by Jim Butcher
Around me, I heard the werewolves crouch down, growls bubbling up in their throats. Meryl gathered herself to her feet, blood running from her ears, and took her axe in one big hand, drawing her machete into the other. Fix, his ears bleeding, his face pale and resolved, opened his toolbox with shaking hands and drew out a great big old grease-stained monkey wrench.
I gripped my staff and blasting rod and planted my feet. I called my power to me, lifted my staff, and smote it against the ground. Power crackled along its length and rumbled like thunder through the ground, frightening the faerie mounts into restlessness.
Slate leveled his sword at me and let out a cry, taking the panicked animal from a frightened rear to a full frontal charge. Around him, the warriors of the Summer Court followed, the light of stars and moon glittering on their swords and armor, horses screaming, surging toward us like a deadly, bejeweled tide.
The werewolves let out a full-throated howl, eerie and savage. Meryl screamed, wild and loud, and even Fix let out a tinny battle shriek.
The noise was deafening, and no one could have heard me anyway as I let out my own battle cry, which I figured was worth a shot. What the hell.
“I don’t believe in faeries!”
Chapter Thirty-two
Cavalry charges are all about momentum. You get a ton of furious horse and warrior going in one direction and flatten everything in your way. As the Sidhe cavalry came thundering toward us along the banks of the river, and as my heart pounded in my chest and my legs started shaking in naked fear, I knew that if I wanted to survive the next few seconds, I had to find a way to steal that momentum and use it for myself.
I dropped my blasting rod to grip my staff in both hand, and extend it before me. The moment I did, Sidhe riders began making swift warding gestures, accompanied by staccato bursts of magical pressure, separate protective charms rising up before each of them to block whatever magic I was about to throw.
The horses, however, didn’t do any such thing.
I raised a shield, but not in a wall in front of me. Such a warding would have brought the faerie nobles into contact with it, and no one wizard could hold a spell against the wills of a score of faerie lords. I brought up a shield only a couple of feet high, and stretched it in a ribbon across the ground at the feet of Slate’s mount.
The Winter Knight’s steed, a giant grey-green beast, never knew what hit it. The low wall I’d called up clipped it at the knees, and it came crashing down to the misty earth with a scream, dragging Slate down with it. Talos, on Slate’s right, could not react in time to stop his mount or to avoid the wall, but he threw himself clear as his horse went down, dropped into a roll as nimble and precise as any martial arts movie aficionado could desire, and came up on his feet. He spun, a dance-like step somehow in time with the vast song of the battlefield, and his sword came whipping at my head.
Dimly, I heard other horses screaming, tripping not only on my wall but on one another now, but I had no idea how well the spell had worked on the rest of the Sidhe warriors. I was too busy ducking Talos’s first swing and backing out of range of the next.
Meryl stepped between us and caught Talos’s sword in the X formed by her axe and machete. She strained against Summer’s Lord Marshal, leaning her whole body into the effort, muscles quivering. I’d felt exactly how strong the changeling girl was, but Talos simply pressed against that strength, his face composed, slowly overcoming her.
“Why do you do this, changeling child?” Talos called. “You who have struggled against Winter so long. It is useless. Stand aside. I wish no harm to thee.”
“Like you wish no harm to Lily?” Meryl shouted. “How can you do that to her?”
“It does not please me, child, but it is not for me to decide,” Talos answered. “She is my Queen.”
“She’s not mine,” Meryl snarled, and drove her forehead forward, into Talos’s nose. She struck him hard enough that I heard the impact, and it drove the faerie lord back several staggered paces.
She didn’t see Slate come up from the ground a few feet away and make a quick, squatting lunge at her flank.
“Meryl!” I shouted into the tumult. “Look out!”
She didn’t hear me. The Winter Knight’s sword bit into her just below her lowest rib, and she took more than a foot of frost-covered steel, thrusting up and back. Slate’s sword tore through her and came out through her jacket and the flatware coating it, emerging like some bloody blade of grass. She faltered, her mouth opening in a gasp. Both axe and machete fell from her hands.
“Meryl!” Fix screamed nearby.
