Chapter 35

The Lat'Nemele was nowhere to be seen. Ahead, a chilling horde of cavalrymen stretched as far as the eye could see, in numbers impossible to count.

"What the hell are they?" Jordan whispered. Her eyes grew round as she ran her gaze across the ranks.

The riders, undoubtedly, were human, but they sat upon steeds that could not quite be called horses. Each beast had long, snapping jaws filled with rows of wolfish fangs that hung over tight lips, dripping venom. Their front legs ended in gigantic claws that tore at the earth as they pawed their impatience. They ranged in colour from beige and dark brown to true black, and each had a long, curved black horn – sharp as a scimitar blade – protruding from the centre of their foreheads. They looked a little like unicorns – if unicorns came from hell.

"Karkadann," Norae whispered back, fear turning her voice thick and nasal, "Cavalry Legions of the Fifth Kingdom. Feast off their fallen enemies."

"Oh," Jordan nodded with desperate sarcasm, "Excellent."

The captain, astride a gleaming black steed, gazed at them with open contempt.

"What a waste of a Cavalry charge!" he roared, darkly amused.

He raised his sword – to the accompaniment of laughter from his men – and gathered his reins. The violent beast beneath him fought his control, eager to descend upon its hapless prey.

"All the Queen's horses, and all the Queen's men…"

Calyx appeared to Jordan's left, chiming softly. Her head was cocked with demonic intent, eyes hot as hellfire. She toyed with insidious strands of hot lightning, twirling them absently about her fingers as she regarded the snorting barricade.

The captain's face drained of colour, and he wasted not a second more. He slashed his sword down with a desperate yell of Charge!, and the Karkadann moved at frightening speed. Far faster than any horse, they leapt in great bounds down the slope, claws thundering, gaining terrible momentum as they raced to attack.

Calyx laughed and threw out her hand; the air exploded with an unholy howl. A bladed breeze smashed down through the cavalry like a grenade through glass; screams echoed as living shrapnel painted the air.

In short seconds, nothing remained but melting gore.

"Jesus…" Jordan whispered, horrified.

"Come," Norae said grimly, tugging at her shirtsleeve, "Lat'Nemele is moving already."

And so she was – spattered with blood, darting like a cat at play. Systematically, she murdered anything that moved within her line of sight. Jordan tried not to look down as she followed, tried not to see the shattered bodies – tried not to slip in the blood as it warmed beneath the climbing sun. She took a deep breath, recharged her shield, held it up high to prevent an attack from behind. She wondered if it was necessary – the splendid, lethal woman ahead hardly seemed like she needed any help. But she had promised to carry it, to keep a wary eye out for the Shadowkin that could sap all of that immense power in a heartbeat.

So she trudged on.

The heat was rising beneath the shadow-edged sun, and the true victors of war rose to take advantage of the spoils. Clouds of flies plagued the fields, feasting on the dead and dying. Carrion crows followed shortly, descending on the carnage left in magic's wake. And on, and on, the Lat'Nemele's magic flashed, eviscerating, pulverizing, ricocheting, smashing a path to Eoscan. The glittering Sorceress did not seem to tire, even as Jordan and Norae grew weary.

"Did not expect to be clean-up crew," Norae complained, slicing the head off yet another dying soldier.

"She hasn't got much use for us, after all, has she?" Jordan said, casting her mutinous gaze forward to the flashes of magic. Her feet hurt from walking, her ears rang with the persistent echoes of the Lat'Nemele's power, and she was desperately thirsty.

"Anything could happen," Norae counselled caution, "No Witchkin or Gryphon Knights, yet."

"Mmhmm," Jordan said, "Can't wait." She rolled her shoulders, arms tired from holding the shield in place. "Got any water?"

Norae tossed her a waterskin, and she sucked at it thirstily. The Callkin took a drink after, and then Thallo landed with a thud beside them. Norae offered her a sip, and Jordan smiled as the gryphon crooned, tipping her head high to let Norae pour a little down her gullet. She pushed at Norae's arm when the Callkin packed it away, but Norae tapped her beak.

"Enough," she scolded, "Far to go."

The gryphon shook her mane of feathers, sulking, and took to the sky once more. Norae shook her head with a wry smile, and turned to cut down a wayward infantryman who gave his last in a desperate charge.

