Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“They’re here!” I yell. “On the other side of the swamp! They’re here!”
My cry is carried on the wind, amplified by the troops and generals and other Gods, followed by another blast of the horn.
“Where is your father?” Vellamo asks, looking around.
“I don’t know,” I cry out, holding my sword so tightly, I’m afraid my palm might fuse to it. I thought I was strong and brave and ready to be a general, but I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. I can barely breathe.
This is it. This is it.
They come closer, enough for me to start picking out their forms amid the dark and blowing snow. The first line is one of skeleton warriors, their bones rattling, swords and axes in bony hands. They wear piecemeal armor, and in the dim light, their hollow eye sockets glow with eerie green fire, a sign of Louhi’s control. Behind them, towering silhouettes loom—a mass of Old Gods with too many limbs, twisted heads, and bodies that ripple as if made of shadows and nightmares. I see what might be antlered skulls floating atop writhing masses of bone. Strange, pulsing lights flicker around them as they advance.
Overhead, wingbeats fill the air, putting a chill down my spine. Looking up, I see dark shapes against the cloudy sky—flying unicorns, their bodies stripped to bone, manes of shadow, horns glistening with malice. They circle slowly, searching for prey.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. I didn’t count on those. Gods, I hope Sarvi isn’t among them.
Louhi and Rangaista are not visible because of course they aren’t—they send their minions first. They must be holding back, waiting for a perfect moment, or simply letting their forces soften us before they strike themselves.
My mouth goes dry. We’re truly facing an army of nightmares. Below, soldiers shift nervously, muttering prayers and curses in equal measure. I scan the crowd for Rasmus, only to find him lurking near a supply wagon. He’s not fighting yet—he’s hesitant, or maybe just terrified. I can’t blame him, but if he wants to survive, he’ll have to choose a side soon.
My father suddenly appears beside me, silent and grim. I steal a glance at him; his expression is stern, a skull mask pulled over his face, carved from blackened bones. The wind picks up, blowing his cloak. I wonder what he’s thinking, what regret or fear hides behind that mask. He chose this ground to stand on. Now, we must prove it was the right choice.
The enemy advances slower now as they close in, cautious. They know we’re here; they must sense the trap. Below on the barbican, Torben steps forward, staff in hand, beginning a low chant. When they’re close enough to let them think they can breach our walls, he’ll unfreeze the swamp. They’ll tumble through ice into blackened mire and drown, whisked straight to Oblivion. They won’t all fall, but it will be enough to break their formation. It’s our first line of defense.
But something’s wrong. Torben’s chant falters. He frowns, the runes on his staff glowing dimly. He tries again, voice rising as I watch intently.
“What’s happening?” I whisper to my father. “Can’t he do it?”
“I don’t know,” my father says grimly. He glances at Vellamo. “Run to Rasmus over there, tell him to help his father.”
Vellamo gives him a look as if to say, really? Rasmus? but she does as he asks.
Now, I’m giving my father that same look.
“We need that ice to crack,” he says defensively. “Whatever it takes.”
Well, this is a now-or-never moment for Rasmus to prove himself.
We watch as Rasmus runs over to Torben and joins in on his chant.
But still, the army advances and the ice doesn’t crack. I can see Torben’s knuckles whiten on the staff. “Come on, Torben,” I hiss under my breath. “We need that ice to break.”
A hush falls over the battlements. Soldiers glance at each other. Across the parapet, Tapio grips a wooden talisman, hoping to conjure whatever animals he can in the fight, while Tellervo stands at the edge with an arrow knocked and ready to fly.
Still, no result. Torben curses softly, words I don’t understand, and Rasmus chants even louder, his hand sharing the staff with his father. Then, a sound reaches our ears—an arrow lancing off the castle walls.
They charge.
I barely have time to shout a warning before the skeleton warriors surge forward at a run. They come in a wave of clattering bones and scraping metal. Arrows whistle from our archers and gunshots fill the sky, striking some skeletons down, if only temporarily. Still, many keep coming. The Old Gods behind them lumber forward, limbs twisting, jaws snapping. The flying skeleton unicorns descend in a macabre swoop, shrieking like banshees as they come for us.
The battle begins.
The first unicorn dives as quick as a lightning bolt, about to pierce their horn through my father’s chest when, suddenly, it hits an invisible shield with a loud thud, knocking itself unconscious and landing on the skeletons below. I didn’t think it was possible for Torben to protect us with wards while trying to unfreeze the swamp, but when I look to my left, I see Ilmarinen, hands in the air, his brow furrowed as he throws up as many shields around us as he can.