, too. And it hurts to carry, but I think I’d rather carry it than let it die. He gave me faith again, in small ways. Not in gods, but in people. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
Lain reached for her hand, squeezing it. “You deserve to be seen, too. For what you are.”
Sena smiled through the shimmer of tears. “Maybe one day. If we ever get that far.” She paused for a moment. Then: “What am I, anyway?”
Lain smiled. “You’re brave. You’re clever. You’re thoughtful. You cuddle wonderfully when you’re drunk.” Sena laughed. “You taste heavenly.” Their tails coiled together behind them. “And you see what’s real in others. That’s a true gift.”
Sena raised the little bell, removing its leather cap. She rang it once, a soft, perfect note, as if it had decided for them both.
Behind them, the camp hummed in preparation, the sound of armor being lifted and blades being sharpened on stone.
Finally Sena whispered, “You’ll show me Vaelun?”
“Yes.” Lain squeezed her hand. “When this is over.”
Sena smiled. “Then we’ll both have a home again.”
The quiet promise lingered between them before another sound broke it.
A horn.
It came from the ridge to the west, long and low, cutting across the river’s bright roar.
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Lain and Sena’s ears pointed straight up. “That’s not one of ours,” Lain said.
Another horn answered in a short, sharp bleat. Then came the thud of hooves. Voices rose from the perimeter of the camp. The Ashborn were already moving, snatching up spears and checking bowstrings. Bloodwyrms lifted their heads from the shallows.
Rhalir appeared at the edge of the camp, fastening his armor, his tail slashing the air. “Scouts returning!” he shouted.
Lain and Sena rose at once, Mallow already at their right. Across the bridge, two riders galloped toward them through the morning glare, mud fanning from their horses’ hooves. One bled freely from a slash at his side. The other’s right arm was limp, and it took a moment for Lain to realize why: an arrow protruded from his shoulder.
They reined in before Morgan’s tent and Morgan exited at once. The bleeding man half-fell from his horse and went to one knee, still clutching the reins. Sena leapt into action, calling to the other aides for hot water and clean linens as she pressed her own apron to his wound.
“The Brighthand are moving,” he gasped. “Two battalions, maybe more. Coming down from the northern pass. They’ve crossed the high road. They’ll be here by nightfall.”
The other scout swung down with the help of Rhalir and another man. He shook his head grimly. “They’re not marching for parley this time, my lord. They mean to crush us against the city gates.”
A murmur swept the camp. Lain felt it through her hooves as boots shifted, the subtle panic of men who knew they were outnumbered.
The sun flashed off the metal of Morgan’s bracers and the edge of his blade. His expression was calm. “How many?”
“Six hundred, maybe more,” said the scout who’d been shot. “Heavy infantry at the front, archers behind. The Dagorlind flag rides at their center.”
Morgan nodded, the motion decisive. “And the bridge?”
“They’ll take it by dusk. There’s nowhere else to cross.”
The silence that followed was taut. Aides arrived with steaming water and bandages. Morgan waved the injured men off, thanking them for their service, and just as quickly as they’d come they were gone to the freshly appointed infirmary tent.
“We can take out the bridge,” one of the captains said. “They’d have to go around the far side, it would take them days.”
“We would cut off our own retreat,” said another man. “We must be able to control the high road if we are to survive the Dagorlind’s extant forces.”
“Rhalir,” Morgan said. “Assemble the captains. We plan at once.”
His gaze hooked into Lain. “Come,” he said quietly. He put his arm around her shoulder and led her away from the others.
Lain’s throat was dry when she spoke. “Peter said they were calling in reinforcements.”
“I expected it,” he said. “I did not expect the numbers.” He looked toward the sun, then down to the river, where the wyrms waited, their bodies stirring uneasily. “You feel it, don’t you?”
She nodded. “The smaller one’s awake. It’s restless.”
“Good.” Morgan’s voice softened in a way that made her stomach turn. His arm slid from her shoulders and he turned to face her. “You may need its aid once more.”
Lain looked sharply at him. “What are you asking me to do?”
