The Maelstrom

~ 17 ~ Trench Nineteen

When Old Tom’s ringing ceased, Ms. Richter strode to the head of Founder’s Hall and raised her arms for silence. Her voice was admirably calm.

“The Enemy is here,” she announced, surveying the room. “Rowan needs us and I know she will not be disappointed. Each face I see fills me with that confidence. There is no time for long speeches or debate. I will say only this. Rowan is not merely our home; it is a haven for all humanity. Prusias is strong, but I remind you that Rowan has stood for nearly four hundred years and has never been more prepared to meet such a foe. He has underestimated our strength and our resolve, and he will pay dearly for it. Do your duty and may God be with you. Sol Invictus.”

Everyone present responded in kind before setting out for his or her assignments. A surreal energy permeated the hall—brisk professionalism tempered by fear and excitement. There was no wasted discussion, no cries of anguish or despair, and no evident panic. Striding to her table to retrieve her most critical papers, Ms. Richter glanced at David.

“I’ll send who I can, but don’t wait for them,” she said sharply. “Can you look to see if ships are landing? We may need you to do what you can there.”

Clutching the pinlegs, David nodded and hurried out, joining the rapid exodus of Agents and Mystics.

Ms. Richter’s eyes snapped to Max. “You are the Hound of Rowan,” she said. “You are our champion, and Prusias fears you like nothing else upon this earth. Do not forget that.”

Before Max could even respond, the Director was already engaged in other matters. He hurried out of Founder’s Hall as Old Tom sounded the alarm anew.

It was pandemonium in the Manse’s corridors, a crush of people hurrying out to their stations or rushing to the dormitories to retrieve some needed item or weapon. Max also needed to retrieve something, but it was not in his room. Squeezing past a cluster of anxious-looking students, he crossed the foyer and spilled out with the others into the clear, cold night.

YaYa was already waiting by the fountain, humans streaming past her like floodwaters parting at a great rock. The ki-rin’s eyes were glowing, her breath pluming from her nostrils in white billows. Hurrying down the steps, Max slid a foot into a stirrup and swung high up into the saddle.

“We have to go to the smithy!” he shouted, straining to be heard over Old Tom’s clanging and the incredible din as thousands hurried across the quad. At the slightest pressure from Max’s knee, YaYa wheeled and lumbered heavily toward the township.

The ki-rin could do no more than walk as they swam against a tide of people. It was fifteen minutes of impatient agonizing until they could get through the Sanctuary tunnel and YaYa could manage a lumbering trot. A great heat was coming off the ki-rin, and periodically she shivered as though growing feverish.

At last they arrived at the smithing shop owned by the brothers Aurvangr and Ginnarr. The upper windows were dark and shuttered, but Max saw a gleam of light peeping from beneath the door. Swinging out of his saddle, he ran up the front steps and knocked urgently. Something crashed within and he heard someone curse before another angry voice cried out, “Closed!”

“It’s Max McDaniels!”

The door opened and Max looked down to see the dvergar—a dusky, dwarflike creature with pale eyes and beard—half dressed in armor of overlapping scales.

“It’s in the workroom,” muttered Aurvangr, waving Max toward the back. “By the quenching tubs. Not pretty yet, but it works. There’s something else on the table. We decided your need is greater. Close the door behind you. We’re due at Westgate.”

Ducking inside, Max hurried into the back room where the dvergar kept their forge and anvil. Max found what he was looking for propped against the wall next to a trio of water barrels. It was a spear shaft some seven feet long, fashioned of roughened steel and devised so that Max could use it with the gae bolga. He’d commissioned it from the brothers after his first day supervising the battalion from atop YaYa. The gae bolga’s limited reach was poorly suited for mounted combat and was impractical to wield on a horse, much less a ki-rin standing eight feet at her shoulder.

Keeping the blade sheathed, Max pressed its pommel to the top of the spear shaft. Like a ravenous snake, the shaft swallowed up the hilt, clamping tight at the cross-guard so that the short sword was transformed into a long-bladed spear. Hefting it, Max tested its weight and balance before turning to the object folded neatly on the neighboring table. It was an exquisite corselet of fine gray mail, the very armor Max had bartered to the dvergar in exchange for the Ormenheid. The shirt had once belonged to Antonio de Lorca, Max’s predecessor in the Red Branch, and no ordinary weapon could pierce it. Quickly, Max stripped off his tunic and hauberk, swapping the heavy, cumbersome rings for a garment more supple than linen. Pulling the tunic back over his head, Max checked that Lugh’s brooch was in place, took up the gae bolga, and hurried out of the shop.

