She landed on her feet in time to watch the mander land. As it set down, its legs cracked to pieces, spilling to small scarlet chunks. Without support its belly hit the ground, where it thrashed like some kind of strange snake, trying to right itself onto limbs that no longer existed. As it struggled, it continued to break itself into lumps, each representing some poor mage’s legacy spell. What would happen to these soul-bits now? Elessa wondered. Would they return to the Well, or were they doomed to sit in the grass forever, hard little blocks of claw and fang and leg? She moved amongst them, towards the last remaining part of the mander – the baleful head, lying in the ruin like the final intact piece of a shattered statue. It snapped at her as she approached and, as its jaws closed with force, it too finally disintegrated.
There came a roar of triumph, and she turned about to see Bel ripping off his golden helm, shaking free his blue curls.
‘The shadowmander is no more!’ he shouted. ‘Charge, by Arkus! For all Kainordas, charge!’
Behind him the army howled, and charge they did, with Bel in the lead.
What of me ? she sent to Fahren.
Will you not join us, Elessa, for this one last fight, some scant extra hours? Would you not rather die defending your homeland?
I did , she sent angrily, and swung back up onto her horse.
•
Tyrellan could not believe his eyes. One moment the mander had been standing there, solid as ever …the next it had crumbled to hundreds of pieces, glistening in the grass.
‘Elessa Lanclara,’ he muttered, finally having recognised her. ‘Master, it is the mage bitch who cursed me with the butterfly …who was there at Whisperwood the night we took you!’
‘Ah,’ said Losara quietly.
Tyrellan wondered if the broken bits of mander were going to come flying over the grass towards him, if he was going to be followed around by an orbiting swarm of scarlet chunks for the rest of his days. Mercifully, they stayed where they had fallen. It seemed that only the butterfly had been connected to him, the foundation on which all else had been built. Somewhere in his heart, Tyrellan knew a sharp joy – he was back to his old self again.
‘Master,’ he said, watching the oncoming Kainordans, ‘we seem to have reached a certain point.’
Losara nodded. ‘It appears so.’
Tyrellan drew his sword, almost forgotten in its scabbard. It had been a while since he’d been able to get close enough to an enemy to use it.
I can move again , he thought. You may have destroyed the shadowmander …but when you did, you unleashed me.
•
Losara rose in the air for all to see, drawing shadow power to him. When he opened his mouth, the voice that sounded was amplified tenfold.
‘MAKE READY FOR THE FINAL BLOWS,’ he told his people. ‘STRIKE THEM FOR FENVARROW.’
Cheers went up, as along the line archers drew back their bows, and shadow wards sprang from mages.
‘LET THEM COME TO US THROUGH A RAIN OF DEATH IF THAT IS WHAT THEY CHOOSE.’
His voice must have carried, for across the way Kainordans screamed defiance. At their forefront came a wave of riders – soldiers and lightfists, Saurians on dune claws, and of course Bel. Over them rose an enormous mass of Zyvanix to blot out the sun, while behind, thousands on foot flattened the earth. Their mages seemed to be concentrated mainly around Bel’s central group, and Losara could not see many wards going up on the left and right flanks. Did Bel still have the Stone, he wondered, or had that passed to others? Was his counterpart safe?
You will have to be, Bel – I cannot hold back. Your fate is out of my hands.
The Kainordan bows began to fire, and lightfists sent forth spells. Tyrellan barked an order below, and several catapults triggered towards the enemy. The leading Zyvanix parted to allow hurtling rocks passage, and light bolts from below rose to shatter them.
‘NOW,’ said Losara, ‘GET THEM.’
Preceded by arrows and shadow magic, his army charged. Graka flew past him towards the Zyvanix, while others climbed higher with cauldrons of acid. As his airborne forces divided, squads left the Zyvanix to meet them on all fronts. Beside him an old Graka, the tips of his wings grey and weathered, flapped past laboriously with a scratched bow in his hand.
‘Good luck to us, master,’ he puffed. ‘It was gladly that I served you.’
Strangely moved by the Graka’s stoicism, Losara waved a hand to send wind under his servant’s wings. The Graka cackled joyfully as he surged forwards.
‘I’ll catch those fledglings yet!’ he hooted.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Losara.
Far above, he noticed clouds forming, or trying to, while a high wind continuously blew them to dark ribbons. It seemed that the gods themselves were present, and trying to establish a hold on the weather!
Shall we channel to you, lord? came Roma’s thought from below.
Yes. Channel to me.
As the combined power of his mages reached him, Losara unstoppered his own. Between his thumb and middle finger he created a whirl of air, rippling with tiny blue threads. It pulsed as he fed it more, the immensity of its potential straining inside its tight confines.
‘Go then,’ he said, and flicked it at the Kainordans’ right flank. As it left his fingers there was a great whoosh , his creation expanding monumentally as it hurtled away. It reached the enemy as a whirlwind of crackling power, to smash through wards and fling bodies in the air. As it crashed and broke, its energy spilled out, sparking between armour and sending swords spinning.
Master, you are a target up there.
As Roma’s words reached him, Losara’s gaze came to rest again on Bel’s group. There was a strange ward around them, soft light and darkness both, many colours combined. He did not recognise the magic, and thus knew what it must be.
A shockwave jolted him and sent him reeling, his sinuses buzzing with foreign power. He turned slowly as he fell, dragging as he tried to maintain a grasp on consciousness.
I’ve got you, master.
He felt Roma take firm hold of his body to float him downwards, and abandoned his own tenuous grip on the air. A moment later he bumped gently against the ground, and looked up to see Roma’s concerned face, while around them others stampeded past.
‘Old Magic,’ he croaked, sitting up woozily.
‘Are you hurt, lord?’
‘No. They sought only to stun me, I think.’
‘We must kill Battu,’ said Roma. ‘It is only through his enduring betrayal that they can use their trinket.’
Kill Battu? thought Losara foggily. Lalenda would be pleased, on more counts than one. Where is she?
Target Battu , went out Roma’s command to the shadow mages. The traitor must be destroyed.
•
Heavy in his hands was the helmet, bobbing up and down to match the footfalls of his horse, the slow beats of his heart. Not putting it back on – it would only mask his heightened senses, impede the sweet air that sucked into his flaring nostrils. He was now but paces from the enemy, a long line of them charging, the shadows of Graka passing across the last short space of empty grass between them and him. He could feel the immensity of the forces behind him, the shaking ground and battle cries, as he rode at the crest, the very tip of a breaking wave.
Heavy in his hands was the helmet, and so he flung it. It flashed as it spun, over and over, turning prettily in the air to crack against the knee of a black horse. The horse stumbled, spilling its goblin rider forward from the saddle, onto Bel’s waiting sword.
The wave broke. The armies clashed.
This fancy armour had been a mistake. Too cumbersome when he needed the freedom to move, to dance, like a clumsy partner stepping on his toes. He sank his bloodied sword into its scabbard – not long to rest there – and wrenched off one pauldron with a gauntleted hand, then the other, flinging them away at the howling faces before him. Next, he pulled off the gauntlets themselves and, holding them like an extension of his hands, gave them an almighty clap together over an Arabodedas’s head. As armour and opponent fell away with a high-pitched ringing, he hoisted his breastplate up over his head, swung it by the shoulder strap and hurled it at an oncoming Graka. As he pulled his sword free again to swing it at a noxious Vortharg, his horse tramped sideways, putting him out of range …while battle-trained, his steed did not move exactly as he wanted, was not capable of sensing the right path to travel, as he was.