“Men cannot endure the slightest pains,” she chided, her voice a little mocking. “I’m going to warn the king about this.”
“Later. I’m so dizzy. Help me sit down.”
“Come, my weak prince,” Morwenna said soothingly.
Trynne couldn’t stand to hear their banter. Tears streaked down her face as she melted into the night.
The fog reached landfall after midnight.
Captain Staeli stood at her left elbow, arms folded, his finger stroking his mustache as he stared down at Gahalatine’s forces. The moon was radiant and silver in the sky, but the ocean of fog down below masked everything. It was silver and purple and rippled with an otherworldly quality. Only the highest spires of Guilme pierced it. The lights of the city were all illuminated, creating an eerie mix of colors in the deep night. The hill of the king’s camp was just barely above the fog. The fleet of treasure ships anchored off the coast had vanished in the haze.
“Real or magic?” Trynne whispered softly in awe. The air had a bite of chill to it. Her senses were searching for the presence of the Fountain. There was only silence.
“Grand Duke Maxwell said it’s normal to have mist along this coast. Comes almost every night at certain seasons.” He sniffed. “They can’t see us and we can’t see them.”
Trynne looked up the hill at the king’s camp. All the fires were out. The whole hillside seemed like it was slumbering. It was just as deceptive as the fog.
“Father is going to attack tonight,” Trynne guessed. “He’s waiting for the right moment.”
“It’ll be too loud,” Staeli countered. “And what about the net?”
“That’s why he’ll do it,” she said, smiling. “The mist evens the odds.”
Their brief discussion was interrupted by a member of the Espion who jogged up to where they were standing.
“Captain Staeli?” the man asked, out of breath.
“Aye,” he replied gruffly.
“Lord Owen wants you to make ready. He’s given the order. We’re going to attack tonight.”
Staeli turned to Trynne in shocked admiration and then started chuckling.
The Espion continued. “Quietly rouse your men. Hauberks only. Blankets are being laid down to tread on. The watchword is ‘Sinia.’ Come to the command pavilion. Your force is going with Lord Owen himself.”
Trynne felt her throat constrict.
Guard the king, the Fountain whispered to her.
The Battle of Guilme started before the first cock crowed.
Trynne paced in suspense and agony, standing on the hillside overlooking an endless sea of fog. She waited for it to start, each hour that passed adding to her torture. The camp was roused and ready to fight. Soldiers stood along the road running the perimeter of the highest hill, where the king’s camp was in darkness. There were no lights to provide a hint to the enemy that the forces of Kingfountain were on the move. Every night bird that shrieked made Trynne’s heart race. She waited for the moment.
And then it came.
Thunder crashed down from the star-filled sky. The sound was a portent, startling the soldiers and drawing everyone’s gaze skyward, where no storm clouds existed to cause such a ruckus. Trynne flinched as if a huge hammer had struck her soul. She felt the white-hot stab of magic emanating from the bank of fog down below. And then it snuffed out.
There was noise and shouting, the clash of arms. The battle had begun, but it was invisible within the shroud of fog. Trynne’s heart thundered in her ears. She had felt the magic. She’d recognized it as the same magic of the silver bowl from the grove. Her father had recently reminded her of that place, and of the storm he’d summoned to show her how it worked. His magic had shielded them both from the hailstorm, but it had still frightened and thrilled her.
Suddenly she felt the ripples of Fountain magic and a keening wind began to blow and howl. The trees started to sway and groan. Hunks of bark from the mighty eucalyptus trees began to slough off and crash down. Cries of pain and panic joined the clash of steel and arms.
And then the enemy came out of the mist like grasshoppers.
It was the only way to describe it. Trynne watched in startled horror as armed warriors wearing armor that was green like palm fronds leaped out of the fog, arching into the sky as if they had been catapulted from below.
The warriors had helmets tipped with thorny spears, and each carried wood-handled glaives with blades that were sharpened on both sides. The warriors’ momentum slowed before they reached the hillside, and instead of crashing like boulders, they unfolded like strange plants just before they struck.