As YaYa picked her way through the winding lanes back to the main avenue, Max witnessed the very best and worst of humanity. Many companies of troops and militia were hurrying to their posts, but there also were brawls, untold looters, and some who chose to greet Prusias’s arrival with doomed, drunken revelry. Rounding a corner, Max stopped as he saw a half-dozen Trench Rats carousing with a group that had broken into the Pot and Kettle and were rolling its wine barrels up the cellar ramp to break them open in the street. Upon seeing their commander, one promptly retched while the others snapped to some semblance of bleary, blinking attention.

Max glared down at them. “It’s a thirty-minute march to Trench Nineteen from here. If you’re not there in twenty, I’m going to find each and every one of you.”

“We were on leave,” said the one, sullenly wiping his mouth. “You got no right to judge!”

“When does leave give you the right to loot and steal?” Max growled. “Stay and sit in your filth. You’re discharged. Rip off his patch.”

The man’s companions did so, tearing the patch off his shoulder while he swore and protested. Seconds later, the other five were running as fast as they could toward the Sanctuary tunnel and their distant post.

“Bravo, bravo!” called a voice from the restaurant’s elevated porch.

Madam Petra was lounging between the industrialist and Katarina. She was sipping a glass of wine without an apparent care in the world. Around her neck, she wore the coppery torque made from Nick’s quills.

“Oh, don’t worry about us,” she said, swirling her wine. “We’re not looters. We paid for our drinks. You look very dashing, by the way.”

“Going to sit things out here?” said Max, gazing at the smuggler with unfeigned disgust.

“Yes, I am,” she said, smiling sweetly. “That’s the nice thing about having friends on both sides. You don’t really care who wins.”

“You think Prusias will just leave you be?”

“I don’t see why not.” She shrugged, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I’ve been invited to many parties at the royal palace. Why should he be angry with a Rowan hostage? In any case, I hope the Zenuvian iron serves you well. You certainly paid for the privilege.”

Max stared hard at the woman. “You had better pray that we win,” he said quietly. “Because if Rowan falls, there will be no one left to forgive you. And if that happens, you’ll have to live with this shame forever.”

“Well, I’ve heard that good wine can drown sorrow and shame,” she replied lightly, checking the bottle’s label. “And if that fails, I’m sure this torque can buy whatever forgiveness I might require. Run along now and keep us safe.”

Swallowing his loathing, Max wheeled YaYa away and rode south. Once back at Old College, the ki-rin set a slow, steady pace as she wove through the mass of soldiers and civilians. Passing the Manse, Max rode toward the cliffs so that he could see what might be happening at sea.

The waters of Rowan Harbor were choppy as those assigned to the beaches and cliffs were busy preparing their defenses. Far to the north, Max could make out a few points of light hugging the coast, probably warships with witch-fires burning at their prow. The night sky had been clear, but the weather was changing. Most apparent was the wind, which was now howling in off the ocean as Rowan’s Mystics summoned and gathered it to them.

Max and YaYa rode north along the cliffs, past Maggie and Old Tom, past the refugee camps and over the windswept tussocks until he reached the massive Northgate archway. The archway was forty feet from cobble to keystone and still dwarfed by the walls, which rose a hundred feet above even the tallest trees. Max could see hundreds of figures hurrying to man the towers and anchored trebuchets that could rain heavy projectiles upon an approaching enemy.

YaYa cantered through the arch, her shadow huge upon curving walls that tunneled through eighty feet of solid stone. It was teeming with soldiers and carts bringing supplies out to the trenches and outposts that would sorely need them. The crowds cheered when they caught sight of YaYa and made a lane so that she and her rider could pass.

They exited the other side, over the moat’s causeway and into the dark, open country that lay between the citadel that sheltered Old College and the outer curtain that protected outlying farms.

Torches were moving urgently about the countryside, carried by messengers on errands to the trenches or outer defenses. Above Old Tom’s ringing, Max heard the low boom of signal drums and saw a distant flare arc like a tiny red star.

YaYa made for a cluster of fires burning at intervals along Trench Nineteen. There, at the base of their fluttering standard, the Trench Rats were gathering and grouping into their platoons. Some grinned as Max rode up, but most looked frightened. Many were frantically putting on pieces of armor or rummaging through packs whose contents had been gathered in haste. Scanning the group, Max saw that only a third of the battalion had already reported. There was not yet any sign of Lucia or Cynthia or many of the officers who had presumably been at Crofter’s Hill when the alarm was raised. Ajax was there, however, sitting astride a heavy bay stallion and berating several boys who had cracked a water barrel while unloading a supply cart.

