POCHA
“They’re pulling back!” Lure called from above.
Thank the Gods, Razune sighed in her mind.
They’d been fleeing for miles, fighting off enemy forces with every step.
They needed a place to make a stand, but so far, they’d found nothing but narrow paths and crumbling mountain slopes.
Their only saving grace was that the enemy couldn’t mount a successful attack either on such chaotic terrain.
So, both groups had staggered onward, clashing as they went.
But in the distance, atop a rise, a tall, long-haired figure sat astride a black stag, watching. Lady Amberleigh—the Gray Witch.
It wasn’t just her presence that so unnerved Pocha. It was the fact that she hadn’t used her considerable powers—yet.
She glanced down at Clua and Rohree, tied down on litters borne by a pair of strong men.
If the witch could enchant these two and leave them frozen in stasis for over a month, what might she do to the rest of them?
And what was she waiting for? Was she biding her time?
Waiting until their guard was down? And what would happen when she struck?
Those questions filled Pocha with dread.
And where in all the hells was Dagar?
They hadn’t had time to stop and search for him with enemies nipping at their heels.
She could only hope that he was being smart and staying out of sight.
Her responsibility was to everyone under her command, not just to him.
But even in the chaos of battle, all she truly wanted to do was go back and find him.
To scold him and apologize for her harsh words.
To laugh with him, to take him in her arms and… and…
But she couldn’t look for him now. He would want her to protect their people. That’s what Essa had charged her with, and that’s what she would do. What she had to do.
Still—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats. She looked up back to find a trio of charging Lacunae on horseback emerging from behind a ridge. They took advantage of a reasonably flat and open section of path to gallop ahead, three abreast.
Razune wheeled on them and opened her mouth, releasing her piscean blast. The blue liquid gushed from her mouth and turned to ice on contact.
It hit the legs of the foremost Lacuna’s mount, freezing its front hooves together.
Horse and rider hit the ground with such force that it shook the earth.
The second rider’s horse tripped on the first, and they went down as well.
The third rider made it past his fallen comrades—and past the swipe of Pocha’s sword.
The knight’s lance found the chest of one of the common soldiers, who screamed as he collapsed to the dirt.
The knight abandoned his lance and drew his sword, chopping down two more of Pocha’s men before one of the Skrathan’s dragons caught his head in its jaws and crushed it like a grape.
Just like that, three of their number were slain.
“They’re forming up for another attack! Lots of them!” Lure called from above. “But I can see the path ahead. We’re close.”
Thank the Gods. We can’t go on like this for much longer, Pocha thought.
Their only hope was to reach Umsir—and it sounded like Lure might have found it, Pocha thought, as she looked up once more and saw Lure pointing ahead.
But there was a serious problem. The path Lure pointed to led almost straight up the mountain.
There would be no way to get horses, injured people, and all their provisions up what was basically a ladder cut into a mountainside.
The more Pocha assessed the situation, in light of her tactical training, the less she liked it.
Umsir was supposed to be their safe haven.
Now, it looked more like the anvil they were about to be hammered against.
Suddenly, something shifted. It felt as if the breath had been stolen from Pocha’s lungs, as if the ground had jerked beneath her. She knew that feeling, had felt it before.
Magick.
Some terrible gravity drew her gaze up to the top of the far rise to where the Gray Witch stood.
She had her hands raised, and the night around her seemed to respond, the darkness writhing and twisting.
The golenae among her company seemed to respond, the glowing red of their eyes growing brighter, their movements becoming wild, like gyrations of jerked marionettes as they rampaged up the path, toward Pocha and her wards.
Oh no, Razune said.
For a second, Pocha thought she was talking about the golenae. Then, she heard the screams behind her and turned. A massive black hand, which seemed to be made of night itself, was reaching down from the heavens, toward Essa’s army.
Gods, here it comes… she thought. This was the moment she’d dreaded. The military problems were bad enough. How could they fight against a power like this?
The black hand reached down toward the center of the column—and everyone in its path panicked.
Some tried to scramble up the nearly sheer mountainside to their right.
Others tried to escape down the slope to their left, which left them tumbling and sliding down the side of the mountain.
Pocha saw one young man in particular bounce off a rock on his way down and land hard on the valley floor below.
The black hand that had come down from the sky seemed to hesitate, moving first one way, then the other, as everyone in its path panicked, trying to evade its grasp. But it hadn’t grabbed anyone yet.
Is this witch really so powerful that she can conjure gods? Razune asked, the words tinged with wonder, fear—and skepticism.
It quelled Pocha’s panic, jarring her back into sober thought. Razune was right. Surely this witch couldn’t create the old gods out of empty air…
It’s an illusion.
And she squeezed her legs, urging Razune into flight.
They shot into the sky, flying, toward the hand—and prompting screams from her comrades.
“Pocha!”
“No!”
But Razune sensed her rider’s resolve, and they sped directly toward the hand, which turned toward them as they approached it, as if ready to catch them in its colossal palm.
Pocha drew her sword, clenched her teeth, and shut her eyes, bracing for impact—in case her hunch was wrong. But as they reached the hand, it parted for them, and they passed through it as easily as cloud vapor. It was fake, an illusion, meant to cause them to panic.
When they saw what had happened, a cheer went up from Pocha’s column, and Razune banked, coming around—and winging straight for the Witch. At the sight of her, Pocha felt her blood turn cold with fear, but she raised her sword.
Let’s end her, she told Razune, who flapped her wings harder, picking up speed.
Neither the Witch nor her woodland steed flinched, as dragon and Skrathan sped toward them.
