“Dismount, if you can’t control him,” Ra-khir instructed Darby. Tasked with the oversized sword his sons had insisted Thialnir and Kedrin give him, he could not follow his own advice. On foot, he could barely handle the weapon. He wheeled Silver Warrior and galloped toward the fray, sword held out in front of him, lancelike.
Six of the knights managed to surround one giant, and the battle appeared promising until another Kjempemagiska struck from behind his companion, taking down two more knights and tramping onward as if it had taken no effort whatsoever. At full gallop, Ra-khir rammed him, impaling him. The impact sent Ra-khir floundering backward, unseating him. Silver Warrior skidded to a stop, too late. Still embedded in the giant, the huge sword was wrenched from Ra-khir’s grip. He slammed to the ground, contact jarring through his spine, in time to see a booted Kjempemagiska foot speeding toward his head.
Desperate, Ra-khir dove between two deadfalls. The foot crashed onto both trunks, splintering them but saving Ra-khir from crushing. Seeming not to notice him, the Kjempemagiska moved onward. Ra-khir scrambled to a crouch between the shattered deadfalls, reassessing the battle. He could hear Silver Warrior whinnying wildly, seeking him. Nearer, he found his head-struck father staggering purposelessly. Ra-khir seized Kedrin’s arm and pulled him down into the hollow of the deadfalls. “Captain, listen to me.”
Silver Warrior’s distress brought the memory of another horse that could pass for its identical twin. When Colbey had descended into the abyss to battle demons, he had believed it a suicide mission and had given his steed, Frost Reaver, to Ra-khir. The stallion had called frantically for its centuries-old master, its own life prolonged by a steady diet of Idunn’s golden apples of youth. That gave Ra-khir an idea, and he blurted it aloud before he could consider it further. “Call all the Knights of Erythane to battle, Captain. We can’t spare a single one.”
Kedrin’s white-blue eyes seemed incapable of focusing on Ra-khir, but his reply suggested his ears still functioned. “What are you babbling about? The Knights are here, Ra-khir. They’re all right here.”
Ra-khir grabbed his father’s shoulders, then ducked to avoid another blow, pinning Kedrin to the ground. A massive sword hissed over the deadfalls. “No. One’s missing. One’s always missing. Captain, you need to call Sir Colbey to active duty.”
An Erythanian infantryman tripped over the deadfalls and nearly collapsed onto the knights.
For a moment Kedrin stared at Ra-khir in disbelief. Humans prayed to gods, humans begged gods, humans beseeched the gods; but humans did not demand the service of gods, even one who did not claim the title. Whatever he was, the immortal Renshai lived and married among the gods; and, even in his mortal time, no one had ever dared tell Colbey what to do.
Kedrin’s pupils dilated until they threatened to take over his irises. “I can’t do that!”
Ra-khir studied the battle. Piles of human bodies littered the ground, but only one Kjempemagiska lay still, the one he had skewered before he lost his mount and his weapon. This war required every man. As soon as his father regained his wits, they both had to return to it for however short their lives might last. “You have to, Captain. If you don’t, we’re all doomed.”
Kedrin sat up just as a Kjempemagiska sword lunged toward them. Ra-khir drew and parried with his regular sword, enhanced only by exposure to elfin magic. The massive blade hammered his own, shocking agony through both arms all the way to his shoulders. He bit back a scream and threw himself at his opponent, trying to protect his father as long as possible, to give him the opportunity to do what had to be done. Only the Knight-Captain might have the authority to do what Ra-khir had suggested.
Ra-khir raised his sword again, prepared to meet the next assault but hoping he could dodge rather than needing to deflect again. He doubted his arms could take another hit. He flew at the giant, ducking under the curved blade, cutting in to score a slash that barely grazed the giant’s ankle. The huge sword came at him again. Ra-khir spun away, using all his strength to score a line of scarlet across the Kjempemagiska’s wrist. Unlike the oversized sword, his blade required great strength just to leave a mark.