Max called him over. “Assemble the companies and keep them here,” he said over the wind and distant horns. “Don’t let them rush or forget something they need. Once we’re settled in, we won’t be moving, so send riders to fetch anything that’s missing—food, medicine. They won’t close Northgate unless the Enemy advances within a mile. I’m riding to the outer walls to see what’s happening.”

As Ajax turned to carry out his orders, Max saw Scathach ride up on a spotted Appaloosa. She was in Umbra’s guise but now wore a shirt of silver chain and carried a small round shield strapped to her back. Her hair was tossing wildly in the wind as she slowed the horse to a walk and gazed at Max.

“I’m going to the wall,” he said. “Come with me.”

She nodded, spurring her mount ahead. The two rode alongside one another, covering the distance as swiftly as YaYa could manage in her lumbering trot. The outer walls rose before them, less massive than those that surrounded Old College but still a formidable defense. Eighty feet high and half as thick, with guard towers twice as tall that commanded a wide view of the lands beyond.

They reached the battlements by riding up the broad ramps that doubled back and again until they arrived at the top. Hundreds of people were busily engaged—Mystics gathering atop casting towers, refugees heating iron shot and cauldrons of pitch, archers setting up their quivers behind stone merlons. Dismounting, Max and Scathach walked up a short staircase to a platform that would permit a glimpse of Prusias’s forces.

At this distance, the approaching army resembled a forest fire, an eerie, distant flickering light that was closing upon Rowan. Max guessed that the outriders were three, maybe four miles away. Peering through his spyglass, he could clearly make out war galleons sailing down the shoreline as the army approached over land. “Can you guess their numbers?” asked Max, surveying the distant lights. Even now, he could hear the faint sounds of distant drums and horns. They reminded him sharply of his escape from Piter’s Folly on Madam Petra’s balloon. He had heard these drums before and witnessed the awful devastation that accompanied them.

Frowning, Scathach scanned the horizon. “Impossible to say,” she muttered. “But many, many thousands. There are no breaks in those torches. They’ll reach these walls in three hours … maybe two.”

Max was about to reply when he heard cheers go up from a host of archers, who were pointing beyond the wall to the countryside where moonlit runes and sigils were forming on the hills like luminescent brands.

“What are those?” asked Scathach, peering out at them.

“Glyphs, signs of protection,” Max explained. “They’re being cast by the spiritwracks.” He pointed to one of the tall octagonal towers where the specialized Mystics could be seen linking hands in an open chamber at the top.

Just then, a hurricane-force gale came screaming in out of the east. It tore through the forests beyond the wall like a wailing spirit, bending the trees in a sweeping arc before doubling back and dissipating out over the ocean.

“Aeromancers,” said Max, pointing to another tower, where Mystics were summoning the wild winds from the sea and directing them like orchestra conductors. “Prusias is going to find that there’s more than arrows and pikes waiting for him here.”

Scathach was impressed. “Perhaps we won’t be needed.”

But even as she said this, hundreds of horns blared in the distance, followed by the louder, deeper boom, boom, boom of kettledrums. The pace of the drumming increased and her smile faded.

“We should ride back,” she reflected. “Your soldiers will want to see their commander.”

Max nodded and the two left the wall, descending the ramps to the rutted road that led back to Trench Nineteen. As Max settled into YaYa’s gait, he gazed across a vast landscape of shadowy blues and grays, a backdrop of dark farmland and sparse forests in which thousands of torches were flickering as battalions and companies took up position along the trenches. The citadel walls and fortifications protecting Old College loomed behind them, white and gleaming beneath the moon. They reminded Max of castles he’d seen in the Sidh.

Most of the Trench Rats had assembled by the time they’d returned. They stood at attention, some unsteadily from interrupted celebrations, but the majority appeared clear-eyed and anxious. Max found his friends among them. While Lucia and Cynthia were wearing Mystics robes, Sarah was dressed for combat. Like the other company commanders, she rode a charger and was armored in gleaming half-plate with the Rowan crest chased in silver upon the cuirass. She carried the naginata she favored, along with the battalion’s horn that would signal an advance, cease-fire, or retreat back to the Northgate. Standing behind Cynthia was Bob, cradling his great helm and leaning upon his cudgel. Calling out to the lieutenants, Max had them bring the troops closer so that they could hear him as he shouted over the wind.

“The Enemy is marching upon us,” he announced. “Umbra and I have seen them from the outer curtain. In a few hours they’ll reach those walls. We’re going to take up our positions now and settle in. We might be here for days.”

