Horwood could hardly breathe.
His chest burned, his vision was swimming, and all he could think about was getting back to his house, locking the door, and hiding away until all of this was over. Maybe a drink would help to settle his nerves, too. Something strong. Something very strong.
All around him, the world seemed to be falling to pieces. He couldn’t hear himself think for the roar of the biplanes overhead, the chatter of machine guns, the crash of crumbling masonry. He watched as a nearby telephone box exploded in a shower of twisted metal and shattered glass, torn asunder by a stream of bullets. Closer by, a vine had shot from the ground, splintering the paving slabs, to grasp at a Koschei. It snaked around the man’s legs, dragging him to his knees, before bursting through his chest, spreading his ribs like bony fingers. The flickering light of his spell died on his fingertips as the vine withdrew, and his broken corpse pitched heavily to the ground, blood pooling in the gutter.
Horwood sensed movement to his left, and ducked behind the corner of a building, pressing his back against the wall. A Koschei hurried past, blue light flickering as he summoned a portal, disappearing through it as if simply folding himself out of existence. There were more of them, too, sliding in and out of reality all around, sending streaming fistfuls of ethereal light in the direction of the Albion avatar. One of them was likely to spot him at any moment.
Horwood had no idea what to do. He’d never been able to hold his own in a fight. Even back in his school days, he’d taken regular beatings from the older boys, and had found his only solace in the library, whiling away all his free time amongst the dusty stacks, avoiding interaction with the other children. Even during the war he’d been given a desk job, deployed to a secret facility in Lincolnshire and tasked with investigating ways to counter the occult designs of the Kaiser. If he took on a Koschei—even just one of them—he’d be dead in seconds.
He looked up, suddenly aware of the sound of a biplane engine directly overhead. Its tail had been snagged by another curling vine, and Albion was forcing it into a steep dive. It was heading right for him, its propeller churning the air, its pilot frantically hammering the controls as it plummeted.
Horwood ran, throwing himself around the corner of the building and charging down the street, back toward the main crux of the battle. Behind him, the engine roar grew louder, more insistent, until the sound became a whining scream, and he thought his eardrums were going to burst with the pressure. It was coming down right on top of him. There was no way he’d be quick enough to get out of the way.
This was it. He knew then that he was going to die. He’d be dashed across the road as it struck the ground, or lacerated by the propeller as he tried to dive out of the way.
And then he was falling forward, arms flung out before him, as the biplane struck the road behind him, detonating in a sudden fireball, its propellers cutting grooves in the pavement as its burning undercarriage slid wildly across the tarmac and rebounded from another nearby building, causing the brickwork to crack and the roof to slump, slate tiles cascading to the ground in a crashing shower.
Horwood struck the pavement hard, his breath leaving his body. He flopped onto his back, and then rolled, wide-eyed, as a fragment of contorted wing flew overhead, so close that he could read the Russian markings on the paintwork. It clanged to the ground a few feet away, smoldering.
Horwood came to rest in the gutter, and remained there for a moment, trying to catch his breath. He was so close to the burning wreckage he could feel the warmth of the flames against his cheek.
He heard a voice, and looked up to see two Koscheis standing over him. The one on the left was a woman, her lips parted in a fierce sneer, her eyes only just visible beneath the hood of her robe. On the right, her male companion was levelling a weapon. It looked familiar—one of the flame guns, just like the one Regina had used in the Underground.
Horwood swallowed. What were the chances? He’d managed to escape a crashing biplane, only to find himself confronted by a man standing ready to conflagrate him in stream of elemental flames.
And then suddenly the two Koscheis were stumbling back, waving their arms before them in an attempt to ward off a flock of crows, which had descended from above in a flurry of stabbing beaks and disorientating wings.
Horwood scrabbled back on his elbows as the men screamed, trying desperately to bat the birds away. But the crows were relentless, and within seconds both Koscheis had collapsed to the ground, their faces and hands reduced to a bloody mess, their eyes pecked out to reveal empty, staring sockets, dribbling with blood. The crows cawed in triumph, fluttering off in search of their next victims.
Horwood picked himself up. To his left, the Albion entity was striding through the massed ranks of Koscheis, sword sweeping low, cleaving heads from shoulders with every swing. Around it, vines continued to erupt from the cracked paving slabs, knitting together to form a protective wall, a shield intended to pin the Koscheis in place, to shepherd them toward their doom.
