Page 106 of Fang & Fury

They’re here.

Their arrival was even earlier than Alar had predicted. Niall had clearly pushed them hard during the night.

As the Circines approached, the odor of sweat, wet leather, and iron hit her. Beneath that lingered the smell of freshly-turned earth from the pits they’d dug through the night. The mantraps were now covered by rushes and mud.

Her senses were blade-sharp this morning. Every heartbeat around her seemed louder than it should have been.

There had been no time for a final inspection of weapons, no chance for another council. Everything they’d planned now had to happen at a run. The pits had barely been finished, the last of the work parties hurrying back to camp when the first horn had sounded earlier.

Someone shoved past Ailsa carrying a bundle of spears. Another warrior tightened the strap beneath his helmet as he jostled into position.

Ahead, Captain Tae strode down the front line, pointing with his sword and shouting instructions. Enforcers made up most of the first ranks, tall, muscular figures carrying broadswords, black cloaks billowing. Behind them, more druids clad in red and blue robes—sacrificers and bards—gathered in tight knots, murmuring to one another.

Kayla was with them. Right there next to Mairead.

Just in front of Ailsa, archers checked their bowstrings and nocked arrows.

Niall’s army came into view fully now—a dark, bristling mass filling the road. Sunlight glinted dully off weapons. The warriors traveled around ten abreast, running in orderly lines. Some of them carried standards, the leaping stag of Braewall rising above the advancing ranks.

Unlike Lara’s army, which still shifted and settled into position, Niall’s warriors never broke stride, boots striking the ground in a relentless rhythm.

Lara’s cohort craned their necks. Someone muttered an oath. Another quietly murmured a prayer to The Warrior.

Luckily, Ailsa was tall enough to see; even so, she had to stand on tiptoes to peer ahead. In the distance, behind the first ranks of the Circines on foot, she saw a company of those on horseback, surrounded by more fluttering banners.

She stilled, every muscle locking as she narrowed her gaze further.

Niall would be amongst that group.

Around her, warriors drew their swords and raised spears and axes.

Archers lifted their bows. When the first of the enemy ran into the pits, they were to fire upon them.

Ailsa’s fingers flexed around the grip of her dagger as Niall’s army drew closer, anticipation threading through her.

Let them come.

Muddy ground stretched between them, around two furlongs.

The pits were there. Disguised. Waiting.

A horn reverberated through the crisp air once more, and Niall’s army halted, weapons rattling, leather armor creaking.

Even though they weren’t that close, Ailsa could hear the labored rasp of breathing.

Those warriors had run for days now. They must have been exhausted. Earth magic drove them onward, but flesh still had its limits.

Going up on tiptoes once more, she scanned the faces of the front line. Many of them were set, sheened with sweat, their features haggard, eyes haunted.

The bavaan in her drew back then, pity clenching in her chest. Poor bastards.

Their armies were about to fight each other, and when they did, there would be no mercy—but their priority had to be bringing Niall down.

The line ahead of them parted then, and Ailsa caught a glimpse of a tall man clad in fine leather armor, a golden torc around his throat.

Niall mac Lachlan strode out of the line, the wind snagging at his hair, and stepped up before his warriors.

Beside Ailsa, Darach hissed something under his breath, and when Ailsa glanced his way, she marked how his jaw clenched and unclenched, the way the cords of his neck grew more visible. He no longer let hatred for his brother drive him—and she’d been surprised to learn she had a part in that—but the beast responded instinctively to the sight of Niall.