Fantasy of Fire (The Tainted Accords #3)(85)

“What is that?” Jovan asks.

“A quote from the Tatum Ronsin, our great-great-grandfather. He was remembered for the most successful term of warfare against Glacium. Cassius is headstrong and inexperienced. Olandon’s right, he’ll stick to what he knows, too foolish and conceited to listen to others. And all he knows are Ronsin’s tactics,” I say in a daze. “I just don’t know which of Ronsin’s strategies he’ll use.”

Olandon stands next to me. “Ronsin’s battles number in the hundreds. He led for maybe fifteen revolutions.”

“Seventeen,” I say, with a frustrated wave. “What do we know? The army may be here, but hanging back. Three messengers have gone missing. And there is a valley that could conceal a small, handpicked force which would easily be able to evade the notice of the king’s army.” I stare at the map, tracing a finger down the valley. I walk alongside the table, following the trench down toward the middle of Glacium. My eyes continue the pathway in a straight trajectory after the valley smooths out into the normal uneven terrain of this world. My mouth dries. Dread pits in my stomach until nausea threatens to overwhelm me. I cover my mouth as Jovan grips my elbow.

“Tatum Ronsin wasn’t only remembered for his genius. He was also noted as one of the most ruthless leaders of our time.” I swallow and meet Jovan’s frantic gaze. “I shouldn’t be surprised such a plan would appeal to Cassius,” I whisper.

“What is it?” he demands.

“There was one particular battle,” I close my eyes and recite. “Twenty-four revolutions into the Great War. A small party of Ronsin’s finest warriors crept past Glacium’s army, and…”

“And slaughtered the women and children while the men battled,” Olandon finishes.

Jovan’s mouth is set in a grim line. We stay fixed on each other for a long moment. “Are you certain?” he asks.

I look helplessly up at him.

“How many would they have sent?” Jovan strides around the table, studying the map from different angles.

“Last time it was the Elite. The Tatum’s personal guard.” I look to my brother.

“Twelve is traditional,” Olandon says.

“Osolis’ finest and most lethal warriors. They are not to be underestimated,” I repeat. I had firsthand knowledge of how skilled they were.

“Fuck.” Jovan turns away. He runs a hand through his hair.

“You need to turn some men around. Now,” I say.

“Hold on,” Drummond interrupts. “How do we even know the Tatuma is right? We can’t turn men around. We need every single watchman here!”

Roscoe looks up from a stack of papers. “The same Sector is in position as it was in the 24th revolution of the Great War,” he says.

Each of us knows what that means.

“It’s too convenient.” Jovan voices our thoughts.

“Even if I’m wrong, the risk isn’t worth it. My uncle is depraved, a horrible monster. He’ll enjoy doing this. It will be his glory,” I say softly.

Shard steps up. “Time is our main disadvantage. The party we send must be small and quick. There’s no point turning half the army around. We’ll never get there in time.”

“We have knowledge of the terrain,” Jovan says, moving to the map. “That should help the force we send to catch them.”

“How many Bruma men hold the castle?” Olandon asks.

Jovan barks an order, and Malir arrives mere moments later. The king repeats Olandon’s question.

“Fifty-six, my King,” he answers.

“Skill level?” I interrupt.

“Low to moderate,” he decides.

“Not enough.” Olandon shakes his head.

“What are you thinking, brother?” I ask.

“How many of the Elite could you handle,” he asks. I quickly deliberate.

“Two if they didn’t attack at once. Then fatigue would make me easy pickings for a third.” I hear exclamations of surprise at my admission. These men know what Frost can do, but I don’t think they realize how good the Elite are. They train for hours every day. In many cases it’s not so much their skill as their endurance that wins them the fight.

“For me too,” Olandon says. “And these men,” he asks, gesturing at the barracks. I chew my lip.

“Five between them,” I say uncertainly.

“Eight in total,” Olandon mutters, turning to Ashawn. “Ashawn is very good. I believe he could take down an Elite.”

“Ashawn needs to be here in case Jovan falls,” I say, bile rising at the thought. “Rhone and Malir could match their skill, but then who would command the army?” I ask Jovan.

The king looks at the battle plan in front of him. “Their inferiors can take over. Not ideal, but it can be done.”

Olandon is still frowning. “Too even for my liking,” he mutters.

“Don’t forget the fifty-six men,” I remind him.

“They’ll be dead by the time we get there,” he says. “They’ll give us time, but won’t stop the Elite.”

“Of course,” I say impatiently. Someone exclaims behind me. “But killing fifty-six men still requires them to use energy. They’ll be tired.”