He scanned the faces, many still dirty and dusty from their review. They were trying to pay attention, but many could not keep from gaping about as signal flares screamed overhead like shooting stars. Drills and training were well and good, but they were still a far cry from taking a real field against a real opponent. Max’s gaze fell upon one face in the crowd, a young pikeman named Joshua. The boy was shivering, standing on tiptoe to follow a troop of centaurs as they galloped toward the outer wall.

“I know you’re frightened,” said Max, his eyes moving from Joshua to the multitudes surrounding him. “Every good soldier is frightened before a battle. Those who deny it are liars or fools. Even Bob is afraid.”

Necks craned to glimpse the ogre, who smiled and nodded.

“Don’t fight your fear—embrace it,” Max urged them. “Let it sharpen you and give you strength. Most of you have never fought in a battle like this. But when the call was sounded, you answered. You have the courage and will to overcome your fear and do what’s required. There isn’t a person here who hasn’t cheated Death to make it to Rowan.”

Max paused as grim nods passed among the many refugees.

“You’re survivors. In the past, many of you had to do it alone. But you are not alone anymore. I am with you. Everyone you see, everyone in this battalion, from Ajax to Umbra, is with you. War is big. Make it small. It’s not your job to defeat Prusias. Let others worry about that. Your only job is to defend those on either side of you. You do that and they cannot break us. Nothing passes Trench Nineteen!”

A wild cheer went up from the battalion. Some embraced while others shouted angry oaths at Prusias or demons or whatever else they fancied. Those who were closest to YaYa touched the ki-rin’s broken horn for luck. At Sarah’s signal, the troops spread out along the trench, marching behind their lieutenants and company commanders until they reached the fluttering pennants that marked their assignments. Behind them, ballistae were being wheeled into place, healing tents had been pitched, cooking fires were lit, and soldiers were filling their canteens from the water barrels.

Max heard a harrumph from below and gazed down to see Tweedy looking up at him.

“All the arrangements have been made,” he reported. “There’s more water on its way, Chloe recruited another moomenhoven to tend the wounded, and Jack’s fellows are seeing to the cooking fires. Where should I take up position?”

“Tweedy, we talked about this,” said Max. “You don’t have to stay out here. Once everything’s situated, you can go back inside the citadel. It will be safer there.”

“And I told you, Max McDaniels, that I’m a member of this battalion and won’t be sent off for milk and cookies like a puling wee one. So where shall I go?”

“By Bob,” Max sighed, figuring that if anyone could keep the hare safe, it would be the battalion’s ogre and his iron-banded cudgel. “But don’t talk his ear off, Tweedy. Bob gets quiet at times like this. Leave him be.”

Turning to Cynthia and Lucia, Max sent them off to their posts—Lucia to support the right flank nearest the cliffs while Cynthia held the middle. It was an emotional moment. Even Lucia had tears, embracing Cynthia like a sister before hurrying off toward the cliffs and the roar of the churning surf below. Only Scathach remained, sitting easily on the Appaloosa with her spear laid across the saddle.

“Your father would be proud,” she said, her eyes glittering.

“Which one?”

“You know the one I mean,” she replied. “Command comes naturally to you.”

“Where will you take up position?” asked Max. He’d given Scathach the freedom to go wherever she thought she was needed.

“For now, I’ll stay by you,” she replied. “The Atropos care nothing for this war; their only concern is you. That assassin is still lurking.”

Max held up his hand so she could see the silver shining on his finger. “I’ll know if he’s close.”

“If Prusias storms the outer walls, these lands will be riddled with demonkind,” she replied. “That ring will scald whether he’s close or not. You must not trust it.”

“Then I’ll have to trust you,” said Max, smiling.

“As you should.”

Even as she spoke, her features shifted and Umbra’s guise fell away to reveal the proud, beautiful face of the warrior maiden. Her expression was solemn as she took his hand. “No one knows what battle may bring,” she said, gazing at his brooch and then at him. “Not even Lugh or the Morrígan or any of the Tuatha Dé Danaan can say where the spears and arrows may fall. In this hour, I would have you see me as I am.”

From the north, a thunderclap sounded, a shuddering peal that shook the ground and rolled across the open country like a shock wave. The blare of horns carried to them on the wind, thousands of horns blown in unison. Beyond the outer wall, the dark sky was taking on an orange-red cast.

Boom boom boom

Even at such a distance, the drums drowned out the sound of wind and horses and soldiers settling into position. At the outer walls, Rowan’s horns answered in a blaring call as hundreds of catapults were loosed. The shots rose like meteors, tracing fiery arcs high into the night sky until they disappeared from sight.

The battle had begun.