“There are two paths before us now, and only one will end in survival.” He studied her face for a long moment. “The Dagorlind intend to corner us. They’ll pin us between water and wall. Once they take the bridge – or if we take it down ourselves – we’ll have nowhere to retreat. They’re counting on that.”
Lain’s stomach knotted. “What do we do?”
He stepped closer. The sunlight made a pale edge of his hair, the gleam of his armor catching in her eyes. “The first is simple enough. You call a storm. Flood the river, drown their defenses, and sweep the lower wards of Ivath. The water will rise fast – faster than they can escape. When it recedes, we take the city. Defend ourselves from within.”
She stared at him. “There are hundreds of people in those wards.”
“Yes,” he said. “Hundreds who have been given a chance to flee. Those who remain would die quickly. And it would give us the walls. We would have to move our camp to the far side of the river, which may take time we do not have. And if we can’t drain the city quickly enough, we may lose our advantage altogether, with the flooded field behind us.”
“What’s the second option?”
He glanced upriver, toward the ridge where the scouts had come from. “The Brighthand reinforcements will arrive by dusk. There’s only one bridge, one narrow throat. If you catch them before they arrive, you can break the far side with a tremor. Flood the east end the way you flooded the west. Crush them before they reach us. My bloodwyrms use the remains of their army to expand our forces. It would end the siege entirely.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “You’re asking me to choose who dies.”
“I’m asking you to decide who lives,” he said softly. “The river or the ridge. The innocent or the armed. Either path buys us survival, but only one strengthens us.”
He took another step forward, bringing the back of his hand gently to the scales at her throat. What little of the Heat remained responded to the touch of her bonded partner the way it was meant to, with yearning.
“Every death on the field will feed the wyrms. Their blood will make us stronger.”
She could feel it through the bond, the strange electricity that linked them to him, and him to her. They were restless, hungry.
Her voice came out small. “What if I refuse?”
He turned his hand so his palm faced her throat, stroking his thumb under her chin, caressing the scales at the side of her neck with his fingertips.
“They’ll cross the bridge,” he said softly, running his thumb across her throat in the tenderest of threats. “We’ll die before sunset.”
He brought his hand up to brush that same thumb across her cheek. “I won’t force you, Lain. Not like last time. I want us to be as equals. But remember. The world is waiting for someone to save it.”
Some hours later, they brought Lain to the river’s edge.
The water ran high from the week’s rains and the snowmelt from the mountains, white at the bends where it struck against stone. It cascaded down several slopes until it reached the bridge, frothing beneath it and carrying on in a snaking line that softened as it grew deeper. Beyond the far bank, the mountains sloped upward in ribs of granite and pine. The sky was too clean and blue for what was coming.
Rhalir waited with the others near the bridge, his armor darkly oiled. Mallow stood a little apart from the rest, sword unsheathed, his posture rigid as if ready to stop something he was powerless against. None spoke.
Lain stepped forward until the tips of her hooves touched the waterline. The river was shockingly cold.
She could feel the Brighthand before she saw them. Hundreds of feet pounded the frozen ground, the muted thunder of formation. The sun caught on their armor as they came into view in a long line of steel.
Morgan stood a little way behind her, the wind pulling his cloak to one side.
Lain folded to the ground and closed her eyes.
She pressed her palm to the earth. The pulse of the small serpent answered her touch, deep and coiled, spined and waiting.
She felt Morgan through the bond, his calm presence sliding along the edges of her mind, whispering wordless instructions to his wyrms.
The serpent beneath the earth stirred. Its movement brushed her mind like a pebble rolling down a ravine, and then she felt everything at once: the packed mud of the riverbed, the stone veins of the ridge, the endless pressure of the mountain’s heart. She could feel the weight of the approaching army, every hoofbeat, every armored stride, pressing down on the far bank.
Her fingers dug into the wet soil.
“At your will, Bellborn,” Morgan said.
Lain lifted the bell from the bandolier and gave one bright ring.
She sang the Tremor Song.
Sleep no longer, heart of stone,
Stir the veins that bind the bone.
Wake, O wyrm beneath the deep,
Shake the world from holy sleep.
The song hummed against her teeth, the vibration traveling from jaw to bone to earth. The serpent woke.