Slate laughed and said something I couldn’t hear. Then he twisted the blade with a wrenching pop and whipped it back out. Meryl stared at him and reached out a hand. Slate slapped it contemptuously aside and turned his back on her. She fell limply down.
I felt the rage rising and climbed back to my feet, gripping my staff in both hands. Slate reached down and dragged Talos up from the ground with one hand.
“Slate!” I shouted. “Slate, you murdering bastard!”
The Winter Knight’s head whipped around toward me. His sword came up to guard. Talos’s eyes widened, and his fingers made a series of swift warding gestures.
I gathered my rage together and reached down into the ground beneath me, found the fury of the storm within it that matched my own. I thrust the end of my staff down into the misty cloud-ground as if I’d been driving a hole through a frozen lake, then extended my right hand toward the Winter Knight. “Ventas!” I shouted. “Ventas fulmino!”
The fury of the storm beneath us reared up through the wood of my staff, electricity rising in a buzzing roar of light and energy coming up from the ground and spiraling around the staff and across my body. It whirled down my extended right arm, a serpent of blue-white lightning, hesitated for a second, and then lashed across the space between me and the tip of Lloyd Slate’s sword, fastening onto the blade, and bathing Slate in a writhing coruscation of azure sparks.
Slate’s body jerked, his back arching violently. Thunder tore the air apart as the bolt of lightning struck home, throwing Slate into the air and hurling him violently to the ground. The shock wave of the thunder knocked me down, together with everyone else in the immediate area.
Everyone except Talos.
The Lord Marshal of Summer braced himself against the concussion, lifting one hand before his eyes as if it had been a stiff breeze. Then, in the deafening silence that came after, he lifted his sword and came straight toward me.
I reached for my blasting rod, on the ground not far away, lifted it, and threw a quick lash of fire at Talos. The Sidhe lord didn’t even bother to gesture it aside. It splashed against him and away, and with a sweep of his sword he sent my blasting rod spinning from my grasp. I lifted my staff as a feeble shield with my left hand, and he struck that away as well.
Some of my hearing returned, enough for me to hear him say, “And so it ends.”
“You’re damned right,” I muttered. “Look down.”
He did.
I’d drawn my .357 in my right hand while he’d knocked the staff out of my left. I braced my right elbow against the ground and pulled the trigger.
A second roar of thunder, sharper than the first, blossomed out from the end of the gun. I don’t think the bullet penetrated the dark faerie mail, because it didn’t tear through Talos like it should have. It hit him like a sledgehammer instead, driving him back and toppling him to the ground. He lay there for a moment, stunned.
It was cheap, but I was in a freaking war and I was more than a little angry. I kicked him in the face with the heel of my boot, and then I leaned down and clubbed him with the heavy barrel of the .357 until his stunned attempts to defend himself ceased and he lay still, the skin of his face burned and blistered where the steel of the gun’s barrel stuck him.
I looked up in time to see Lloyd Slate, his right arm dangling uselessly, swing the broken haft of a spear at my head. There was a flash of light and pain, a
nd I fell back on the ground, too stunned to know how badly I’d been hit. I tried to bring the gun to bear again, but Slate took it from my hand, spun it around a finger, and lowered the barrel toward my head, already thumbing the hammer back. I saw the gun coming down and saw as well that Slate wasn’t going to pause for dramatic dialogue. The second I saw the dark circle of the barrel, I threw myself to one side, lifting my arms. The gun roared, and I waited for a light at the end of what I was pretty sure would be a downward sloping tunnel.
Slate missed. A ferocious, high-pitched shriek of fury made him whip his head to one side as a new attacker entered the fray.
Fix brought his monkey wrench down in a two-handed swing that ended at Lloyd Slate’s wrist. There was a crunch of impact, of the delicate bones there snapping, and my gun went flying into the water. Slate let out a snarl and swung his broken arm at Fix, but the little guy was quick. He met the blow with the monkey wrench held in both hands, and it was Slate who screamed and reeled from the blow.
“You hurt her!” Fix screamed. His next swing hit Slate in the side of his left kneecap, and dropped the Winter Knight to the ground. “You hurt Meryl!”
