They waited.
After perhaps twenty seconds, a woman-an officer, it seemed-dismounted from her horse and handed the reins to another. A gray-haired, bearded man kept pace with her and the two walked out to where Ovid and LeBeau waited. Wariness flickered on their faces; they weren’t any more certain what to make of this meeting than Ovid.
The woman and the gray-bearded man approached. Ovid could feel the combined attention of the soldiers on both sides, and knew he was just as much a target as those he now faced.
“We are in range of your archers,” said the graybeard. His accent was unmistakably Spanish, tinged with humor. “I hope that you do not intend for them to kill us.”
Ovid raised his eyebrows. “We are soldiers and citizens, not killers.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” the older man said. He executed a small bow. “Do I have the honor of addressing the leader of the Twillig’s Gorge militia?”
Surprised, Ovid blinked. “You do. Ovid Tsing, sir. My lieutenant is Andre LeBeau.”
The man inclined his head. “Then we are in time, after all. I had begun to fear you had passed by before we arrived. If it pleases you, sir, I am Cristobal Aguilar, Mayor of Navarre.”
In confusion, Ovid stared at the man. “You have me at a loss. Do you mean to say you’ve been waiting for us?”
“Indeed,” Mayor Aguilar said. “Word reached Navarre of your militia. Many of the men and women of our town had been talking about volunteering for the king’s service. When we learned of your march, it…how do I say it? We were inspired. Preparations were swiftly made, and now we are here, General.”
Ovid shook his head. “I am no general, Senor Aguilar.”
“Ah, but it seems you are,” the mayor replied, gesturing to the troops aligned behind Ovid. “We offer you our services, if you will have us.”
For a moment, nothing seemed real. Ovid glanced at the army ahead and the one behind. He wondered how word had traveled so fast, and if it was spreading. Would other Lost Ones-other ordinary subjects of King Hunyadi-come to join the fight when they heard?
A smile touched his lips. His mother had been right all along, and now her dream was coming to life. He only wished she were alive to see it.
“We’re honored to call you allies and friends, Mayor Aguilar.”
Damia Beck let out a battle cry. Her sword flickered in the shafts of sunlight that came down through the branches of the Oldwood. All through the forest around her, combat raged. The company of soldiers she had sent to bait the southern invaders into the wood had succeeded. Cernunnos had commanded that the creatures of the Oldwood allow them to pass, waiting to attack until Commander Beck herself gave the word.
Now the word had been given. Blood flew, dappling leaves and soaking into the ground. The stink of the Battle Swine filled her nostrils. She had never been so close to one of them before and the stench nearly crippled her. The Swine brought its axe around in an arc meant to cleave her head from her shoulders. Damia grunted with effort as she dropped into a crouch, avoiding the blade, then rolled out of the way as the stinking, sweating boar kicked her. Its heavy boot caught her in the side, but added to her momentum as she rolled away.
The commander leaped to her feet. Pain spiked through her side where the Swine had kicked her, but she ducked behind a tree even as the boar swung its axe again. The blade bit deep into the wood and lodged there. The Battle Swine squealed in rage.
“Die, wretched beast!” Damia snarled, and drove the point of her sword toward the Swine’s throat.
It dodged enough that the blade only slashed the side of its neck. Blood flowed over the heavy, leather armor that covered its chest. Its eyes gleamed yellow in the shade of the tree and it glared at her, snorting breath even more rancid than the stink of its body.
It lunged. Damia sidestepped to put the tree between them. Branches shook and leaves drifted down. A flutter of bright, tiny creatures darted into the shade-some breed of pixies whose wings were lavender, bottle green, and eggshell blue. They attacked the Battle Swine’s eyes, distracting it. The idiot thing squealed and batted at the pixies, striking itself in the face.
Damia glanced around in search of help. A single human soldier against a Battle Swine might as well be suicide. But there would be no help coming. Corpses littered the forest, some in the colors of King Hunyadi and many more in the uniforms and helmets of the army of the south. Some of the dead, clad in Yucatazcan garb, had the unmistakable features of Atlantis. Dead goblins had been flung against trees or broken beneath the tread of the invaders. Strigae had been shot from the sky with arrows, plummeting to the ground as black-feathered lumps. Other wild things from the Oldwood lay dead as well, but far more-brownies and hobs, owl-men and a massive spirit bear-continued the fight alongside Damia’s own troops.
Horses thundered through the wood, splintering branches and driving up divots from the earth. Her cavalry hacked at the Yucatazcans with their swords. As she spotted a handsome young horseman from Galacia, a Battle Swine emerged from between two trees and took hold of his mount, dragging soldier and horse together to the ground, hacking downward with his axe.
No help. Not now. Not in time.
Pixies shrieked and died. The Swine she’d been battling snatched one from its snout and thrust the brilliant little creature into its mouth. The pixie died between its teeth even as the Swine swept the others away and launched itself at Damia. Blood still flowed from the wound on its neck.
Weaponless, it threw itself at her. Damia raised her sword and, as the Swine attacked, she struck. Her blade sliced cleanly through the the massive beast’s throat, but its momentum was too great. Even as it died, it fell upon her. By instinct, in its dying moment, it lowered its head and tried to gore her with its tusks. One of those yellowed ivory tusks plunged into her shoulder, rending flesh.
Damia Beck screamed in fury. She ground her teeth together as she pushed upward on the Swine’s massive head. A sucking noise came from the tusk as she lifted it out of the wound in her shoulder. Her body quivered with shock and pain and she felt a terrible chill go through her.
A moist grunt came from behind her. Not far from her head came a thump upon the ground that could only be another heavy boot. She had killed a Battle Swine in hand-to-hand combat, but now as she rose to her knees, three others surrounded her.
“Bitch,” one of them snarled.
Damia nearly laughed. She didn’t think the rancid beasts capable of speech. Why the Battle Swine-legends from the Northlands of Euphrasia-had fallen in league with Atlantis, she had no idea. They were brutal, savage things fit for nothing but killing. Perhaps they simply hadn’t had much opportunity for war and bloodshed of late. No matter. They were the enemy, now.
“Traitorous pigs,” she sniffed.
The three Swine laughed, then began to move in around her. Commander Beck raised her sword and tried to figure out how to survive. From the few glimpses she had gotten, her battalion stood poised to triumph. But she would not live to see it.
One of the Battle Swine lifted its axe and started for her. Damia shifted, held her sword across her body, and shot a kick at the nearest boar. As she did, she extended her sword in the other direction, stabbing through the hand of the attacking swine. It squealed and dropped its axe.
Her heart raced. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck and trickled between her breasts as she steadied her breathing. The trio of Swine glared at her with their little piggy eyes, and she knew they saw her as a threat for the first time. They would not play with her, now. They would just kill her.
Damia smiled. She would not make it easy for them.
Both hands on the grip of her sword, she glanced back and forth between two of the Swine, keeping track of the third in her peripheral vision. A single second stretched into eternity, and she felt them move even before they began to attack.