Chapter 12 - THE MARCH ON THE CAPITAL
The blizzard cleared as fifty thousand northern wolves marched through the high mountain passes.
The column stretched for four miles across the frozen plateau.
Heavy armored cavalry rode massive mountain steeds bred for snow and rock.
Behind them marched the infantry, their silver shields locked together like a wall of living steel.
Above the army flew the black banners of House Hayes, flanked for the first time in two centuries by the white stag banner of the Aurelian bloodline.
Hazel rode beside Gideon at the head of the vanguard.
She wore a suit of lightweight boiled leather armor crafted by Brandon’s master armorer, reinforced with silver wire across the chest.
A white woolen cloak lined with arctic fox fur kept out the biting wind.
At her hip rested the silver revolver Gideon had given her, loaded with six fresh hollow-point rounds.
Gideon looked at her from atop his massive black warhorse.
His armor gleamed in the winter sun, his dark eyes scanning the mountain horizon.
"Are you afraid, Hazel?" he asked quietly.
Hazel watched the white breath plume from her horse’s nostrils.
"I spent my entire life hiding in the dark, Gideon," she said.
"Afraid of my blood."
"Afraid of my mother's past."
"Afraid of being seen."
She turned her head to look him directly in the eye.
"I am not afraid of Kaelen."
"I am not afraid of Desmond."
"I only want this war finished so no more children have to hide in laundry bins."
Gideon smiled, reaching across the space between their mounts to squeeze her gloved hand.
"It ends today," he promised.
At noon, the army crested the final ridge overlooking the Great Valley.
Below lay the royal capital of Sunspire.
A magnificent city of white limestone towers and golden domes surrounded by three concentric rings of high granite walls.
Occupying the outer gates were thirty thousand southern mercenaries and Obsidian pack warriors.
Their black and crimson banners fluttered over the battlements.
At the center of the royal plaza, a massive wooden scaffold had been erected before the cathedral doors.
A ceremonial throne sat beneath a crimson canopy.
Desmond was preparing to take the crown.
Gideon drew his sword and pointed the gleaming tip toward the city gates.
"SOUND THE HORNS!" Gideon commanded.
The war horns of the northern clans sounded in unison.
A terrifying, deep resonance that shook the snow from the spruce trees along the valley ridge.
BWOOOOM.
BWOOOOM.
The southern sentries on the outer walls scrambled in blind panic.
Bells began to ring throughout the city—not the mournful tolling of a royal funeral, but the frantic, clattering alarm of an invading host.
On the high walls, Lord Kaelen appeared, flanked by Desmond in his ceremonial coronation robes of purple velvet and ermine.
Desmond looked through a brass spyglass toward the northern ridge.
His face drained of all color.
The spyglass slipped from his trembling hands, shattering on the stone flags below.
"It cannot be..." Desmond choked out, clutching the battlements for support.
"He died!"
"I saw the black veins reach his throat!"
Kaelen sneered, drawing his obsidian-hilted rapier.
"He didn't die, you fool."
"The girl healed him."
Kaelen turned to his southern commanders.
"Open the oil reservoirs!"
"Man the catapults!"
"If Gideon reaches the inner courtyard, put a bolt through the girl’s heart!"
Down on the valley floor, Duke Brandon raised his battle axe.
"NORTHERN LEGIIONS!" Brandon bellowed, his one eye blazing with ancient battle fury.
"TEAR DOWN THEIR GATES!"
Fifty thousand northern warriors answered with a deafening roar that rolled across the valley like an avalanche:
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"FOR THE KING!"
The charge began.
