There were untold thousands of them. They stretched westward from the cliffs in a great curving arc, as though they comprised but one visible portion of a noose that was tightening around all of Rowan. Banners and pennants fluttered high in the morning breeze, the broken and tattered standards of Jakarün and Dùn and a host of lesser duchies and baronies that had fallen to Prusias’s forces.
Max gazed out at them. Most were vyes padding about on two legs like men or on all fours like rangy black wolves. But there were ogres, too, hundreds of them in crested war helms along with two-headed ettins, and rotting deathknights holding tall lances decorated with pennons and grisly scalps. Behind them, still tiny in the distance, rolled Prusias’s siege engines: great catapults and towers and rams the size of redwoods.
Prusias doesn’t want to obliterate Rowan, Max concluded. Not if he can help it. Otherwise he’d just send the dreadnoughts.
Even without their secret weapon, this army had broken through the outer walls in a matter of hours. Could vyes and ogres alone do such a thing? Even as he considered this, Max spied lanes forming in the Enemy’s densely packed ranks.
The demons that rode to the front were nobility among their kind: proud rakshasas in gilded plate and crowning war helms, fearsome oni wielding sickle swords, and black-masked malakhim. They seemed to care nothing for the dawn or its rising sun, whose rays died and withered in the spreading gloom. As the demons arrived at the front, Max’s ring began to sear. The awful drumming ceased and an eerie stillness settled over Prusias’s army.
One of the rakshasa urged his mount forward and ventured alone through the gloom toward the trenches, surveying Rowan’s battalions like a visiting general. Disdain was stamped upon his tusked, tigerlike features. Turning, he called for one of his attendants—a slender imp on a black donkey. Riding forward, the imp handed the rakshasa an enormous recurve bow and three arrows. As the imp withdrew, Max heard Scathach whispering urgently in his ear.
“Do not take this bait! You have been seen, my love. He means to draw you out.”
Indeed, the rakshasa appeared to be looking at Max as he rode, tall and proud as a samurai, to within a hundred yards of Trench Nineteen. Casually spurring his mount, the rakshasa cantered along its line and raised his bow.
Three shots were fired; three bannermen fell. The arrows struck each in the throat, killing them before they could even flinch or gasp in surprise. They had stood fifty yards apart and yet they fell at the same moment, toppling silently as the standards slipped from their dead hands. Prusias’s army roared, raising their weapons high and jeering at Rowan as the rakshasa trotted back and tossed the bow to his attendant. Wheeling back around, the demon drew a long saber and smashed a mailed fist against his chest by way of challenge.
Instantly, Scathach spurred her horse and galloped out to meet him. There was nothing Max could do but watch as she hunched low over the Appaloosa’s neck, her hair streaming behind her. With a delighted roar, the rakshasa urged his mount toward the challenger, raising his sword high as though to cleave her in two. The riders raced at one another in a spray of mud and turf as their mounts closed the gap. They passed like jousters at a tourney. As they did so, there was a flash of light and the sharp report of a thunderclap. Continuing at full gallop, Scathach stood tall in the stirrups. But the demon’s mount slowed to a trot and then halted altogether.
Sinking low in his saddle, the rakshasa grimaced at Rowan’s ranks and clutched at his throat. He appeared as stunned as the thousands massed behind him. Scathach paid him no heed as she circled back around and cantered easily to the demon’s speechless attendant. Tearing the banner from the imp’s grasp, the maiden raised it high and abruptly shattered it upon her shield.
Rowan’s response was deafening.
Every soldier, from the youngest squire to the most seasoned veteran, stood and cried out their defiance. When the rakshasa finally toppled from his saddle, the cheering hit a frenzied pitch. Sarah’s horn rose above the din. Other commanders followed suit, and Max turned to see hundreds of bows raised in unison as the pikes were lowered into formations. Scathach galloped back to the ranks, her eyes shining as she circled her horse around Max. Her breathless words sounded like a chant, an incantation wrought with ancient and terrible power.
“You are the child of Lugh Lamfhada. You are the sun and the storm and the master of all the feats I have to teach. You are these things because you must be.…”
The gae bolga screamed as its blade was freed from its scabbard.