Frustration seized Ra-khir. In a fair fight, he had a chance. With his weapons curtailed, he doubted he could last much longer. “For Erythane and Béarn!” Ra-khir raced for the giant, leaping into the air and putting every bit of body weight behind the attack. It was sheer desperation. If he aimed right, hit hard enough, he might cut open the chest or abdomen with enough force to cause lethal damage. Whether he hit or missed, Ra-khir doubted he would have a second chance.
Ra-khir’s blade struck true, driving through the giant’s finely woven coat and plunging into his belly. Ra-khir sagged, trying to rip the sword downward, to open the wound enough to assure his opponent’s death. The curved sword dropped from the giant’s grip. He roared, catching Ra-khir in both hands and squeezing.
Air rushed from Ra-khir’s lungs. His bones creaked, and an agony beyond any he had known raced through every part. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing emerged. No air remained in his body, forced out by the strength of those crushing fingers. The world faded into swirling spots of black and white. Ra-khir’s consciousness faded.
Then, something swift and silver streaked past Ra-khir’s head, severing both of the giant’s wrists. Helpless, Ra-khir fell like a stone, the crash of his body against the ground reigniting the anguish and sending it spiraling through his entire being. Air rushed into his lungs so suddenly, it seemed to fill every part of him. He fought his way back to consciousness just in time to see the giant tumble backward. A golden blur of movement whisked toward the giants, lightning incarnate.
Colbey! Ra-khir realized. Though his whole body screamed with pain, he staggered to his feet. The tide of the battle turned in that moment, and—somehow—everyone knew it. One by one, the giants fell like trees before a relentless ax. Humans rallied behind the immortal Renshai, finishing off his kills, dragging aside the injured humans, driving in to attack with renewed and hopeful vigor. The cries of the hurt and dying were usurped by cheers. Dispirited men came to life, and Ra-khir could see the wave of confident expectation flying down the front line as if carried on a lateral wind.
Colbey seemed unstoppable, his blades never still. It appeared as if he killed a giant with each stroke, though Ra-khir knew better. It took five or six, all well-aimed, to down each opponent. He just did so with extraordinary quickness, his weapons swift-moving blurs, his exuberance and energy apparently unwaning.
But Ra-khir understood Colbey better than most, knew the immortal Renshai relied on the human combatants to finish the jobs he started, knew his endurance had limits that would not allow him to plow through more than a hundred Kjempemagiska, at best. For all his ability, the immortal Renshai was fallible; and, the longer he fought, the sooner he would make that inevitable and fatal mistake.
Ra-khir had to rally every possible combatant, to drive them all at the giants simultaneously, in order to break the Kjempemagiska’s spirit and send them into awkward and desperate retreat before Colbey made that lethal error and the giants, once again, took the upper hand. He did his best to spur everyone around him into action, raced down the lines with his optimism seething, whipped the humans into a frenzy that could last beyond whatever Colbey could manage. The war was definitely not over, and the more they accomplished before the fall of their would-be savior, the better chance they had of winning this war.
It soon seemed to Ra-khir that he need not have done anything. Each unit saw the wild warrior and gave him their own interpretation. The silver-striped blond hair gave away a Northern heritage that every tribe claimed as one of its own. He was a god to others, a hero from their ancient legends, a magical being unleashed by the elves. Ra-khir made no effort to disabuse them of any notion that caused them to rise up and fight, especially since the truth might dishearten them. Too many peoples of the continent hated Renshai without res
ervation and, quite often, without reason.
By the time Ra-khir reached the opposite front of the battlefield, the Renshai had already identified their leader. They hooted and howled, leaving bloody corpses in their wake with the same fervor as Colbey, without need of his help. Calistin and Saviar formed the leading edge of another onslaught, equally bloody; Ra-khir knew that, if they survived this battle, the legends would surely merge. He saw no sign of Subikahn but did not let that worry him. It was unreasonable to believe he could find any individual soldier in a war this large.
