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Even as a girl, Erida learned the tales of the Temurijon. People of the steppes, a great warrior empire, Galland’s only true rival in all the realm. Her advisors used to whisper they were lucky the Temur Emperor lost his taste for war.
It has certainly returned, Erida thought through the painful haze clouding her mind.
To his credit, Thornwall recovered before anyone else.
“Call up the rest of the cavalry, send word to the legions still marching to make haste,” he said quickly. “Have them gallop out of the mountains if they must, pull back the infantry, we must re-form and brace for a Temur charge.”
“Or tell them to turn and run,” another lord spat, his face pale with fear.
The Temur will tear through us, devouring legion after legion as they come out of the mountains, Erida thought, reading the battle like a book.
Her head felt split in two, a lightning bolt forking down her body. Thornwall’s voice echoed in one ear, a hissing language she did not know in the other. She understood it anyway, what it wanted, what He told her.
What she had to do, lest she lose everything she bled, fought, and killed for.
Erida barely thought the word before it left her mouth, her lips and tongue moving of their own accord.
“CHARGE,” the Queen of Galland roared, her horse rearing beneath her.
For a moment, she rose up, like a hero in a tapestry, horse and rider framed against the red sky, her armor shining, her piercing gaze on the castle high above. Then the charger exploded into a gallop, hooves pounding over the darkening earth.
Dimly, she heard her Lionguard follow, spurring their horses to keep up with the Queen. Some tried to stop her, reaching for her reins, only for her horse to pull out of range. At a glance, Erida realized her mare’s eyes burned, ringed red like her own.
Behind them, the cries of her commanders sounded loud and long, Thornwall’s sharpest of all.
“Charge!” he echoed, directing the shattered cavalry after his queen. Even from a distance, Erida heard the regret in his voice. But there was no other choice her commander could make, not with the Queen herself on the battlefield.
Erida did not know where What Waits led, but she followed, letting Him direct their path down into the melee. The knights formed up with her, weary as they were, their horses foaming with sweat.
Through the scarlet haze, Erida realized her own soldiers cheered her on, bolstered by the presence of their lioness queen. They joined the charge too, sprinting as fast as they could, hammering swords and shields in a roar of sound.
One elephant reared, then another, spooked by the howling noise, and the oncoming horses. Their eyes rolled white, trunks raised to trumpet their fear as archers fell from their backs.
When one of the war elephants turned tail, its massive bodythundering back through the defensive lines, Erida pulled at the reins, directing her horse to follow, letting the elephant cut through the enemy army for her.
Somewhere, the Temur horn sounded again, a roar of thousands going up with it. Erida did not care and dared not look back. A defeated army did not bother her, even if the doomed soldiers were her own.
We can still use corpses, she thought, grinning.
The great elephant ran all the way to the city gates, soldiers of all kingdoms jumping from its path. To Erida’s delight, the gates were still open, her enemy retreating with their wounded, streaming into the walled city. Erida and her charge followed, eating at the retreat.
What Waits dragged at her body, directing her up the ridge of the city. There were other Elders within, archers and spearmen, but few. They whittled at her Lionguard, felling one knight after another, until only the Queen remained, galloping alone. Protected by luck, or her demon god, she could not say.
The streets felt oddly deserted, but Erida did not have time to wonder about an enemy garrison. All she knew was the horse beneath her, and the fire burning beneath her skin.
Whoever remained to defend Iona was gone, drawn into the battle raging at the gates.
Or something worse ahead.
42
The Immortal Tomb
Domacridhan
Five hundred years he walked the castle of Tíarma, but tonight it was a stranger to him. Dom had never seen the castle like this, torn apart by battle, awash in blood. He knew her in crushing silence, in almost maddening peace. Now the smell of death permeated the passages no matter how far he ran, leaving the vaults behind. And the echoes were somehow worse. He mourned for Garion and the Vedera fighting, holding back the dauntless tide of undead.
He only hoped they slowed Taristan and Ronin, buying enough time.