But even its terrible keening was faint in Max’s ears. The month was March; the dawn was red and the Old Magic howled in its eagerness to greet it. Scathach drew back as Max wheeled YaYa around and cantered along the trench embankments, staring out at Prusias’s army. As the ki-rin’s pace increased, all traces of age and weariness fell away. When the archers loosed their arrows, YaYa leaped fifty feet over the trench and charged.
She crashed through the advancing vyes like a tidal wave, leaving broken bodies in her wake as Max pursued the demons and deathknights with frenzied determination. He saw their shine clearly now, flickering, ghostly auras scattered amid a dark sea of vyes and ogres. YaYa tore after them, streaking across the battlefield like a thunderbolt. Even the deathknights could not escape her; she chased them down like Nick used to corner field mice in the Sanctuary. The ki-rin was so swift, so instinctive that Max had only to spy some unholy glimmer amid the throng and seconds later they were crashing down upon it.
Occasionally there was a sharp crack as a spear or pike splintered on YaYa’s broad chest. Max felt blows upon his shield, twitched at an occasional sting along his neck or arm, but they were no more irksome than insects. Whenever he screamed, the gae bolga answered, fanning the flames of the Old Magic until it raged within him.
Layer by layer, Max’s mortal identity was peeling, burning away like a skin of tissue paper. He shone so brightly that the Enemy could not look upon him. Whole companies fled from his onslaught, clawing to get past one another, scrabbling madly to get away. Other troops simply fell to the ground, covering their heads or tearing at their eyes as though they burned.
YaYa showed no sign of flagging. They raced deep into the Enemy ranks, scattering the infantry and crashing down upon the advancing siege engines. Rams smashed to the ground as Max slew those carrying them; catapults toppled as YaYa obliterated their heavy beams and supports. Far off, Max glimpsed Prusias’s golden palanquin being carried by countless slaves—a moving palace creeping over the murky landscape.
Just then, Max heard the shrill note of Sarah’s horn rise above the din. Wheeling YaYa around, he saw that the trenches were besieged. Hundreds of vyes and ogres lay dead from arrows, but more had leaped onto the embankments to engage the Trench Rats at close range. Some pikes held formation, but others were entangled in wild, savage struggles with their opponents using whatever means at their disposal. Another horn sounded and Max saw the Wildwood Knights come charging out of Northgate, their armor gleaming as they drove a wedge through the advancing tide of foes. The collisions were tremendous, bodies flying, horses upended, and vyes trampled. The knights drove the invaders steadily back in a determined offensive of lances and swords. Given some distance, the archers soon loosed another volley but immediately had to take cover as Stygian crows swept down upon them in screeching sorties of razor beaks and talons.
Max glimpsed one archer literally covered by the creatures, which had almost carried the screaming man away before Bob obliterated them with a vicious swing of his cudgel.
To the east, Max spied a troop of deathknights charging along the cliffs. He urged YaYa at them, hurtling over the ground at dizzying speed to intercept the undead cavalry before they utterly overwhelmed that section of the line. The archers had also seen the threat. A hundred Zenuvian arrows were loosed, slamming into the riders leading the formation. Three deathknights burst into green flame, careening off their steeds, which stumbled over the cliffs. But a score of horsemen still remained, bearin
g down upon the trench. Two more fell as Lucia’s firebursts exploded suddenly before them, but the others tightened their formation and galloped at a furious pace to overrun the trench.
With a roar, YaYa broadsided them like a locomotive, shattering bones and crumpling armor as the creatures and their horses were launched over the cliffs. But YaYa went with them, her momentum carrying her far over the edge. Max felt a terrifying weightlessness and hugged her neck, bracing himself for the inevitable, sickening plunge.
But no plunge occurred.
The ki-rin merely galloped over the empty air. Glancing down, Max saw the rocky beach and crashing surf far below. A furious melee was taking place on the beaches below as the Harbor Guard held the Enemy back from the cliff stairs that would bring them up to the main campus.
