Queen of the Night (The Revanche Cycle Book 4) Read Free

boat, surrounded by a sea of brown burlap and naked steel as her followers packed in shoulder to shoulder. Skiffs dropped one by one, splashing into the restless water, rowers paddling hard and fast toward the beach.
    A ball of pitch arced overhead, burning like the sun, leaving a yellow blur in Livia’s upturned eyes. The galleon lurched as the tarry missile crashed into the rear deck, rupturing the planks and raining black death onto the berths below. Sailors ran in a mad panic, chopping at the boat lines and cutting the skiffs loose as fast as they could, evacuating the Sabre as it slowly listed to one side. Taking on water and a one-way trip to a sunken grave.
    Livia squeezed her eyes shut. The pulleys squealed and suddenly she was airborne, her landing boat plummeting from its moorings. It plunged into the water with a splash, the frigid spray slapping her face as her stomach lurched.
    They were behind the vanguard, skiffs full of tartan-clad marines from the Rhiannon’s Kiss well ahead of them and cutting through the waves on their way to the white-sand beach. On shore, Imperial archers scrambled to form a ragged firing line; apparently their commander had anticipated everything but a head-on counterattack. The twin ballistae rocked on their sandy anchors as they fired, sending massive spears screaming through the air. One hit the Rhiannon’s Kiss full on, blasting a chunk of hull and showering the water with sawdust and jagged timbers. The other, hastily re-aimed at the closest landing boat, hit its mark and plowed through the packed skiff like the fist of an angry god, turning wood to splinters and men to bloody paste.
    Livia’s heart hammered against her chest as a hail of arrows whistled overhead, peppering the water. She fought to breathe, to hold steady, to keep any hint of fear from showing in her eyes. There were too many people looking her way for that. Too many people who needed to know they weren’t going into the maelstrom alone. At her side, a faint whimper escaped Freda’s throat. She was petrified, eyes fixed on the shore, her bottom lip pinched white between her teeth.
    Livia rested her fingers on the girl’s clenched hands and spoke softly. “Freda. The Gardener is on our side. We can’t lose.”
    Freda met her gaze, and her fear softened.
    Please , Livia prayed, let me be telling the truth .
    The Itrescan marines leaped from their boats in the shallows. They waded through hip-deep water to storm the beach while Imperial infantry raced to meet them with gladius and shield, their lines clashing at the water’s edge. Sprays of blood glittered in the sun like fistfuls of garnets as torn bodies splashed down and built a seawall of corpses. The next ranks clambered over the bodies of the fallen, bellowing their battle cries and carrying on with the slaughter.
    Then it was Livia’s turn. Her boat’s keel bumped the sand, jolting to a stop, and her Browncloaks jumped down into the surf to join the fight. Fear turned her muscles to stone, but she struggled through it, forcing herself to follow them over the side, feeling the icy water pool around her thighs and soak her green robes as she waded toward the beach. Someone had loaned her a sword and a belt that didn’t quite fit. She felt ridiculous drawing the blade and holding it high. Who do I think I am? her swirling thoughts demanded. What do I think I’m doing? But the gesture drew a full-throated cheer from the men and women around her. A cheer that spread like wildfire along the coastline, louder than the rattling boom of the trebuchet or the clash of steel on steel.
    The Browncloaks thundered down on the beach, swarming around the Itrescan vanguard and carving into the Imperial flanks. What they lacked in training they made up for with fervor and mad-eyed zeal, bowling over the archers’ ranks and dragging their enemies to the blood-soaked sand. Hacking them limb from limb as the Imperials screamed for mercy. Livia strode through the chaos