Page 184 of A Courage of the Chosen

My mouth opens and closes again, completely lost as to what we’ve just witnessed.

Bright light blurs at the fringes of what we’re seeing, until we’re back in the dazzling void contained within the tree. There’s a sharp tug behind my belly button and I’m yanked backward, to the exact same spot I just witnessed . . . I don’t even know what that was.

Rach doubles over next to me, dry heaving as I run my fingers through the grass.

Dhia appears again between one blink and the next, and the radiant cobalt shielding her face begins to flake away as Rach and I back up. Long trails of blue are replaced by golden hair, and a featureless face takes the same shape of the woman who’s been in so many of my dreams, and the one we just watched die by her own hand.

“Who are you?” My voice trembles.

She smiles serenely. “I am Dhia. But that is a name I was given when the spirits changed me.”

My heart thumps erratically as she nears me, her green eyes a shade darker than mine.

“I was born with another name, and you, blood of my blood, are the one I saw, as I ended a war by sacrificing my own life.”

“Then who are you?” I repeat the question.

“You may call me Ishbel.”

Chapter 54

Callahan

Ask anyone who hasn’t lifted a sword what they think war actually is, and they’ll tell a grand story filled with honor, and sacrifices for the greater good. Even when artists capture it, they use their brushes and paint to cast a veil over the brutal reality. There’s nothing poetic about war. It isn’t heroics and tales of fearlessness. It’s blood-stained steel, sweat, and Seelie pissing themselves as they die.

But there is something that defies logic, a thread of beauty in that world of ugliness that couldn’t ever be depicted.

Determination. Resolve. The kind of bravery that comes from knowing you might die at any second.

In all my years on this earth, I’ve never felt anything like the energy that brings an army together when it’s needed most. It’s not for their commanders or for their rulers, but for their own Dhia-damned right to live. There’s a majesty to that kind of willpower, and it’s how the rebellion survived for as long as it did.

It’s thick in the air now. With a solid wall of black descending on us, there’s a resistance at my back that won’t easily be broken by sword or magic. It’s the one thing the Dorche have always lacked.

Death doesn’t scare them. In fact, I think most of the men and women corrupted by Raghnall or Tavish would likely welcome it, if they had a choice. It’s that fear that keeps those at the sharp end of the Dorche blades fighting for another breath.

The first clash of bodies and metal rings through my ears and vibrates in my chest. A heavy thud that ripples for miles.

We have a small advantage in that the mounted units are the ones to follow me into battle. The first lines fold as we rip a wide hole through their advance, and the stench of copper is far outweighed by the rotten blood that arches high from fallen Dorche.

My horse has seen more than her fair share of battle, and she canters through their blockades with the strength of twenty stallions, occasionally kicking out at attacks aimed at her. If we survive this, I’m going to retire her into the best field I can find.

She huffs and whinnies as I let her reins go slack, slashing my swords through the necks of Dorche. Heads roll in my wake, and I carve a deep path through the Dorche ranks with Eòghann on one side, Brodie on the other.

For decades we’ve fought like this. And for decades, death has followed us greedily, knowing souls are plentiful.

Reyne and Hector are formidable in their own right, and where their swords flash in the morning sun, enemies are slain. But I know better than to celebrate too early.

We’re still outnumbered, and Tavish hasn’t moved from his spot atop the hill, nor has he used the power of the Craobh. And there are thousands still waiting at the top of the elevation.

My focus doesn’t linger on him for long. I bark orders to maintain the lines that are echoed through the ranks, and growl through gritted teeth as more and more fall beneath the sharp edge of my blade.

When the second wave hits, a unit of ferocious Brollachan and more Dorche soldiers, our press onward is brought to a vicious crawl. Seelie are thrown from their horses, lost in a torrent of shadows and teeth and talons.

The cries of battle blend with screams of demise, and my stomach clenches as my comrades continue to fall. Still, we push. For every step gained, we lose two to the corrupted meeting us strength-for-strength.

My blade becomes slick with blood that reeks of decay, darker than what should be normal, and there’s no end to the foes that come for us.

The archers begin their assault now the Dorche are in range, launching arrows wrapped in mist. When they find their mark, buried deep within tainted soldiers, they detonate.