But where was Dacha?
Fieran used the low wall at the edge of the bridge to push himself to his feet. He let just a hint of his magic flow through his veins, steadying him, as he half-ran, half-stumbled across the bridge and peered over the far side.
Dacha lay on the riverbed, unmoving, his silver-blond hair splayed across the mud.
No.No.
“Dacha!” Fieran flung himself over the side of the bridge, landing in the mud with a squelch. He sank all the way to his ankles in the muck of what had once been the silty, plant-filled bottom of the shallow river. Slipping and sliding, he scrambled to Dacha’s side, falling into his knees in the mud.
“Dacha, wake up. Don’t be dead.” He pulled his dacha from the mud, even as his dacha’s head lolled, his body limp. “Dacha!”
With shaking hands, Fieran pressed his fingers to the side of Dacha’s neck.
He couldn’t feel a pulse. Not past the pounding of his own pulse beneath his skin. His own heart thundered in his ears, hammering in his chest as if he had a galloping horse lodged behind his ribs.
No. Dacha couldn’t be dead. He simply couldn’t.
Something whipped past Fieran’s face before thwacking into the stone of one of the pillars holding up the half bridge.
His magic reacted, blasting outward around him and Dacha before he’d even registered what it was.
A bullet.
More bullets flared against his shield of magic as they were incinerated. The rumble of gasoline engines and barking of machine guns filled the air past the fading ringing in his ears.
He dragged his gaze away from Dacha and up to the far bank of what had once been the river.
There, a line of men in Mongavarian uniforms jogged forward, carrying their rifles, a dark mass stretching along theriver for as far as he could see in either direction. In between their ranks, more vehicles with those tractor treads rolled forward, except these ones had large artillery guns mounted on top of the metal box instead of magical machines.
Enemy aeroplanes roared overhead before diving downward to strafe the Alliance front lines behind Fieran.
This was an invasion. Mongavaria had taken down the Wall, and now they could roll into Escarland with impunity. The Alliance front lines were dug in, but they weren’t prepared for a major invasion of this scale.
Right now, Fieran was the only one standing in the way.
He glanced down at Dacha, who lay limp and unmoving, his eyes closed. Surely that was a good sign, right? If he were dead, his eyes would be wide and soulless in that way Fieran had seen far too many times since this war began.
There was no time to pick Dacha up and try to move him to the Alliance front lines. With every moment, those vehicles crawled closer, tipping over the edge of the riverbank and plowing through the mud. Even now, the nearest vehicle lowered its huge gun to take aim at Fieran.
The enemy might have more of those machines that had captured Dacha’s magic. Fieran, too, might end up unconscious or dead on the riverbed.
None of that mattered. He would have to make his stand here.
He hadn’t worn his swords that morning. He didn’t even have his army issue rifle since he’d left that back at the hangar. But…
Fieran reached out, his heart hammering again. His fingers closed around the hilt of one of Dacha’s swords, the leather worn to the shape of his dacha’s hands.
He well remembered the first time Dacha had placed the hilt of one of these swords in Fieran’s small hands, Dacha’s far larger hand closing over his fingers to hold the sword steady.
“A sword is a weapon, not a toy, sason.” Dacha had speared Fieran with those silver-blue eyes. “When you draw your sword, you do so with the intent to draw blood. It is not an action to take without thought or honor.”
Fieran drew Dacha’s sword now, nothing but bloody intent filling his heart. He had to roll Dacha to draw the other blade before he eased Dacha back to the ground, making sure his mouth and nose were clear of the mud.
Then Fieran rose to his feet and faced the enemy, a sword in each hand. As he let his magic twine from his hands and down onto the blades, he sensed the weight of all those past warriors and kings who had wielded these swords before him settling on his shoulders and deep within his heart.
He was Laesornysh. Warrior of the magic of the ancient kings, like his dacha before him. He would stand firm, no matter how much blood and death it took.
The vehicle-mounted gun boomed, lobbing its shell in Fieran’s direction.
