31. Thirty-One #2
“I may be Silvergard now, but, one day, you will be. Watch yourself.”
Nova nodded once, then burst back through the tent flap and into the light.
The fog had cleared some, revealing a battleground amid the tents stretching as far as the eye could see.
Lycane and yaesira ran rampant through the camp, leaping upon soldiers and killing them quickly, powerful jaws meeting soft throats.
Dozens of repera circled above, diving and snatching folk up in their talons.
Carrying them into the sky and dropping them to their deaths.
For a few frantic beats of her heart, all sound faded, time seeming to slow as Nova surveyed the chaos exploding around her.
A repera swooped from above, but Callan slayed it with a shard of ice shot through its neck.
Nova forced several breaths in and out through her nose, calming her rioting pulse, then drew her Nivalian steel.
Taking up position on Lucan’s right flank, she planted her feet wide and raised her blade, eyes scanning the camp.
The sounds of the battle returned to full volume around her.
She spun at a series of cracks close behind her and found Bryn shifting out of her raven form.
“They’re coming!” Bryn shouted once her boots hit the sand.
Glancing over her shoulder, Nova watched as the Enchanted rolled forth through the camp like a rogue wave, trampling soldiers as they ran.
Their clothing signified what territory they might have originally come from, but they were all the same washed-out gray Bryn had once been.
The tents forced them to follow the narrow laneways snaking through the camp, slowing their approach, however minimally.
Facing Bryn, Nova gripped her friend’s collar, bringing their faces close together.
“Find my father,” Nova forced out, somehow finding the breath to speak.
Bryn nodded, and Nova dropped her hand, turning to take up a defensive position alongside Callan and Lucan once again. A brief snap of breaking bones rang out behind her, then the shadow of Bryn’s great raven soared over their heads.
The front line of Enchanted neared enough for Nova to see their eyes: endless pools, shining like water at the bottom of a well.
Callan threw his free hand in a wide arc in front of him, blade-sharp shards of ice flying toward the approaching enemy and catching several Enchanted in the eyes and necks.
Those that weren’t struck down forged ahead, crushing the bodies of the fallen beneath their feet.
Callan sent forth another volley of icy blades.
But as each enemy fell dead, another quickly filled the space left behind.
Water pouring into the hull of a ship even as you bail it out.
Repera dove from of the sky, snatching folk off the ground as they tried to fight the Enchanted, then climbing back into the quickly disappearing clouds, their prey soon falling back to the earth below.
The Enchanted charged closer, the swell of bodies no more than a stone’s throw from where the trio stood guarding Nox’s tent.
The creatures, for that was the only way to describe them, were expressionless.
No malice, no pain on their faces. Blank masks proving they were nothing more than vessels for Omen’s thirst for destruction and bloodshed.
Nova’s nightmare flashed in her mind: her own reflection in a foggy mirror, emotionless eyes as black as the darkest night. She shook her head against the memory, widening her stance, her sword arm dropping to her side as she held out her opposite arm.
Lucan emitted a low growl beside her as she pressed her eyes shut.
Nova tried to drown out the noise. The somber howls of lycane sending a chill rippling along the surface of her skin.
The screams of innocent folk she’d drawn into the fight.
Quieting her mind, she called upon the white mist—called to Illora—offering herself as a conduit for the goddess’s healing power.
The magic seized her bodily, her limbs going rigid and her head snapping back, angled toward the sky.
Though her eyes had opened wide, she could see nothing, her vision painted white.
She came to on the ground, crouched on her hands and knees with her fingertips digging into the black sand.
Pain throbbed in her skull, insides twisting.
She dragged in a deep breath, and her sight cleared, revealing a handful of Enchanted returned to their normal state.
Confused and disoriented—the darkness banished from their eyes.
Lucan lunged through the air in her periphery, tackling a creature that, judging by its clothing, had once been a Tundaran soldier.
There was no time for Nova to revel in her small victory; more Enchanted rushed forward, trampling the fallen and those she had healed.
Callan’s frozen magic tore through the air once more, icy blades meeting soft flesh, and more Enchanted fell to the ground.