Rising Flames | Throne of Glass

58

By the time Ansel arrived with her men, the 'attack' that the man had so fearfully described had apparently long since past. There was no one standing - no allies nor enemy left in sight, which could have only meant one thing. The Fae had been here. Maeve had been here.

What had once been ships was no more than a mountain of charred timber and splinters. Men lay everywhere, most still and unmoving. Ansel dismounted after her men, bending down to place two fingers to the side of a body's neck. No pulse.

She lifted her head and scanned the scene around her. She was met with many shakings of the head to indicate that an individual hadn't made it.

'Look!' one of her men was shouting.

It was a man tied to a mast - the only one intact out of the thousand others.

The man raised his head. It was too distant for Ansel to make out his expressions, but she could see his face scrunching in pain.

'We're coming!' the soldier called, making to take a step toward the former.

The man mouthed a single word - but it was too late.

'GET DOWN,' Ansel roared as the port blew up in a plume of billowing flame.

She was flung backwards the same moment she raised her shield in a feeble attempt to block the brunt of the explosion, clothes and bare palms tearing against the shingle.

It wasn't just a single explosion. It was a whole chain of them.

It had been a trap.

Ansel scrambled to her feet and ran. Shards of wood whistled through the air, stabbing themselves into her exposed skin. Thank the gods she'd decided to wear armour today. But her men- her men weren't.

Through the blinding light and deafening eruption, she knew she wasn't able to anything but keep moving, otherwise she could be blown apart anytime too.

There was a young man with a large, bleeding gash in his head. Without a second thought, she grabbed him, throwing him over her shoulder and sprinted with all her might. She just had to get out of the port.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see other people running too. Adrenaline was thrumming through her veins, heart pounding and mouth dry, blocking out everything else. Her shield was digging into her tailbone, fixed loosely against her back, but there was no way she was leaving such a precious belonging behind.

There was a final explosion, one that rocked the now-stone ground beneath her feet, throwing her forward.

There was a sharp impact in the back of her head and she fell - and then darkness.

~

Something sticky coated her face and hair and arms and hands and legs. It stank.

With some effort, Ansel prised her eyes open. It took a considerable amount of effort; it felt as if they'd been glued shut by the half-drying blood on her skin. She wasn't even sure if it was her blood.

With a grunt, she eased herself upright, immediately surveying the area and damage done through a squint. What was the time? Sunset? How long had she been unconscious for?

She didn't know. And even if she did, she realised it wouldn't change anything. A fiery pain shot down her leg, concentrating in the ball of her ankle as she made to stand. Ansel stumbled.

Her shield - her dear, dear shield - why, it was one of the most unscathed things in the port. And it had saved her. If she hadn't been carrying it, her abdomen could have been struck or legs broken. It had simply been a stroke of luck that she hadn't been hit too hard on the head - one the head...

She'd been carrying a man.

In the chaos of what had happened, the fact that Ansel had lifted a full-grown male over her shoulder had a brief chortle falling from her lips. It lasted as quickly as it came. The sound trailed off as she swung her around repeatedly.

There.

The man was sprawled across the ground. His face was marred - streaks of blood ran in rivulets down his cheeks, soot clumped to his skin like ground pepper. His skin was ashen and grey with blood loss. Ansel didn't have to place her fingers to his wrist to know that he was gone.

She limped forward a few steps. Were there any survivors? Or had Maeve thought of them as nothing but toys, and simply discarded them? Was it just a game to her?

Rolfe's men had been pawns. Ansel's men had been pawns. Maeve was not only the queen, but the bishop and the horses and the knights.

Taking in the damage through a sombre gaze, Ansel began to feel lost, a sense of hopelessness. It left no space for rage or even humiliation - just a sense of crushing defeat. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her shield and sword felt heavy and numb at her side. They meant nothing now. She had no name, no followers.

Was there even a point in returning?

She stood there for a while, mind frozen. In the end, she decided, that she would return. There was no one to be a messenger but herself.

So many deaths. So many names gone and forgotten, just like that.

And still with that growing sense of numbness, Ansel turned from the sea and began to make her way inland, towards the next port or village.

She needed a horse.

[220129]

literally been writing this book for over a year why can i not finish this ;-;

okay sorry if this didn't meet your expectations and that the quality just diminished

and sorry for the shitlong wait

man is trying

and dying

with covid

but all is good