There was no time to help them. There must have been a hundred such scenes taking place across Greater Rowan. Leaning forward in his saddle, Max held tight as YaYa made a sweeping turn that took them far out over the waves as she circled back and charged toward the battleground at Trench Nineteen.
The scene unfolding before them did not appear real. It was too horrid and beautiful for Max’s mind to process. It was a living painting, an explosion of color and light and scale where battalions and mounted companies were no more than toy soldiers scattered across a vast panorama of smoke, sun, and ruin.
Huge storm clouds were circling over Westgate while in the south Max glimpsed a pluming cloud of superheated smoke. There was a flash. From Rowan’s casting towers came huge bolts of lightning that lanced across the battlefield, destroying the Enemy’s siege towers and catapults in crackling explosions that showered the land with broken timber and debris.
YaYa reached the cliffs, running on solid earth once more. Max struck down an oni as they passed, the gae bolga shearing right through its heavy shield. A host of vyes fled before the ki-rin as they crashed back into the fray, scattering like jackals before a lion. Arrows whistled overhead as horns sounded from Northgate. Fresh cavalry came galloping forth, reinforcing the Wildwood Knights in a thunderous offensive.
YaYa fell in with them, charging to the fore as they drove the vyes and ogres back over the scorched earth and ravaged countryside. The Enemy’s initial assault was breaking, retreating to protect Prusias’s golden palanquin and regroup with the battalions he’d held in reserve.
At a signal flare from Rowan, Max and the knights checked their pursuit. They slowed to a trot and watched the Enemy’s withdrawal. Fatigue was overcoming Max. His radiance had dimmed to a flickering halo of light about his brow. Even the gae bolga had grown silent, choked and sated from the carnage.
Max was wearier than he had ever been. Dismounting, he saw that his shield was punctured and scored in a dozen places. He tossed it aside, walking around to examine YaYa. The magnificent ki-rin was panting heavily and still growling from deep in her throat. Her black coat was spattered with so much mud and gore, it appeared as though she’d charged through pools of the stuff. Stroking her muzzle, Max rested his head against her chest before stepping back to gaze up at the sky.
The wind had cleared much of the smoke, but not all. Some billows still drifted on the breeze, carrying west across a deepening sky tinged with brilliant streaks of red and pink. Max blinked dully at the fiery orange ball sinking low over the western wood and tried to reconcile how the day could possibly be ending. The attack had begun at dawn. Could so much time have passed? It seemed mere minutes since Scathach had ridden out to answer the rakshasa’s challenge.
Squinting, Max gazed about, but he could not find her. Not along Trench Nineteen or at the command tent or among any of the mounted cavalry. Terrible thoughts flitted through his mind. His pulse quickened and he stepped around YaYa for a better view of the battlefield. It was hard to pick out details among the devastation, and the sun’s rays cast long shadows that obscured much of what he was seeing. Already, the dead and dying were being carried away on stretchers. The Enemy’s forces were left to the ravens and gulls, which were settling in alarming numbers.
Max heard cheers from the trenches and from high on the citadel’s battlements and the towers of Northgate. In the distance, Old Tom was chiming the hour as though students were being summoned to supper. One of the Wildwood Knights was calling to him. Max glanced at the man who asked again if he would care to ride back with them. Shaking his head, Max anxiously climbed back up onto YaYa’s saddle. Taking his spyglass, he surveyed the field again.
As he swept the glass along the cliffs, Max stopped breathing.
An Appaloosa was cantering, tossing its mane and bucking wildly as though it had gone mad. The horse was without a rider.
In his shock, Max barely registered a strange chittering. YaYa gave a sudden start, sidestepping abruptly as something slithered past in a whirl of clicking legs and probing feelers. Glancing down, Max’s fears and sorrow were transformed into frantic, disbelieving terror.
The creature was a pinlegs.
And its lights were flashing red.
Max rode swiftly back toward the citadel, shouting at everyone—every knight and soldier—to flee inside Northgate. Spying Sarah near Trench Nineteen, he yelled for her to blow the signal for a retreat. She hesitated, staring at him like he was crazy until he repeated the order. Taking her horn, she blew the call.