Ra-khir ached in every part. Sharp pain stabbed through him with every breath. Each movement sparked a fresh wave of anguish he was finding it increasingly difficult to cast aside, even in the name of desperation. He had made it across the entire front solely on the strength of a pure and absolute need, but even that seemed no longer enough. His consciousness wavered. Reality closed in tight. For the moment, the troops had rallied; but it lasted only so long as Colbey Calistinsson and Calistin Ra-khirsson remained alive to lead. Soon, fatigue would increase the likelihood of a misstep. Their luck could not hold up forever. And, once they fell, the tide of the war would turn again. Then, nothing could stop the Kjempemagiska.
Bodies littered the battlefield, the vast majority of them human but a growing number the enormous forms of Kjempemagiska, killed not only by Colbey, Calistin, and Saviar but by their encouraged followers. Ra-khir estimated a dozen Kjempemagiska bodies mingled with the smaller corpses, then another dozen, a third. Aggrieved roaring filled the air, sounds as mournful as a lone and anxious wolf seeking the comfort of its pack. It occurred to Ra-khir that the loss of only two of their own had caused them to retreat the first time. With a jolt that sent anguish coursing through him, Ra-khir realized they were about to do something hysterical and enormous, something the peoples of the continent had no means to handle.
Waves of nausea passed through Ra-khir, and he cursed the injuries that made him feel so fragile. He did not know who to turn to, what to shout; but he suspected the elves needed to know and probably already did. He could almost feel the giants withdrawing, a physical retreat of such force it seemed to suck him into it as well, like an undertow. A warning speared his head, laced with panic, *Stay low. Hang on!*
The message did not seem personal. Ra-khir did not believe someone had sent it directly to him, but it galvanized him. Despite his own wounds, he needed to find a way to assist the battle, whatever it took. And, at the moment, it took the right weapon.
The enemy’s retreat incited the others as well. Warriors surged around Ra-khir, pounding toward the front, prepared to follow their golden leaders into what had finally become a two-sided battle. Finding a Kjempemagiska corpse, mangled nearly beyond recognition, Ra-khir grabbed for the vanquished sword. Mounted, he had found their weapons unwieldy. Grounded and aching, the weight nearly undid him. He seized the hilt at a dead run, but his arms failed him. Still gripping the weapon, he toppled to the ground, and the pounding feet of the soldiers behind him smashed his left ankle and slammed against his head. Like an anchor, his grip on the sword kept him from moving, but he did draw himself in, attempted to leave as small an area as possible for others to trample.
The world turned dazzlingly white. At first, Ra-khir thought the blow to his head had ruined his vision. Then, he remembered during the previous war, when Saviar had thrust Motfrabelonning’s hilt into his hand and allowed him to see the flashing auras that accompanied the use of magic. Someone kicked Ra-khir’s fingers as he passed, and the knight lost his grip on the sword. The light disappeared. Ra-khir lunged forward, seized the hilt again, and the world seemed to ignite into blinding brilliance.
Ra-khir wobbled to a stand, the sword a sagging burden in his fist. The pain in his left ankle surpassed the myriad aches of the rest of his body, refusing to take any of his weight. Gradually, the lights took form: a massive horseshoe around the battlefield perfectly defining the woods, a separate mass toward the northwest comprised of giants, a few stragglers here and there who Ra-khir had no means to identify. The air became thick, heavy with expectation. It seemed as if the entire world, and every living thing in it, paused for the barest moment.
Then, an explosion shattered Ra-khir’s hearing, stole the last of his deteriorating vision, and flung him effortlessly into the sky. Wind rushed around him with such force it threatened to tear out his lungs and violate every part of him. Even his organs felt abruptly cold. All senses failed him, and he knew nothing but a terrible force that hurled him like a wet and boneless doll. The pain coalesced into an agony beyond bearing. Position lost all meaning, and not a single sense remained to anchor him. Merciful, empty darkness settled over Ra-khir, and he knew no more.
Gradually, the sky turned a sickly shade of green, heralding an upcoming storm of tremendous magnitude. Abruptly, Kentt shoved Mistri from his grasp and, for the first time, rose fully to his feet, towering over the others hidden amidst the dunes.
The instant he did so, Rantire drew, crouching. Tae’s heart pounded. The Kjempemagiska did not carry any obvious weaponry and seemed too focused on the horizon to mean them any threat. He only hoped Rantire would not read his lack of reaction to her aggressive stance as a grave and personal insult. “He’s not a warrior,” Tae reminded her. “He’s concentrating on something far away, something bigger than you or me or even Mistri.”
