Iron and Magic (The Iron Covenant #1)(92)

Elara hugged her shoulders. She stood on the balcony in her quarters. In front of her the land stretched, the forest rolling into the distance, the isolated knobs silhouetted against the evening sky. By now the enemy would have attacked Aberdine.

By now Hugh would be fighting.

The worry gnawed on her. A part of her hated him for it. She wanted him back, alive, in one piece.

When she’d thought of her future husband, which she hadn’t done often, she’d always defaulted to this vague idea of a nice man. He would be kind, and calm, and he would treat her with respect, and their relationship would be peaceful and without any sharp edges. Instead she got this asshole, who made her see red at least once a day. Hugh d’Ambray was as far from nice as you could get and still remain human.

And if she could, she would sprout wings and fly to damn Aberdine to make sure he didn’t die some stupid death.

Ugh. UGH.

The familiar sound of light feet made her turn. Johanna walked into the room.

“What is it?”

“There is a problem with the pumps.”

“There can’t be a problem with the pumps.” Elara marched out of the room.





A gust of wind pulled at Hugh’s hair. The wind was rising. The fog below thinned. He could see faint outlines of the streets and Dugas and his druids below. Dugas had traded his staff for a spear. His apprentices, two men and two women, held blades, flanking him and the cauldron.

On the field the mrog troops split. Two front lines peeled off with the commander in the lead, moving east at a fast march. The remaining two lines swung toward the western gate, reforming as they moved.

A young brown-skinned girl came running out of the fog, her eyes wide. Three mrogs loped after her.

Stoyan stepped out of the fog and sliced at the mrogs. The beasts screeched, raking at him with their claws. The centurion carved at them with methodical precision, sinking his blade into flesh. Blood poured.

Hugh ignored the snarls, concentrating on the troop movement. The eastern force reformed into a rectangle, eight soldiers wide, five rows deep.

Stoyan climbed the ladder and landed next to him, splattered with blood.

The western formation swung north, closing in on the other gate. The eastern formation advanced. He didn’t expect the split. No matter. He could adjust.

The archers fired from the rooftops at the eastern formation. As one, the soldiers snapped their shields up and to the front, covering themselves like a turtle. A testudo.

The arrows glanced off the shields. On the Wells Fargo rooftop, Renata Rover barked out a short command. “Stop firing. Save your arrows.”

“A shield wall,” Stoyan said softly. “You were right. East or West?”

“East,” Hugh told him.

Stoyan nodded, slid down the ladder, and disappeared into the firehouse.

“They’re planning to hit us from both gates,” Bishop said. “Like pincers.”

“Yes, they are.”

The shield wall crawled forward.

In the west, the second testudo approached the gate.

The western gate exploded into flames. The wood went up instantly, as if it were tissue paper thrown into a bonfire. The metal holding the thick boards together melted. Their magic packed a hell of a wallop.

Bishop swore.

The eastern gate went up in a flash of crimson fire.

So that was the end game. Burn them from both ends, pushing the defenders toward the center of town, where they would be crushed between two walls of steel. One flaw in that plan. The mrog soldiers still thought they were facing farmers.

The remnants of the western gate collapsed onto the street, breaking apart. The testudo moved forward, through the fire, boots grinding the embers into the pavement. The shield wall crawled forward and stopped. Someone barked a guttural command and the rectangular formation split, revealing the commander and two officers flanking him. He towered over them by at least half a foot.

Big bastard.

The officers sucked in a lungful of air and spat torrents of fire at the Dollar General and the bank across the street.

They spat napalm-grade fire. Perfect. Just perfect.





“There he is,” Oscar said.

Elara took a step forward. A gaunt shape crouched atop the pump station at the edge of the lake. A vampire. She felt no others in the area.

They hadn’t warded the pump station. They should have. It was set up in a hurry, and now they paid the price for it. The undead could’ve killed Oscar. The older mechanic was supposed to keep an eye on the pump station. That was a death she could’ve prevented. She would kill the undead and correct the oversight before Hugh came back.

The undead watched her with glowing red eyes. In the twilight, its grotesque form looked even more eerie. It sat on top of the pump station, emanating magic that felt like a fetid smear, like someone had taken a rotting piece of greasy meat and rubbed it all over the station’s roof.

“You have some nerve,” she said.

The undead straightened. His mouth stretched open and a clear male voice came through. “Ms. Harper. I’ve come to discuss business.”

“You and I have no business to discuss. And it’s Mrs. Mrs. d’Ambray.”

“But I think we do. My name is Landon Nez. I have a proposition for you.”

Oscar raised his crossbow. “Would you like me to shoot him?”