Slate tried to roll away, but Fix rained two-handed blows of the monkey wrench down on his back. Evidently, whatever power it was that let Slate shrug off a bolt of lightning had been expended, or else it couldn’t stand up to the cold steel of Fix’s weapon. The little changeling pounded on Slate’s back, screaming at him, until one of the blows landed on the back of his neck. The Winter Knight went limp and lay utterly still.
Fix came over to me and helped me up. As he did, wolves surrounded us, several of them bloodied, all of them with teeth bared. I looked blearily over them, to see the Sidhe warriors regrouping, dragging a couple of wounded. One horse lay on the ground screaming, the others had scattered, and only one warrior was still mounted, another slender Sidhe in green armor and a masked helm. Weapons still in hand, the Sidhe prepared to charge us again.
“Help me,” Fix pleaded, hauling desperately at Meryl’s shoulder. I stepped up on wobbly legs, but someone brushed past me. Billy, naked and stained with bright faerie blood, took Meryl under the shoulders, and dragged her back behind what protection the pack of werewolves offered.
“This is going to be bad,” he said. “We had an edge—their horses were terrified of us. On foot, I don’t know how well we’ll do. Almost everyone’s hurt. How’s Harry?”
“Dammit,” Meryl growled thickly. “Let me go. It isn’t all that bad. See to the wizard. If he goes down none of us are going home.”
“Meryl!” Fix said. “I thought you were hurt bad.”
The changeling girl sat up, her face pale, her clothing drenched in blood. “Most of it isn’t mine,” she said, and I knew she was lying. “How is he?”
Billy had sat me down on the ground at some point, and I felt him poking at my head. I flinched when it got painful. Sitting down helped, and I started to put things together again.
“His skull isn’t broken,” Billy said. “Maybe a concussion, I don’t know.”
“Give me a minute,” I said. “I’ll make it.”
Billy gripped my shoulder, relief in the gesture. “Right. We’re going to have to run for it, Harry. There’s more fight coming toward us.”
Billy was right. I could hear the sounds of more horses, somewhere nearby in the mist, and the hammering of hundreds of goblin boots striking the ground in step.
“We can’t run,” Meryl said. “Aurora still has Lily.”
Billy said, “Talk later. Here they come!” He blurred and dropped to all fours, taking his wolf-form again as we looked up and saw the Sidhe warriors coming toward us.
The waters behind them abruptly erupted, the still surface of the river boiling up, and cavalry, all dark blue, sea green, deep purple, rose up from under the waves. The riders were more Sidhe warriors, clad in warped-looking armor decorated in stylized snowflakes. There were only a dozen of them to the Summer warriors’ score, but they were mounted and attacking from behind. They cut into the ranks of the Summer warriors, blades flickering, led by a warrior in mail of purest white, bearing a pale and cold-looking blade. The Summer warriors turned to fight, but they’d been taken off guard and they knew it.
The leader of the Winter attack cut down one warrior, then turned to another, hand spinning through a series of gestures. Cold power surged around that gesture, and one of the Summer warriors simply stopped moving, the crackling in the air around him growing louder as crystals of ice seemed simply to erupt from the surface of his body and armor, frozen from the inside out. In seconds, he was nothing but a slowly growing block of ice around a gold-and-green figure inside, and the pale rider almost negligently nudged the horse into a solid kick.
The ice shattered into pieces and fell to the ground in a jumbled pile.
The pale rider took off her helmet and flashed me a brilliant, girlish smile. It was Maeve, the Winter Lady, her green eyes bright with bloodlust, dreadlocks bound close to her head. She almost idly licked blood from her sword, as another Summer warrior fell to one knee, his back to the water, sword raised desperately against the riders confronting him.
The waters surged again, and pale, lovely arms reached out, wrapping around his throat from behind. I caught a glimpse of golden eyes and a green-toothed smile, and then the warrior’s scream was cut off as he was dragged under the surface. The Summer warriors retreated, swift and in concert. The rest of the mounted Winter warriors set out in pursuit.
