Kaelyn, Wyndham, and a dozen knights rounded another curve in the pass of Gentle Crossings. They’d traveled hard to get there as fast as they could, but the roar rumbling around them said they haven’t arrive in time.
“The battle’s begun,” said Wyndham. He spurred his horse into a gallop.
“Wyndham, wait.” Kaelyn urged her mount to follow. The captain of the knights yelled at them, but Wyndham didn’t slow. They rounded the last turn in the pass and crested the hill. Before them the plain was filled with men, fighting, dying, screaming, yelling. Blood and bodies littered the scrub and new grass.
Bile burned the back of her throat. A few feet away, on a rise, stood Harcourt, his General, and a handful of soldiers. Wyndham leapt from his horse and scrambled up the rise.
Kaelyn followed. The fool was going to get himself killed. It was Harcourt who’d started this whole thing. What did he expect? His brother would just give up?
She rushed after him, hand on the hilt of her sword.
“It’s about time,” said Harcourt, without taking his eyes from the battle before him. “What took you so long?”
“It’s over. Call your men back,” said Wyndham.
Harcourt jerked around, his eyes wide. “Wyndham? You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Call your men back.”
Harcourt snorted. “It’s hardly over. How are you going to stop me?”
“Reynold knows the truth.” Wyndham stepped forward and Kaelyn’s stomach churned.