“Pull back!” yelled Max, literally herding people toward the gate and telling other commanders to blow their horns and signal a retreat. Gazing up at the battlements, Max searched anxiously for any familiar faces among the multitude. At last he saw Nigel leaning out from one of Northgate’s towers. Max called the man’s name over and over until he finally looked down.
“Get a message to Ms. Richter!” Max shouted, cupping his hands. “Sound the retreat!”
“What—why?”
“NOW!”
Nigel disappeared and Max wheeled YaYa away, urging everyone—everyone who could run, walk, or crawl—to get inside the Northgate as fast as they possibly could. Thankfully, people were beginning to respond, to leave their positions and trot uncertainly toward the citadel. But many stopped and looked skeptically over their shoulders, unclear why they were being ordered to abandon the fields where they had just triumphed.
Max could feel the atmosphere changing. The breeze was dying away, but huge clouds were gathering from all directions to obscure the first stars of evening. There was a charged, metallic taste to the air, and even YaYa snorted nervously, swiveling her shaggy head as though searching for an unseen threat.
At last Max heard the great horns sound from within the citadel, a shattering call to retreat as hissing red flares shot out from every casting tower. From inside the walls, even Old Tom’s chimes were ringing an alarm as though Armageddon had come.
The peculiar clouds and Rowan’s alarm had the desired effect. Whole battalions hurried toward the citadel at full speed. Max looked frantically about for Scathach, scanning the stampede of running figures and mounted knights to no avail. Sarah rode toward him on her charger. Her shield was dented and she was bleeding from a cut upon her forehead, but she did not appear to be seriously injured.
“Everyone’s heading in,” she assured him. “Are you coming?”
Max shook his head and implored her to go along with the Trench Rats. When it was clear he would not be joining them, she finally left to help evacuate the last of the wounded. Max turned YaYa to gaze out at the emptying battlefield. The ravens and gulls were also departing, hopping off of bodies and taking urgent flight. They wheeled south in dense, screeching flocks as swiftly as their wings would take them.
Twilight was settling upon the battlefield, leaving the grisly shapes in shadow. The wind was picking up once again, blowing in from the north along with a curtain of cold, glittering rain. The drops hissed on hundreds of fires and pinged on thousands of broken shields and bodies scattered across the landscape. Thunder rumbled high above in the swirling clouds, and Prusias’s drums began to sound again.
Boom boom boom boom!<
br />
Far to the north, Max spied movement. Raising his spyglass, he saw that Prusias’s palanquin and troops had regrouped and were moving again, creeping south toward Rowan’s citadel. Leaving them, Max swept the glass across the closer terrain and searched frantically for any telltale lights or motion.
At last he found a pinlegs. It was less than a mile from Northgate, scuttling over an ettin’s corpse. There was a second one a few hundred yards to the right, descending a shallow hill. Max’s heart was racing as he discovered more.
Five … six …
Hastily wiping rain from the lens, he resumed his count as more tiny red lights blinked in the deepening dusk. He’d tallied nine when the pinlegs seemed to halt their advance. The one Max was watching had climbed atop the empty, smoldering armor of a slain rakshasa and began circling like a dog chasing its tail.
Suddenly, the world went white.
The landscape disappeared in a phosphorescent flash as thirteen bolts of lightning struck the battlefield. With a whoosh, the surrounding air rushed toward the strikes as though filling a vacuum. The resulting winds blew with hurricane force, staggering YaYa and bending all the trees inward as though a bomb had imploded. All across the battlefield, bodies and carcasses were rolling and tumbling brokenly toward the strike sites along with acres of dirt and soil to create huge, spiraling vortexes. Thirteen mushroom clouds formed, rising ever higher toward the churning maelstrom above.
At last the swirling plumes crested and began to dissipate. Thousands of broken bodies and horses rained back to earth as the clouds settled. Shapes emerged, dark mountains that seemed to sway and shiver as though stirring from some long slumber.
The earth shook.
Initially, Max thought the dreadnoughts were elephants—colossal war elephants the size of castles. But that impression changed as soon as the creatures awakened.
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