Shadowsinger

Chapter 43

Azriel swore under his breath at the sight of the rebel army, of the human forces standing side by side with the Illyrians. Siphon-fueled magic shielded them from an easy blow, and their numbers, shit, they'd make this interesting. He'd hoped that by now a good portion would have balked, given who they were facing and the dissent that his spies had been sowing for months now. But perhaps some of them had, it would have to be enough. 

The wind seemed to halt the moment Feyre unfurled her spell, closing her eyes momentarily before starting to speak. He was right, the wind had dropped from a steady breeze to utter stillness, and Feyre's voice carried across the open space of the heath, each word carrying a power of its own, and adding to the humming of magic surrounding them. It fizzed and sparked through the air, and all of Azriel's training couldn't stop the slight stiffening of his muscles as it floated towards his wings. Feyre's chanting intensified, and the magic strengthened, swirling closer, closer, closer, before she practically screamed the final word and it bolted across the heath towards the army facing them, striking each and every Illyrian warrior who had rebelled. Shouts of surprise and anger reached them, but it seemed that they considered the spell a failure, and Feyre glanced back to where Rhys was standing beside Azriel, with Cassian on the other side. The High Lord nodded reassuringly, and Feyre slipped her hand into his when she rejoined the line.

Her face was taut, jaw clenched as she watched the approaching army, there would be no way to tell if the spell had worked until they attempted to take flight, and by then it would be too late to try again. Rhys nodded to Azriel and then to Cassian, grasping each of their forearms before each took flight to command one flank of the Illyrian legion. The Darkbringers would take their place on the ground once they took flight. Azriel waited a few agonizing minutes for Cassian to reach his position and to prepare his flank. Then he gave the order and, as one, thirty thousand Illyrian warriors launched skywards, the boom of wings drowning out anything else as they took their positions in the sky. The rebels attempted to mirror them, attempted and fell on their asses as the spell bound their wings, keeping them grounded. 

Azriel smiled to himself as whoops of joy sounded from the air and ground around him, one moment of satisfaction was all he allowed himself before moving his warriors into position. One heartbeat of distraction was all it would take for everything to come crashing down.

The first blow was Rhys' to land, a scythe of darkness cleaving a gap in the now-vulnerable rebel forces on Cassian's side, and then on Azriel's. Cassian, of course, led the charge as the Illyrians divebombed into the broken lines, death and destruction following in their wake. The gaps in the lines widened, and Azriel pushed harder, diving to the weakness and driving a wedge of his warriors into the gap, forcing the rebel army to split into smaller, weaker groups. Shouts and cries of terror and triumph filled the air, the smell of blood and fear drowning out anything else as Azriel swerved to avoid a dagger hurled towards him, quickly returning the favor, more successfully judging by the grunt and thud as the offending rebel struck the ground.

When he caught and updraft to survey the field again, his breath caught at the sight of Cassian's warriors. There must have been only half as many as had taken flight mere minutes ago, and Azriel searched desperately for his brother, the telltale flash of his siphons nowhere to be seen. Moments before he pulled back to reinforce, half of the rebel Illyrians turned and struck at their human allies, shouts of betrayal and horror drowned out by the screams of dying men. There was nothing Azriel could do but watch as the human ranks buckled, then broke, rebel commanders screaming at them to hold, but neither could they do anything as the humans broke ranks and fled.

"Fall back!" Azriel bellowed, "Fall back!" His warriors obeyed in a heartbeat, disengaging and reforming their ranks in the sky above the rebels, ignoring the abuse being hurled at them from below. Somehow, Cassian had organised a large-scale betrayal, and he had done it in the midst of battle, but still, Azriel could not get eyes on the general, not until Cassian's side joined them in regrouping, and the rebels who had turned on their comrades flapped their wings, joining Azriel in the sky. Azriel's gaze snagged on one male, his movements fluid, so familiar he would him anywhere. Cassian was alive, not only alive, the male was a Cauldron-damned genius for pulling that off, not that Azriel would ever admit it out loud.