Snow Like Ashes (Snow Like Ashes, #1)(58)

The past few hours have been filled with preparations, getting lined up and making sure everyone had proper gear. Now that everything is set, it all has time to catch up to me. I inhale, exhale, my breath heating up the helmet, my pulse hammering in my ears and echoing around the metal that encases my head. The waiting is the worst part—with food-scouting missions, I never had a chance to get nervous. They were so fleeting that by the time they were over, I hadn’t even realized I was supposed to feel more than a rush of adrenaline. But now, listening to my heartbeat and watching the horizon and waiting, waiting, waiting for battle—it’s horrible.

The rest of the Winterians stand behind the archers in their own group. Noam can’t help us with his conduit, can’t pour strength or will into us because we aren’t Cordellan and, therefore, remain unaffected by his magic—the same way we couldn’t affect any of his people if our conduit was whole. And we’re the reason why Spring is attacking—if we all die, it becomes a bit of a lost cause, regardless of Noam’s empty threat to hand us over to Angra.

Mather made sure to position himself a few paces behind and to my right, mounted on a horse should he need to swoop in. He hasn’t moved to make good on his own threat either, and I breathe a little easier every time I see that he hasn’t vanished to surrender to Angra. I look back at him, desperately wanting to rip off my accursed helmet. Iron smell or no iron smell, this thing’s nothing but an airless metal oven, and no Winterian likes heat.

Mather shifts on his horse, eyebrows coming together in a question. You all right?

I nod. He shifts again, says something to Sir, who shakes his head fiercely.

My body thuds with longing. I should be there, back with them, not hiding among Noam’s archers. Come battle time, when Noam wills his regiments to move one way or another, I’ll be at a loss as to which way to go. If Noam wills his archers to shoot left and I let one fly right, it’ll give me away.

I shake off my worries, refocusing on the weight of the metal crossbow in my hands and the energy surging around me. Captain Dominick sits three rows ahead in the infantry, overseeing his men on horseback. No one says a word, no one shouts orders, no one even breathes too loudly. We’re all just waiting in the heart-shattering anticipation of death marching toward us.

The sun drops lower. Lower still. It’s at this moment, when the late afternoon’s heat is barely playing with us, that a ripple runs through the men. They stand straighter, all eyes sweeping south. Spring’s army has been spotted.

I’ve never seen a Royal Conduit–led battle before. Sir told me about them, of course, reiterated Spring-versus-Winter battles in such epic detail that I could almost smell the cannon fire on the air. Through the conduit, rulers can will entire regiments to move as one, shift people around like they’re arranging items on a tabletop. It’s not a forceful push; more like a subconscious suggestion—soldiers can choose not to follow their leader’s conduit-channeled instructions. But it’s usually in the soldiers’ best interest to follow their leader’s will.

Sir’s history lessons roll through my head alongside what I read in the magic book. Each Royal Conduit is like a horse; use it too much or too quickly and it tires out, and leaders have to wait for it to rest before they can use it again. Use it too often, too aggressively and, well, we don’t know what could happen—no one has ever been stupid enough to let it dry up completely, if it even could. The monarchs can feel when the magic gets low, a tug at their instincts like that uncomfortable feeling of something wrong. And it’s a passive magic—only when the bearer consciously chooses to draw it out does it work.

If Noam uses his conduit steadily, it could give Cordell a huge advantage. Angra never leaves his palace in Spring, and Herod, who is most likely leading this charge, won’t have the same control over his men. Angra’s magic may make their minds numb with a devotion to Spring that lasts beyond Spring’s borders, but he won’t be able to tell them how to move, where to attack, when to pull back. For all our sakes, I hope that advantage is enough.

When the Cordellan soldiers perk up, we do too. I risk one more glance behind me, noting who’s here and who’s not. Alysson’s the only one missing. Which leaves seven of us.

The archers raise their crossbows and I fumble to match their rhythm. The crossbow is so much heavier than my chakram, bulky and dense, but I can do this. I’ve done this before. I’ve just never done this as part of an army, wearing a constricting helmet.

I keep my finger on the trigger, my breaths coming slower and slower. No one fires yet, we just keep our crossbows aimed at the sky.

“Come on,” the man next to me hisses.

His anxiety pushes at me, a flame that catches and spreads like wildfire through the group. Soon everyone is twitching for the battle to start.

Then the sound everyone was waiting for, the vibration that sends everyone’s anxiety rearing higher.

Cannon fire.

A single shot comes from somewhere distant, too far away to hit anyone. A warning meant to announce Spring’s arrival. The shot fades to an echo and Spring’s army rises up over the horizon in the fading sun of the late afternoon, their soldiers nothing but a black mass that sweeps down over Cordell’s distant hills like a plague. Another cannon fires, then two more, closer and closer—

Thwack.

The archers let loose the first round. I snap to fire with them, launching my arrow in an arc over the infantry. Are they within range already? Are they close enough to—