"You know," Jordan commented, watching the soldier crumple, nearly immune now to the crimson spray that gushed from his neck, "I really thought war was more glamourous."

Norae snorted. "It is not. Days of being more tired than you know what to do with, going hungry and thirsty. Covered in blood, losing sleep for fear something sneaks up and kills you in the night."

"Basically, it sucks," Jordan agreed, "I hope this is the only taste I'll ever have."

"She is enjoying herself," Norae said darkly, gesturing with her head.

A lone soldier ran, his breath sobbing in his chest, blood pouring down one side of his face. Behind him, Calyx leapt into the air, launched herself up on a gust of wind and dived down like a hawk, clawed hands outstretched for the kill. She snatched him up, condemned him to Betwixt in the blink of an eye. Another scarpered; Calyx obliterated him with a bolt of lightning. She hooted with laughter and swept on to the next.

"She looks like she's playing," Jordan said with disgust.

Norae shrugged. "Lat'Nemele lives for the hunt."

Thallo landed inelegantly in front of them, agitated.

"Less grace than a cat," Jordan scoffed amiably.

"Hold," Norae said, dropping her voice.

They crept forward, and the scrub trees that dotted the rolling plains around them gave way abruptly, clearing the view ahead. Thallo crowded close as they stopped short. As one, they gawked up at an imposing skyline, dominated by the black volcanic rock of the caldera that housed Eoscan.

And, on the slope of the mounting hills, the other half of Fayne's army rose to meet them.

A bristling Calyx stood out in the open, glowing eyes fixed on the renewed threat ahead. Ranks of Witchkin stared back with fatalistic resolve – if they were afraid to find themselves facing a dose of death, they didn't show it.

Unobtrusively, the Lat'Nemele beckoned with one hand behind her back, and the others inched close. She damped her ravenous magic, and her eyes flickered back to normal for a short moment as she spoke.

"You two, keep close now. Mount up, Norae – playtime is over. Jordan, this is the part where your shield will make the difference – don't let it drop, no matter what."

Jordan nodded, gritting her teeth, and pushed everything she had into it to hold the thrum of magic steady. Norae whistled Thallo down, swung herself astride, and pulled a long halberd from its scabbard at the gryphon's shoulder. They closed ranks, the Lat'Nemele facing the bulk of the host ahead, and the others standing rear-guard.

"They will target me," Calyx said, "But they will not hesitate if they see you vulnerable. Do not let your guard falter."

Her power roared, her snarling savagely with the force of it, and her eyes swirled with an impossible riot of fire. Jagged streaks of molten light wound down her forearms, culminating in snapping balls of sunlight. She leapt forward on a tide of thunderous magic.

The response was instantaneous; boulders rained down upon them, blasts of fire seared air that moved with a life of its own. Treacherous bogs opened up underfoot, sucking, restricting movement. Calyx glittered, raining down bolt after bolt of crackling lightning, obliterating whole stretches of the hillside at a time as she swept unchecked across the vista.

The legions of Witchkin spread out, circling, trying to get behind. A phalanx of Earthkin succeeded, and the first blast of magic that hit Jordan's shield sent her reeling. She ricocheted off Thallo's steady shoulder, barely managing to keep her feet, and her face turned white with fear. Before she could recover, a barrage of rock, sharp as spears, hammered her forcefield. It cracked beneath the pressure. Norae unleashed a fearsome yell, ready to defend her if the shield fell, and Thallo snarled beneath her.

In desperation, Jordan closed her eyes, throwing every ounce of willpower she had at it. Beyond, she could hear the Earthkin mocking her as they battered her shield without mercy. Their derision goaded her – it wasn't fair, fifty of them against a girl who had but recently discovered what magic was. And… if her shield fell, if she fell, her friend – her brave, loyal friend – would die with her. The thought sat badly. An instinctive rage rose within her, fuelled by panicked fear – she wished she could lash out and smite them all with her feeble shield. Her eyes flashed open, snapping bright as her magic sang in response. A million sharp barbs, translucent shimmering energy, flung out like the blast from a shotgun.

