Page 58 of Reign

All his preparation time had been spent, and the invasion was imminent. His final task before war was to address his two-thousand-strong army, stretched haphazardly along the beach. I’d positioned myself between Bash and Fletcher, peering through shifting gaps between twenty restless rows of heads ahead.

“My band of brothers, let us fight bravely together,” Fitzroy declared, his voice commanding. “And if we shall fall, let us fall with honor.” He pounded his gauntlet against his chest plate, producing a resounding clang. “When the blasts of the battle are ringing in your ears, remember who you fight for. Today, we wage necessary war to protect our kingdom from evil. May the gods ensure that good prevails. Come on!” Fitzroy roared, punching his fist into the air.

Even in the gloom, Fitzroy shone—skin glowing, hair shining, teeth gleaming—as if he were the light guiding his soldiers out of the darkness.

The men responded with cheers and shouts, many gritting their teeth, chomping at the bit for battle.

Fitzroy unsheathed his sword, directing his blade toward the assembled troops. “The time for revenge is upon us. Make haste to the ships. Let us defeat our enemy. For Lyonesse!” he chanted, charging his sword skyward.

“For Lyonesse!” the men echoed in unison.

Even I joined the chorus, searching for a sliver of bravery within myself.

With that final rallying message, Fitzroy departed. The men destined for the ships marched down to the shoreline, boarding small boats that ferried them to the grand vessels waiting offshore. Knights were clad in impenetrable armor, whereas the soldiers and sailors were lucky to be wearing a chain-mail shirt for protection.

As the daughter of a blacksmith, I understood how important armor was in combat. Countless hours had been spent mending dented plates for blessed survivors—which is why the sight of Bash made me nauseous. He gazed solemnly at the waves, equipped in a long coat that did little to protect him from sea spray.

“I guess this is goodbye,” Bash said, turning to me with a dazed look in his eye.

“Don’t say that,” I replied, shaking my head in defiance.

“Not a final farewell,” Bash reassured me, resting a hand on my shoulder—a gesture that offered me little solace. “Even if I don’t return from the water, I’ll see you on the other side.”

“If the gods permit you entrance into the afterlife,” Fletcher quipped with a wry smile.

Arthur exhaled anxiously, his fingers quivering as they combed through the sparse white wisps atop his head. “It’s too late for repentance now.”

“Cheerio,” Fletcher added, ruffling my hair before sprinting down the beach. He clutched his cap to his head, armed with only his bow and arrows for protection.

“Bash,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Don’t die.”

“What about me?” Arthur interrupted, fiddling with his belt until his sheathed sword sat snugly against his thick thigh. “You don’t seem to care if I come back or not.” His brows furrowed, while tears welled at the corners of his eyes—but I’d never know if they were from the biting winds or unnerving fear.

“May the gods bless you all,” I said, patting Arthur’s cloak-covered shoulder—offering some reassurance.

Arthur, wearing a face full of fret, gave me a forced smile before thumping after Fletcher.

Bash remained still while his white hair sailed the salty sea breeze, blowing in front of his face. I met his heavy gaze with an ache of longing. I wanted to hold him, to breathe in his familiar scent that had become a comfort, but I was frozen.

The clouds briefly parted, teasing the blue skies beyond the usual gray, while the winds calmed to a gentle blow—as though we were in the tranquil eye of the storm.

“I’ve an awful feeling about this,” I admitted, overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding.

Bash chuckled softly. “I’d be worried if you weren’t anxious for war.”

“Oi!” Fletcher called from the shoreline, beckoning Bash toward the sea.

“Until we meet again,” Bash said, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Sick with nerves, I never said a final farewell. My feet sank slowly into the wet sand as I watched Bash walk away, silently praying to the gods that I’d see him return.

The sailors, knights, and soldiers boarded the ships, which drifted slowly toward the distant Isle of Annwn. Bash was on deck, tending the ropes as the ship’s sail billowed out, catching the wind. I savored the sight of him at work, uncertain if this would be my final memory of my friend from the Headlands.

When the ships had sailed too far to distinguish faces, I regrouped with the smithy workers, keeping a safe distance from the shoreline. Tom trembled like a sapling in a storm, while Red stomped his feet in a steady rhythm, thumping the sands like a war drum beneath him.

I gazed past the foot soldiers guarding the coast, taking a moment to admire the breathtaking view. A purple sky met blue water at the horizon, the setting sun melting into the sea like it was made of butter. As the daylight dimmed, the ships looked like ghostly silhouettes, journeying someplace the living weren’t permitted.

“Look,” Tom said, interrupting my reverie.