He saw the avatar look up, and followed its gaze. Another biplane was droning overhead, sweeping low in a wide arc, preparing to make a run at the avatar with its machine guns.
The avatar waited, allowing the biplane to enter into its dive, before throwing out its arm, which extended into a whipping tendril, encircling the biplane even as the pilot tried to weave around it. With a flick of its arm, the avatar sent the biplane skywards, hurling it into a spinning trajectory for the nearest airship.
Horwood saw the pilot bail, flinging himself out of the cockpit just as the biplane collided with the silvery lozenge of the airship, twisting through the taut outer skin like a corkscrew and tearing a massive rent in the gasbags as it crashed through the interior. The entire vessel buckled, before erupting into a massive ball of flame, temporarily lighting the street below, columns of black smoke curling away into the evening sky. The airship shuddered, and then began its ponderous descent toward the rooftops of the city far below.
The avatar had already returned its attention to the Koscheis in the road, cleaving and lopping with its massive blade. The Russians were backing away toward the cathedral, concentrating their attacks on the avatar’s chest. The wood smoldered and burned where the elemental flames splashed across the avatar’s torso, and it writhed in pain, lashing out with even more ferocity, vines whipping from the ground to snare the unwary.
Horwood backed away along the road, looking for somewhere to take cover. To his right, the shimmering figure of Ginny floated, dreamlike, above the street, her arms held out by her sides, her hair stirred by a strange, unnatural breeze. She was cloaked in tattered ribbons, which fluttered as she moved, translucent and eerie. Before her, her ghostly lions bounded along the road, bursting through the bodies of Koscheis, silently consuming their souls.
Horwood ducked into the doorway of a baker’s shop, catching his breath. His elbows were smarting, and he was certain some shrapnel from the crashed biplane had buried itself in his back. He could feel blood trickling down the crease of his spine. He had to get out of there. Had to—
He turned at the sound of the avatar screeching. It was a deep, inhuman sound, guttural and frantic; the sound of rending wood, amplified and distorted. A Koschei had managed to get behind the thicket wall, and had turned his flame gun upon the avatar’s back. As Horwood looked on, he saw the blue light searing a fist-sized hole in its shoulder. He felt something twist in his gut. The avatar twisted, trying to turn around, but the Koschei was now adjusting the beam of the weapon, burning a deep groove into the avatar’s back. It screeched again, staggering, the other Koscheis still bombarding it from the front. Horwood glanced around, searching for anyone who could help. There was no one—the soldiers he could see were all locked in battle with Koscheis, and Ginny had drifted out of sight. He gritted his teeth. There was nothing else for it.
Almost before he knew what he was doing, Horwood was running, feet pounding the concrete as he charged at the Koschei with the flame gun. His back was agony, now, but it barely mattered—he knew he had no chance of surviving this. There was no other choice, though—the avatar was the only thing that could save them, and he was the only one able to do anything to help. He couldn’t allow the Koscheis to bring Albion down.
So intent was the Koschei on his target that he didn’t see Horwood coming until it was too late. The man twisted, snarling, trying to bring his gun to bear, but Horwood was too close, barreling into him, lifting him from his feet and sending him crashing to the ground. Horwood sprawled too, going over inelegantly, slamming to the ground atop the writhing Koschei, barely able to believe that he was still alive. The flame gun skittered across the road, out of reach of them both.
The Koschei grabbed for Horwood’s wrists, trying to heave him off. But Horwood, fired by a sudden surge of adrenaline, was having none of it. He bunched his hands into fists, squeezing until they hurt, and then unleashed a barrage upon the Koschei, pounding the man’s face once, twice, three times, striking him over and over, until his nose was spread across his pale face in a bloody streak, and his jaw was hanging loose and broken. Some of his teeth had been knocked free, and bright blood was streaming from the corner of his sagging mouth. He’d stopped moving.
Horwood breathed, ragged breath whistling through his teeth. His fists were covered in blood, his palms stinging where he’d buried his own fingernails into the flesh. Sweat stung his eyes.
Slowly, he got to his feet. He glanced at the flame gun, just a few feet away. To his right, the avatar had resumed its battle with the Koscheis, and the wound in its back was already beginning to close, vines knitting together around the hole.
Horwood staggered toward the gun. If he could just figure out how to activate it… His fingers brushed the metal grip, just as something hard slammed into him from behind. He didn’t have time to see what it was before he went over, shoved forward with incredible force, striking his head against the pavement.