37
NIKOLAI
A HARD WIND BLEW OFF the shore to the west, and Nikolai wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake. The terrain that stretched before him was rocky and desolate. No mud, at least. But that also meant an easier road for Fjerda’s tanks. He’d hoped the forest might slow them down, but the Fjerdans simply dosed their Grisha and had the drugged Squallers level the trees, obliterating woods that had stood guard along the northern border for hundreds of years, their heavy trunks cast aside like so much driftwood. The sky was the dark slate of early morning, stars still visible above the horizon. When he peered toward the coast, he could just make out the soft gray line of the sea. Maybe some of those fallen trees would roll all the way to the cliffs and tumble into the waves. Maybe the current would carry them to a faraway shore to trouble some fisherman or maybe they would wash up on a beach and become lumber for someone’s home. A family would gather beneath a new roof, never knowing they sheltered under a little piece of Ravka, a fractured part of a country that might never be made whole.
Once Nikolai’s scouts and flyers had confirmed Fjerdan troop movements, Ravka’s forces had set up camp on a low rise north of the tiny town of Pachesyana. The grubby little village served as their base of operations as General Pensky sent out First Army troops to dig trenches—some deep and wide enough to stop a tank, others that they would use to protect their rocket launch platforms.
Nikolai hadn’t known where the Fjerdans might attack, and that had meant Ravka couldn’t mount a defense. So he’d let Sturmhond’s blockade give way and tempted them with the chance at a two-pronged attack—at the bay and here at the border near Arkesk. He’d given the wolf an opportunity to wrap its jaws around Os Kervo and seize West Ravka in a single tremendous bite.
A risky wager, but was it the right one? He’d know soon enough.
Nikolai didn’t wait for dawn to break. In the muddy fields at Nezkii, they’d hidden until the very last moment. Not today. Today, there would be no grand subterfuge, no mines to greet the Fjerdans in the field. Instead the enemy would wake to a show of force that Nikolai hoped would make them think twice.
“Sun Soldiers!” shouted Adrik. The order moved through the ranks of gathered Grisha and First Army.
Sun Summoners, the heirs to Alina’s power, stood positioned all along the front, Adrik in command, the highest-ranking Etherealnik on the field. Zoya was in the south. But there was no time to think of the dangers she faced. He could only continue to believe in her, as he always had. And if there were words he wished he’d spoken, others he wanted to take back, the time for that had come and gone. His fight was here.
Adrik raised his brass arm and gave the command. “Daybreak!”
The Sun Soldiers flooded the empty fields of Arkesk with sunlight. Nikolai squinted at the brightness, at the blighted field, at the pocked earth in the distance where a forest had once stood. He could only imagine the Fjerdans were doing the same, wondering what strange sun rose in the south. They wouldn’t have long to wonder.
“Squallers prepare!” cried Nadia to her deployment of Etherealki.
“First volley!” Leoni yelled to her Fabrikators. “Deploy!”
The sound was like a crackle, followed by a low whistle as the rockets ignited, their titanium shells glinting dully in the false sunlight. They arced into the sky, silver darts shooting toward the horizon, as the Squallers held the wind from the west at bay and guided the rockets to their targets—Fjerdan tanks, Fjerdan troops.
When they struck, the sounds of impact rent the air, a staccato rhythm that shook the earth, the drumbeat relentless. Nikolai climbed a rickety staircase to the lookout tower they’d erected and peered through a double long glass. Smoke and fire rose from the Fjerdan lines. Men ran to put out the flames, to help their fallen comrades, to pull bodies from the wreckage. It was like looking out over Os Alta on the night of the bombing. From this distance, those soldiers might be Ravkans, friends, his own subjects scrambling to make sense of this sudden strike. The land was pitted by smoking black craters. How many dead in a single blow? In a matter of moments?
A game of range. The Fjerdans had thought they could ground Ravka’s flyers, and they’d largely succeeded. But they hadn’t counted on Ravka’s titanium missiles. If they wanted to use their guns and artillery, they would have to push closer and put their troops and tanks into the line of fire. The Fjerdans had given them a very big target to aim at. Their war chests were full. Their army hadn’t been battered by years of fighting on two fronts. It showed.