“Your godmother sends her greetings,” Maeve called to me. “I’d have acted sooner, but it would have been a fair fight, and I avoid them.”
“I need to get to the Table,” I called to her.
“So I have been told,” Maeve said. She rode her horse over to Lloyd Slate’s unmoving form, and her lovely young face opened into another brilliant smile. “My riders are attacking further down the river, drawing Summer forces that way. You should be able to run upstream.” She leaned down and purred, “Hello, Lloyd. We should have a talk.”
“Come on, then,” grunted Meryl. “Can you walk, wizard?”
In answer, I pushed myself to my feet. Meryl stood too, though I saw her face twist with pain as she did. Fix hefted his bloodied monkey wrench. I recovered my staff, but my blasting rod was nowhere to be seen. The black doctor bag lay nearby, and I recovered it, taking time to check its contents before closing it again. “All right, people, let’s go.”
We started along the stream at a jog. I didn’t know how far we had to go. Everything around us was chaos and confusion. Once a cloud of pixies flew past us, and I found another stretch over the river where spiders as big as footballs had spun webs, trapping dozens of pixies in their strands. A group of faerie hounds, green and grey and savage, went past hot on the heels of a long panther like being headed for the water. Arrows whistled past, and everywhere lay the faerie dead and dying.
Finally, I felt the ground begin to rise, and looked up to see the hill of the Stone Table before us. I could even see Korrick’s hulking form at the top, as the centaur backed away from the stone figure of Lily, evidently just set upon the table. Aurora, dismounted, was a slender, gleaming form, looking down upon us with anger.
“Lily!” Meryl called, though her voice had gone thready. Fix whirled to look at her, his eyes alarmed, and Meryl dropped to one knee, her ugly, honest face twisting in pain. “Get her, Fix. Save her and get her home.” She looked around, focusing on me. “You’ll help him?”
“You paid for it,” I said. “Stay here. Stay down. You’ve done enough.”
She shook her head and said, “One thing more.” But she settled down on the ground, hand pressed to her wounded side, panting.
Aurora said something sharp to Korrick. The centaur bowed his head to her and, spear gripped in his hand, came down the hill toward us.
“Crap,” I said. “Billy, this guy is a heavy hitter. Don’t close with him. See if you can keep him distracted.”
Billy barked in
acknowledgment, and the werewolves shot forward as the centaur descended, fanning out around him and harrying his flanks and rear while their companions dodged his hooves and spear.
“Stay with Meryl,” I told Fix, and scooted around the werewolves’ flanks, heading up the hill toward the Stone Table.
I got close enough to the top to see Aurora standing over the statue of Lily. She held Mother Winter’s Unraveling in her fingers, pressed against the statue, and she was tugging sharply at the strands, beginning to pull it to pieces. I felt something as she did, a kind of dark gravity that jerked at my wizard’s senses with sharp, raking fingers. The Unraveling began to come apart, strand by strand and line by line, under Aurora’s slender hands.
I stretched out my hand, adrenaline and pain giving me plenty of fuel for the magic, and called, “Ventas servitas!” Wind leapt out in a sudden spurt, seizing the Unraveling and tearing it from Aurora’s fingers, sending it spinning through the air toward me. I caught it, stuck my tongue out at Aurora, yelled, “Meep, meep!” and ran like hell.
“Damn thee, wizard!” screamed Aurora, and the sound raked at me with jagged talons. She lifted her hands and shouted something else, and the ground itself shook, throwing me off my feet. I landed and rolled as best I could down the hill until I reached the bottom. It took me a second to drag in a breath, then I rolled to my back to sit up.
Sudden wind slashed at me, slamming me back down to the earth, and tore the Unraveling from my hands. I looked up to see Aurora take the bit of cloth from the air with casual contempt, and start back up the hill. I struggled to sit up and follow, but the wind kept me pinned there, unable to rise from the ground.
“No more interruptions,” Aurora spat, and gestured with one hand.
The ground screamed. From it, writhing up with whipping, ferocious motion, came a thick hedge of thorns as long as my hand. It rose into place in a ring around the waist of the hill, so dense that I couldn’t see Aurora behind it.