An hour passed. Then two. Max found their position maddening. He could make out very little of what was happening at the front. The walls were now obscured by a haze of ashy smoke that settled over the land like a pall. Intermittent bursts of light crackled across the sky, illuminating the farms and forests like a flashbulb before the land settled back into shadow. Now and again, the earth shook or there was a cheer as horns rose above the din.

Max was trembling as he walked YaYa back and forth along Trench Nineteen, gazing out at the wall. Already, the Old Magic was stirring within him, its awakening as steady and ominous as the terrible drums from beyond the wall. Even sheathed, the gae bolga knew that blood was being spilled. The spear hummed, its shaft glowing a dull red as though it had been pulled from a bed of hot coals.

“I should be out there,” he muttered, shifting anxiously in his saddle.

“Your place is with your soldiers,” Scathach reminded Max, calming her horse as it snorted and shied away from him.

Scathach’s horse was not the only one that sensed a change coming over Max. As the pair rode past the platoons and companies, many of the troops ceased their hushed conversations to watch them. Some were obviously curious about Scathach and the fact that an apparent newcomer was wearing Umbra’s armor and carrying her fearsome spear. But most gazed uneasily at Max as though he were the stranger in their midst. When they passed by Tam, the girl who could perceive auras, she abruptly hushed her friend Jack and stood at attention.

“What’s the matter, soldier?” asked Scathach.

“His shine, lady,” said Tam, staring at Max. “It’s changing!”

Max said nothing but looked at Jack, who had apparently been crying. There was vomit by his boots. Glancing at her friend, Tam spoke up on his behalf.

“He okay,” she explained. “Just getting jitters. I told him to stick by me and he’ll be safe. Ain’t that right, Jack?”

The boy nodded, blew his nose on his sleeve, and stood at attention.

“Listen to Tam,” said Max, gazing down at the boy. “Stick by her and do what she says. Do you understand me?”

Jack nodded, glanced appreciatively at Tam, and sniffled.

“I’ll see you after,” said Max, riding on.

The explosion occurred just before dawn, a pluming fireball in the northwest that shone through the haze, rising hundreds of feet into the air. The earth shook once again and there came a distant cry of horns.

“They’re breached,” said Scathach, standing up in her stirrups.

A foul wind blew in from the north, a brimstone reek that brought clouds of dust rolling down over the hills to settle upon the soldiers in their trenches. Another explosion, this time directly north along the section of wall that Max and Scathach had visited. Black smoke billowed up into the sky, oily and heavy as though from a factory or smokestack. It crested over the wall like a wave, spilling onto the lands beyond.

Huge flares raced overhead from the citadel, screaming past like crimson comets to burst over the outer walls and signal that those forces should pull back. More explosions sent tremors shivering through the ground. The nearby earthworks trembled, spilling dirt and pebbles onto the huddled Trench Rats. The Enemy was already advancing. Gazing out, Max could just make out Stygian crows circling above the walls. At this distance, they looked like thousands of black midges buzzing round a bonfire.

Twenty minutes passed before the first of the retreating forces reached the trenches. They hurried over the open country in glinting streams of armor and weaponry. There was some semblance of order to the retreat, but not much. Many of the troops were clearly exhausted, panting and sweating as they headed for the safety of Northgate. Some were grievously wounded, helped along or even carried by their comrades. Others were anxious to continue the battle and fell in with the trench battalions. Max welcomed them into Trench Nineteen, offering encouragement but also telling Sarah to ride down the line and remind the lieutenants to maintain their existing groups and formations. The reinforcements were most welcome, but they must fit in between the platoons, not among them. Otherwise all the Trench Rats’ careful training and practice would be for naught.

The retreating forces thinned. Max heard a gruff voice barking orders, Ajax telling the troops to check their weapons and have a swallow of water. Wheeling YaYa about, Max rode along the trench one last time.

Some of the Trench Rats were praying, alone or in little groups. Others were eating, wolfing down three days’ worth of rations as though they were having their last meal. One grizzled veteran was obsessively checking his gear while his neighbor smeared mud across his face like it was war paint. People had their own way of preparing for what was to come, but most simply stared ahead, gazing mutely at the band of flickering orange that was approaching through the miasma of black smoke. The very air seemed to vibrate as the drums grew louder.

Boom boom boom boom …

With each drumbeat, YaYa trembled and began to chuff from somewhere deep in her throat. She was trotting more easily, her limp less pronounced as she headed along the broad trench. Heat was rising off her like morning mist off a lake. She walked to the narrow gap between the Trench Rats and the neighboring battalion as Prusias’s soldiers came into clearer view.

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, bearing 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.