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She dropped to the ground. The waiting was worse, she found, so much worse than the fighting. It kicked the heart into a gallop, rang like bells in the ears.
The energy simply waved from the warriors, hot, so hot and still. For a long moment, the world seemed the same. Hot, so hot and still. Without a breath stirring under the bold, bright sun of the longest day.
Morena, quiver full again, dropped down beside her.
“There, the first of us. They’ll think we’re running, that they broke our line.”
Harken flew out, and she nearly wept to see Bollocks riding with him. The shouts and cries came with them, tribal and fierce. And on the second line, the drums began their beat.
Brian flew out, one arm around Marco.
“I’ll just give him a hand with our friend there.”
Morena zipped over, wrapped an arm around Marco to take some of the weight.
They dropped him beside Breen, stayed hovering above, Morena with an arrow nocked, Brian with sword drawn.
“Brian got hurt, but he’s okay. He’s okay.”
She gripped his hand, grateful to look and find none of the blood and gore on his face, staining his shirt, was his.
“Jesus, Breen, here they come.”
“Archers,” Keegan called from above. “Hold! Hold!”
They charged out of the trees. On the ground, in the air, a flood of them, screaming in triumph at the retreat.
“Now!”
And the flood was met with a storm of arrows that turned screams of triumph into screams of pain.
“Riders!Lasair!”
Fire spewed, a terrible roar, a terrible heat of gold and red and molten blue. Screams became shrieks. The enemy became burning, writhing columns. Smoke rolled, thick and black and fetid, choking clouds of stink and death.
And still they came, those who escaped the arrows and flame.
At Keegan’s order, the Fey charged to meet them.
“Get ready,” Breen whispered.
She fought again, any she could meet who got through the line. Winged or clawed, swirling power or snapping jaws, she fought as more cut through the line.
But they’d broken the enemy advance, she could sense it. However many got through, there would be others to meet them, drive them back or down.
And still, the victory wouldn’t be the end.
Would he come? Her vision hadn’t shown her. If he did, if he camefor her into Talamh, what cost to the Fey? Even weakened, he was a god.
She wiped at her stinging eyes, so tired, so tired of the blood. And heard Marco cry out.
She stopped thinking, spun, and saw her friend fall. She saw his face go ashen, and the blood bloom on his shirt. She saw the snarling elf prepare to strike the killing blow.
What erupted inside her, what she hurled was as much rage as power. When it struck, it turned the enemy to dust. She dropped to her knees, tears filling her smoke-stung eyes, and pressed a hand on the wound in his side.
Oh, deep, long and deep.
“I’ll fix it, I’ll fix it.” She said it between chattering teeth as fear overcame fury.
