32. Thirty-Two
Thirty-Two
The Enchanted swarmed the battlefield in front of Callan, a wave crashing against Aemoria’s forces.
Fire, ice, and wind flared out of the fray now and again, but the bulk of those fighting were lesser Nobles and Common Fae.
Infantry wielding nothing but steel against the relentless onslaught of Omen’s invincible warriors.
Callan thanked the gods for the arrival of the Wyldlings; their arrows and antlers efficiently piercing the hearts of the enemy.
A line of Enchanted broke past the Fae warriors, their swift feet carrying them to the base of the dune where he stood.
Callan threw his arm in a wide arc, razor-sharp blades of ice shooting forth and striking the enemy in the eyes and throats.
He slid partway down the sandy slope to finish off those who hadn’t received a death blow, and three more Enchanted joined their fallen brethren in a heap at his feet.
Callan surveyed the raging battle: soldiers from every Court, leaderless and disorganized, striking out at whatever enemy materialized in their paths. To stem the unceasing flood of Enchanted pouring out of the encampment, the infantry needed to work as one. He needed to join the fray.
Throwing a look over his shoulder, he cleared the stinging sweat with a sleeve swiped over his eyes and peered at the dune’s summit where he’d left Nova. Though he couldn’t see his mate, Bryn and Riven stood shoulder to shoulder, the two Wyldlings raining arrows down on the enemy.
Good, he thought. She’s safe.
Callan leapt over the bodies littering the ground and slid the rest of the way down the dune, charcoal-colored dust kicking up around his heels. He took off at a sprint as soon as he hit the flat, cutting down stray Enchanted as he hurtled toward the battle.
“Form a wall,” he bellowed. “Keep them back!”
Dozens of Nivalians rushed to the front on his command, making a defensive wall with their knees bent and shoulders braced against shields of solid metal.
With the Nivalian line blocking new enemies from getting through, Callan ordered the remaining infantry, clad in the armor of six different territories, to finish off the Enchanted among them.
“Archers here,” he shouted. Several lines of Wyldlings and Pyralisins maneuvered into formation where he indicated, arrows nocked and aimed at the sky.
Callan rushed forward, ducking low as a repera swooped over him, its talons nearly piercing his back before a Wyldling falcon shifter tackled it in midair.
Rising to his full height once more, Callan held his weapon high, shouting for swords, spears, and axes.
The remaining infantry quickly filled the space between the shields and bows.
Two lycane, coats like coal, leapt over the shield wall, flattening several soldiers as they landed.
One beast didn’t rise; perhaps it had fallen upon a blade.
The second attacked, tearing out the throats of two Tundarans and a Sonn before a well-placed spear brought it down.
“Hold!” Callan roared.
The shield bearers groaned as the enemy slammed against the wall, the defensive line sliding backward despite their boots dug into the black sand.
Callan ordered the secondary forces to strike, and the soldiers attacked from behind the wall, stabbing the enemy with swords and spears, axes making quick work of separating the Enchanted from their heads.
From their position in the rear, the archers released their bowstrings, a torrent of arrows arcing toward the heavens before plummeting back to earth, striking down Enchanted and beasts alike.
Callan repeated his orders again and again, the once-disjointed forces at last functioning as a unit against the enemy onslaught.
Overhead, repera swarmed like angry bees, but the feathered shifters of Maedwen battled valiantly for the sky, slashing holes in the dark beasts’ bat-like wings and sending them crashing to the ground.
Absorbed in the rhythm of the battle, Callan lost all sense of time.
Though many of the Nivalian warriors along the front line had fallen, his folk held strong, fending off the enemy long enough for the Aemorian forces to deal with the ones who broke through or skirted around the outside.
Suddenly, the enemy halted its advance, and the energy on the battlefield shifted.
“Hold!” Callan shouted, shoving his way to the front. Gripping the shoulder of a broad Nivalian warrior, he squinted through a gap in the shield wall.
Indeed, the enemy had ceased its attack, the horde of Enchanted backing away slowly.
At first, Callan thought it was a retreat.
He swiped a wrist over his face, the mix of sweat and soot-colored sand staining his sleeve.
With his vision cleared, he realized the enemy wasn’t retreating, but clearing a path.
Callan set his jaw and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, eyes fixed on the encampment where the sea of Enchanted parted to make way for something. Or, perhaps, for someone. Callan swallowed hard, his throat raw from shouting commands, and braced himself to look upon the Shadowbringer.
Dread consumed him like a creeping frost when, at last, a figure emerged.
A gown, tattered and worn, hung loose about her shoulders.
Her once-auburn hair, faded to the dull color of dried corn husks, fluttered about her face in the breeze.
Fawn approached with purpose but without hurry, her lifeless black eyes fixed on the horizon. Her face an eerie, expressionless mask.
Callan had been prepared to rescue his cousin, not to face her on the battlefield. He froze for a brief moment, and it seemed all of Aemoria’s forces held a collective breath. Tearing himself free of the shock of seeing Fawn drifting, wraithlike, across the sand, Callan shouted once more.
“Ice wielders to the wall!”
Fewer than twenty met him.
“She’s a fire wielder,” he rushed to explain. “A powerful one. Spread out along the wall to block the flames.”
The lesser Nobles hastily nodded their understanding, shoving through the infantry and assuming their positions. Callan sheathed his sword at his back, freeing both his hands, frost already biting at his fingertips.
Fawn halted halfway between the encampment and the Aemorian line.
The Enchanted moved like water, spilling over the sand to fall in at her back.
Several moments passed with no further movement from either Fawn or the Enchanted, the time measured by Callan’s heart pounding behind his leather chest plate.
It was as if the enemy awaited a signal only they could hear.
At last, Fawn raised her hands in front of her.
“Ready,” Callan shouted down the line. The message passed from wielder to wielder, the repeated command ringing out like an echo in the empty quiet.
The eye of the storm. Instinctively, he knew the Fawn he’d grown up with—loved like a sister—wasn’t there, but he called out her name in spite of himself.
Fawn’s face remained empty, without malice or delight, as she unleashed her fearsome magic.
In place of the liquid flame she had always wielded, a black substance spewed forth from her palms, viscous, like boiling pitch.
For an instant, the torrent blotted out the sky, a wave of it poised to crash down upon their heads.
“Now!” Callan bellowed, throwing his own hands toward the sky, a swirling blue haze gathering at the edge of his vision.
A squall of ice and snow poured forth from his palms, joining with the magic of the other Nivalian wielders to form a shield. A tremendous hiss filled the air as the elements collided. Callan widened his stance, bending his knees to brace himself against the crushing weight of Fawn’s magic.
“Hold!” he shouted, voice breaking under the pressure. A roar escaped through his clenched teeth as the rest of the world fell away and the blue haze flooded his sight.