Page 96 of The King has Fallen
Twenty minutes later there were four of them, and they waited for the fifth.
Jannus was just relaying a story about a prank he’d seen some of the ranks pull on their Lieutenant the night before—something to do with horse dung and boot polish—when the tent flap twitched and the temperature in the tent dropped. At least, that was how it felt when I turned to look at the man who entered.
The other two Nephilim who’d entered were warriors—one younger than Melek, one older. Both big, burly, and clearly fighters who’d earned their way through the ranks, just as Melekhad done. They had spoken easily and loudly and stood with the casual grace that only men of immense strength and capability possessed.
The man who entered the tent next was an entirely different creature.
He wore a thick, hooded cloak so dark blue it was almost black. It was voluminous and dusted the ground as he walked so it seemed he had no feet. The sleeves were long, and widened at the cuffs. With the hood up, the cloak swallowed his entire frame.
When he first stepped into the tent, everything about him was dark—only his eyes peered out of the shadow of his hood, glowing with the bright, golden light of the Nephilim born within just one or two generations of the fallen angels.
He was still Nephilim. Still tall and imposing. But leaner than the others. And very obviously older. Gnarled and wrinkled, like an old tree.
He was steady on his feet, and his eyes were bright, but there was something disturbing about the way he moved. If he had been a warrior, his fighting days were long gone.
As the others looked up to greet him, he threw back the hood to reveal his face and my blood ran cold. Though his hair was lush and thick, falling in waves around his shoulders, it was gray throughout and framed a lined face, pocked with old acne scars. His eyes stared out of deep shadows cast by protruding brows, the sunken caves matching his hollowed cheeks. And his skin was gray.
“Hever, thank you for joining us,” Melek said with a grim look.
All the joking and smiles from the others ceased immediately. As Hever crossed the space to join them in that queasy flow, their faces grew stern and their eyes dropped to the map on the table around which they stood.
“I apologize for the delay,” the man rasped, his voice quiet and wheezy, like wind whistling through a canyon. But there were no more manners. No one commented as he joined them. His eyes dropped to the map Melek had spread on that table, and he began to examine it immediately, frowning.
There was no extra room on that little table, so the others were on the bed to be retrieved if needed.
“Is one thousand spears enough?” he asked Melek hoarsely as he put a finger to the map.
I saw Melek swell and hold, stifling his frustration. I didn’t know who this man was, but he was clearly someone Melek believed he had to please.
“Three hundred was enough to take it,” Melek said through his teeth. “A thousand—if they aren’t discovered—will hold the high ground easily until the rest can reach the peaks and—”
“The King believes we should move the additional ranks now, during the peace. Place them ready. Not just hold the summits of the Ravine, but make an immediate advance.”
“I have explained, there will be no advance if we do not win the swamplands first and get our ranks to the highest groundwithout discovery.We already risked everything to wait. It is too risky to move during the Covenant when they are not distracted by battle, so all they will be doing is watching.”
The three other males watched Melek and Hever like two wolves about to fight for dominance.
Hever’s eyes never left the map when he spoke. Melek’s never left Hever. There was a very strange dynamic here that I didn’t understand.
But I understood the battle strategy and Melek was correct.
Every army would enjoy the Peace. And expect their enemies to be moving during that time, even if they didn’t attack.
Without battle to take attention and resources, focus would turn to scouts and trackers. Not to mention that those at themouth of the ravine were now sitting ducks. They could onlyretreat.Yet, it would take only one scout to catch a glimpse—or to disappear because the Nephilim caught them—to raise the alarm, and then all their element of surprise would be lost.
Archers appointed at the ravine would pick the flyers off before they did more than clear the canopy of trees. And the Nephilim ranks would be lost in the hundreds.
Rage simmered in my chest, along with an even deeper certainty that their King was doing this on purpose—setting Melek up. Most likely to fail. But there was a small chance they would get through, in which case the King’s commands would be celebrated ashisclever decisions, not Melek’s.
I should have resisted, should have stayed out of it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let Melek continue to waver and deny—at least outwardly—the danger he was in if his foe was his King.
So, I sent him a vision. Not one to consume him as I’d done when he was in the bath, but a suggestion. Relaying an idea.
It was simple—first an image of the Nephilim, crouched and advancing on the Ravine—and being discovered. Then an image of them holding the high grounds, and cheeringGault.
Melek’s eyes never moved from Hever, but he stiffened, then rolled his shoulders and stretched his jaw like he was making room for his rage.
I listened to their discussion and didn’t interfere again, but he was too careful about not looking at me. It was no surprise when the others eventually left—with no actual change to the plan—when he took his time packing away the maps to give them time to be well away from the tent before he turned on me, his eyes dark and face tight.