Taking a cue from her father, Mistri also turned in the direction of his stare. The sky was darkening far too swiftly, as if something menaced the sun itself. Tae doubted their decision to look toward the distant battlefield was random. Tae prodded softly in usaro, “What is it?”
Kentt seemed so utterly focused, even beyond his own safety, Tae did not expect an answer. “Magic. It’s magic.”
“Yours?” Tae prodded.
“No.” Kentt finally spared his human companions a glance. “I have nothing to do with it, but it’s bad. Very bad.”
Tae glanced at Rantire who remained in a crouched and armed position, though she made no move to attack. “Please, you need to tell us. What’s happening? What can we do to stop it?”
Kentt seized Mistri with both hands, pulling her against him and folding his arms across her. “We cannot stop it. We can only hope to survive it.”
Tae looked toward Béarn. So many people inhabited the castle, including the royal family. Without Griff or his heir, without the focal point of all neutrality, the world was doomed whether or not the Kjempemagiska lost the war. “Can we protect the castle?” Imorelda’s claws sank into Tae’s neck. He could feel her fur bristling. He attempted to pull her into his arms, but she shoved her head through the neck of his tunic. The cloth tightened dangerously, and he swiftly undid the clasp, worried she would throttle both of them to death.
Kentt glanced at the sky, now so dark Tae could barely make out the dune in front of him. Sand started to swirl.
“Not necessary. It’s carved from the mountains. If anything can withstand the force of this backlash, it can.” He dropped back to a crouch, pulling Mistri with him. “It’s us you have to worry about. Those on the beach, the ocean, the flatland.”
Something akin to lightning cleaved the sky. The wind screamed toward them, flinging sand with a violence that drove it deeply into Tae’s face. He slammed his lids shut, scratching grainy trenches across his eyes. The pain was overwhelming. Screams wrenched from his throat, unbidden, and opened the way for fine dust to fill his nose and mouth. Choking, he dropped to the ground, clutching his tunic, with Imorelda beneath it, against his chest. Her claws gouged through his undergarments and into his flesh. “Can you help them?” Tae gasped out, swallowing salt and grit as the wind threw the words back into his face. Only then, he remembered he could communicate without opening his mouth. *Please, help us! Help them!*
Gales tore at Tae’s clothes. Imorelda hunkered against him, snuggled between the layers. The exposed skin of his hands and feet, his face and neckline
seemed suddenly on fire. He could feel the wind-driven sand tearing, dared to wonder how fast the wind must be blowing to lend the sand such power. The pain rose to raw agony. He found himself screaming. Then, something enormous covered him, shielding him from the bulk of the storm.
*I’m trying, Tae.* The grief of the world seemed to accompany the sending, buffeting Tae with waves of hopeless agony. *Two enormous and opposite magical forces have collided. Devastatingly! Explosively! We’re suffering only the distant backlash. No one at the site could possibly have survived.* The Kjempemagiska’s mental sending became a head-filling howl of misery. The intensity of Kentt’s despair nearly overwhelmed Tae. He, too, lost all will to live.
*We’re going to die,* Imorelda moaned. The instant she broke the contact between human and Kjempemagiska, the intolerable depression lifted and Tae found himself capable of mustering courage again.
*We’re going to live,* Tae assured her, now realizing Kentt’s own body cocooned them nearly as fully as he shielded Imorelda. *We’ve survived worse.* He did not mention the fate of all their relatives, their acquaintances, their friends on the battlefield. Imorelda did not understand the language of Heimstadt, and Tae had to believe Kentt was wrong to keep himself from becoming paralyzed with heartache, too.
*There’s nothing worse.*
Tae knew he needed to keep in contact with Kentt, regardless of the discomfort. Now fully assured the bottomless angst eminated from the Kjempemagiska, Tae believed he could keep his own emotions stable. *Imorelda, I’m sorry. If we’re going to live through this, I have to be able to communicate with them.*
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