Warrior Witch (The Malediction Trilogy #3)(96)

But none of that mattered. Not caring about the risk, I hung half over the wall, searching for Fred amongst the teeming mass. “Fred,” I screamed again. “Marc, find him!”

His silver eyes searched with no more success than mine, but before he could do more, stone shattered and a section of the wall collapsed. Shaking his head at me, he ran in the direction of the breach.

I didn’t know what to do. Even if I didn’t break both my legs jumping from this height, I was likely to be crushed by those beneath, most of whom were significantly larger than I was. But my brother was down there. My brother.

There was only one thing I could do, and if it gave away that I was alive, that Tristan was alive, then so be it.

I began to sing.

The islanders stilled, then sank down into the mud, their faces serene as they listened. I searched amongst them for my brother, relief crashing through me as I saw him struggle out from under the limbs of a pair of men, then drag himself away from the crush of humanity. His arm was bleeding profusely, but he was alive.

For now.

Because amongst the seated humans, there stood several cloaked figures who were unaffected by my magic. Not all of Angoulême’s followers had been killed. Not even close.

As one, they attacked, hammering against the half-bloods’ shields, and when those fell, the thick rock beneath. Sections of the wall crumbled or were blown inwards, and everywhere, everywhere, there was screaming. Great pieces of stone fell on the islanders below, their serene faces never registering fear as they were crushed, maimed, and killed. The soldiers behind me fought valiantly against the trolls who strolled in through the breaks in the wall, stepping on fallen humans like they were cobbles of a paved street. I hazarded a glance back and saw Marc fighting amongst them, but he was only one against dozens.

“Drop the wall and fight,” Tips roared, and the half-bloods fell into teams, sprinting down stairs and leaping off the walkway into the fray. Some threw themselves at the full-blooded trolls with no regard for their own lives, while others defended the human soldiers as they withdrew or regrouped. Some of the trolls fell, but only at incredible cost of life. We could not win this.

My voice was the only thing keeping the islanders out of the battle, but it felt like I was doing nothing. Pulling out one of my pistols, I leveled it at a troll wielding twin maces formed of magic that shattered bodies with each swing. If he was fighting like that, his shields were down. Finishing a verse, I aimed and fired, the bullet passing straight through his shoulder. He bellowed and spun around, eyes searching for the culprit.

And landing on me.

I fired with my other pistol, but he brushed the bullet aside, expression feral as he slashed an arm sideways. Half-bloods and human soldiers flung themselves at him, but it was too late, the air was already rippling with magic. Turning to the wall, I lunged toward a break in the parapet, and toppled over the edge.

I clenched my teeth for the impact, ready to start singing no matter how many bones I broke, because if I didn’t, the resurgence of the mob would trample me to death.

But the impact never came.

Instead, arms broke my fall, a familiar face appearing in my line of sight.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Martin said, winding his way through the islanders as they stirred. He started to say something else, but his voice was drowned out by the blare of a horn. Not the horn Angoulême’s followers had used in their attack, but the great horn of Trollus. It blared again, then I caught sight of movement in the trees and trolls broke into the open, sprinting our direction. Hundreds of them.

“I brought reinforcements,” Martin said. “Now let’s get out of the way.”

The citizens of Trollus descended on Trianon, some stopping to pluck the oath-sworn islanders up, drawing them back and holding them steady, while others leapt though the breaches in the wall, attacking Angoulême’s followers. They showed them no mercy, ripping them to pieces, and once the soldiers and half-bloods realized they were allies, not enemies, they roared a rallying cry. Not long after, it turned to cheers of victory.

The battle was over, and against all the odds, we had won.

But not without cost.





Chapter Fifty-Eight





Cécile





The rows of bodies seemed to go on forever.

A drop of sweat dripped into my eye, and I wiped a grimy hand across my forehead, not caring that I’d probably left a streak of blood, dirt, and worse behind. The soldier before me was breathing steadily, his chest now a network of scars rather than open wounds, but what was saving one compared to the hundreds who’d died because of my choices, my actions?

I sat back on my haunches, watching yet another cartload of sleeping islanders trundle past, headed to the prison, which had been deemed the only safe place to keep them. Except for the children – Marie had insisted they all be brought to the castle, where she’d enlisted several of the newly arrived trolls to watch over them in case any woke.

But it was a stopgap. Asleep, they could neither eat nor drink, and we hadn’t the resources to tend to each individual as we had with Aiden. The young lord remained under my spell – and Zoé’s watchful eye – his mother insisting he remain so until we’d won the day. And if we lost, well… It wouldn’t matter at that point if the King’s compulsion had destroyed his mind or not.