The barrage on her shield ceased, and her eyes widened with disbelief as she surveyed the accidental damage she'd caused. The phalanx of Earthkin was felled to a man. They sprawled, dead and dying, skin blackened by cadaverous decay wherever a barb had touched. Confounded, ecstatic, Jordan threw back her head, unleashing a primitive holler as she raised her fists to the sky. Inspired by her success, high from the rush of her magic, she reimagined her shield bristling with spines like a porcupine – invisible, invincible. She held it there with one hand; with the other, played the strings of her power, feeling the glory as it flooded through her. She imagined dragons, and they came – surreal embodiments of pure energy, forced into existence by the creative might of a Worldkin. They swamped the battlefield by the hundreds, eviscerating, dismembering, destroying with razor teeth and claws as they breathed ethereal fire. Invulnerable – the product of a spell far beyond the ken of most – they razed Jordan's enemies by the thousand. They tore gryphons out of the sky, crushed Earthkin to dust, extinguished the Firekin, gifted the Dreamkin nightmares. They scattered the Airkin to the four winds, rained down upon the Waterkin, burned the Shadowkin out into the light, and, at last, even the Lat'Nemele paused to watch them dance.

Jordan stood in the centre of it all, a Worldkin with more vital magic than Malevelyn herself, and Andoherra trembled to behold her. She oscillated with terrible power, her form shuddering in and out of reality, her eyes burning quicksilver as magic poured from her soul. Norae stood at her back, puny beside her, weapon at the ready still. Calyx turned, astonished by the devastating exhibition of Chaos, mesmerised by the savage beauty of the eerie beasts that dominated under Jordan's command.

She'd never seen a Worldkin do that. Hell, she'd never seen anything do that.

She stood in raptured silence, watching as the battle caved in on itself – the last Witchkin fleeing for their lives as Jordan's imaginary dragons dogged their heels. At last, silence fell, the army nought but a broken memory. Jordan dropped to her hands and knees as her power abandoned her – as abruptly as it had come. Norae leapt forward to help her upright, hooking Jordan's arm over her shoulders. Thallo leaned into her from the other side, and together they limped over to the Lat'Nemele. Calyx extricated herself from her vigil, flinging herself forth to engulf Jordan in a suffocating hug.

"You were magnificent!" she exclaimed, pressing a reverent kiss to her forehead, "Truly a Queen for the ages!"

"Uh, thank you," Jordan mumbled, smothered by the feathers in her hair, "Is… it over?"

"Indeed," Calyx smiled, "You destroyed them all!"

Jordan grinned, pushed free of Calyx's embrace, turned to her friend. But she faltered as she caught sight of Norae. The Callkin's expression was a mix of trepidation and antipathy, emotions she had never seen on her face before.

And they were directed at Jordan.

"Norae?" she said, her voice suddenly small, "What's wrong?"

Norae swung her gaze out, past Jordan, to the smoking ashes of the battlefield. Jordan turned to follow her regard, and reality came crashing down. Torn and tortured corpses crusted the earth in every direction, frozen in various poses of terrible death. The land itself was blackened, burnt bare by the devastating backlash of magic.

"Of course, Lat'Nemele would congratulate," Norae said softly, casting a sideways glance at Calyx, predatory slave to her own power, before turning her sad and troubled gaze back to look at Jordan. "Do not take wrong, friend – am grateful you have won the day, made sure we stayed alive. But… Jordan…" She waved a sorrowful hand at the desolation that surrounded them, stark in the bright light of her words. "The cost…"

As Jordan looked afresh, an icy chill shot through her; she stared, and a terrible bleakness rose up in her soul. In every direction, countless, countless lives snuffed… by her hand.

"Oh, God…" she whispered, bowing her head, "What have I done…?"

Norae laid a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up into those dark, earnest eyes.

"Saved us," the Callkin murmured, "That is what you have done. But I know you. This is not the way you would have chosen to do it – if you had had a choice." Her gaze flashed to the Lat'Nemele, back again. "Do not want you to turn into her."

Jordan nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. After the rush and abatement of power, the reality-check hurt like hell. But she was grateful for it, even if she was drowning in the truth of what she had done.

Suddenly, she remembered something, and determination brushed away her tears.

"I will make up for this," she promised, resolute, "After we rescue Grandma, I will take my place and sit the Throne. Grandma told me it will kill me, but it will save Andoherra, so… I will pay for these lives… with my own."

"Jordan!" Norae exclaimed, "Not what I meant-!"

"That's insanity, Jordan-" Calyx began to add her objection.

"It's my decision," Jordan cut them off. She looked at each of them, stony-eyed, indisputable.

A Queen.

"Come," she commanded, "We are not finished."