Instead, the mage simply raised one hand.
Shadows fell over Pocha’s vision like a veil.
Whispers filled her ears, the susurration of a thousand ghostly voices, and she felt breath on her cheeks, cold as the grave.
It was so disorienting that for a moment she lost track of everything—what was happening, where she was, who she was—until she hit the ground.
The Witch’s dark glamour ripped away like a bandage, and Pocha was tumbling across the rocky earth, then sliding down a short drop.
She came to a halt, a small avalanche of dirt and pebbles dribbling down on her as she took stock of her aching body.
She hurt everywhere, but nothing felt broken.
With a grunt, she rolled over and fought to her hands and knees, then stood.
The Witch stood at the top of the rise, staring down at her, looking completely nonplussed.
With a sigh, she dismounted from her stag.
It only had the effect of making her seem even taller, somehow.
Pocha had always been among the shortest of the Skrathan, and rounder than most. She did not cut a heroic figure, certainly not next to the towering, gaunt, austerely beautiful witch.
But she’d somehow kept hold of her sword, and she brandished it now, her lips curling into a snarl.
“Where are your little friends?” the Witch asked.
Pocha frowned, confused. “Who?”
Before the Witch could answer, Lure and Axjan came screaming down from the sky.
The Witch raised a hand, apparently giving them the same treatment Pocha had just received.
Instead of crashing, however, Axjan just slowed, dropped to the earth, and stumbled into Razune, who was just climbing out of a nearby ravine.
Lure shouted, swinging their sword at nothing—blindly.
Razune had made it out of the ravine, but was beset by five massive golenae, which swarmed over her, biting and clawing.
Beyond them, Pocha could see her forces locked in a ferocious battle with the Witch’s horde. It did not seem to be going well.
It was all up to her. She’d have to lop off the head of the snake.
With a battle cry, Pocha charged the Witch, her sword raised.
But again, blindness took her. One moment, she could see.
The next, she was running in total darkness.
She swung her sword where she thought the Witch ought to be, but it whiffed through empty air.
A kick struck her ribs, then, sending her sideways into the dirt, her sword flying from her grip.
When her vision returned, the Witch stood over her, her own sword notched at her neck.
“One less Skrathan,” she said, tensing to bury the blade’s tip in Pocha’s throat.
At the last second, Pocha jerked sideways.
Instead of her windpipe, the sword’s tip buried itself near her clavicle.
She heard a click as metal hit bone and felt a surge of pain.
With a snarl, the Witch drew back the weapon, readying herself for another stab.
Pocha winced, steeling herself for the death blow.
Before the Witch could dole it out, though, there came a sudden light. Sharp. Blinding.
It wasn’t dawn, though at the edges of the horizon, a rose-colored glow was beginning to edge out the blackness of night.
No, this light seemed to be coming from the hilltop.
It swept over the valley below, and as Pocha watched, hundreds of ropes, silver like spider silk, were unfurled from the summit.
And from each of them, warriors began sliding down. One, two, three, four, down each line.
The Witch gave a snarl of displeasure, turning to face this new onslaught.
“You did not show me this, thou treacherous spirits,” she growled—at the unseen spirits of the void, apparently.
The warriors were still coming down from the hilltop, more and more of them.
They wore shining golden armor and they looked like women, lithe and strong, most of them as tall as the Witch.
They bore long, bladed spears, which seemed to spin in their hands like the propellers on the front of necromancer biplanes.
And Lacunae and golenae alike fell before them like wheat to a scythe.
The Witch, viewing this scene, threw Pocha’s sword down in disgust and stepped up to the highest point of the hill on which she stood. She shouted a single word—four dreadful syllables in a language so foul it had to be a tongue of the pit. Then she clapped her hands once over her head.
For a third time, a veil of shadow fell over Pocha’s vision, and with it an oppressive pall—a feeling like being smothered. It became worse and worse and worse, until she felt as if the life were being choked out of her.
The Witch gave a scream of triumph, her darkness pushing through the valley like a crashing wave. Then, suddenly, it stopped. Pocha looked and saw the line where the shadow magick met the growing dawn stopped, trembled—and then, began to push back toward the Witch.
The air and the earth seemed to shift again. It felt easier to breathe, suddenly. And then the darkness dissipated, like the bursting of a bubble, and Pocha saw golden rays of sun reaching out from the rim of the eastern Yrdams.
The Witch cursed. She balled up her fists and pressed them together, then shouted three words in the language of the void. And with a sudden convulsion of reality that left Pocha feeling nauseated—she was gone, and the black stag with her.
Pocha snatched up her sword and, with a hiss of pain, got to her feet.
In the valley below, the surviving Lacunae were streaming away in retreat, some on their black horses, others on the back of golenae, many on foot.
Many others lay dead on the valley floor, and many golenae had been reduced to piles of wind-stirred dust. The golden women stood among Pocha’s own forces, greeting them.
The warrior women were fewer in number than Pocha had thought at first glance, but they looked just as grand in their shining, golden armor.
Priestesses of Umsir, Razune said. A note of wonder, rare in a dragon, colored her voice. Her wing was cocked at a concerning angle, but she seemed otherwise uninjured.
Lure limped over to stand beside Pocha.
“Umsir. We made it,” Lure said with a nod.
Together, they surveyed the valley below.
Their numbers were diminished, but the survivors raised their weapons and shouted in triumph.
“Skrathan forever!”
“For Essa!”
“For Maethalia!”
Tears crept into Pocha’s eyes as she and Lure raised their swords, too, and joined in the battle cry.