Fritha looked at Aenor, the two of them realizing how this was going to go. The shield wall in front of them had reformed, maybe three or four hundred strong. The shield wall from the east was marching towards them, at least six hundred strong. Together they were roughly equal to Aenor’s acolytes, and they were White-Wings. They were better trained. She had Elise, Arn and his riders, and she was upon Wrath, who could do a lot of damage, but he was not invincible.
Something on the battlefield changed, a prickling on Fritha’s neck drawing her eyes to the west, where Revenants were swarming a beleaguered shield wall.
Except that the Revenants were collapsing.
A silence, like an indrawn breath, followed by a long sigh. A winged figure rose up from the ground, dapple-grey wings, two short-swords raised.
“The half-breed,” Fritha whispered.
The half-breed Ben-Elim let out a victory cry, echoed by the White-Wings below her.
She’s slain another of Gulla’s captains.
And as Fritha stared, horns blared and voices cried out. The shield wall beneath the half-breed reformed and was beginning to march, straight towards Fritha; maybe four or five hundred shields, a handful of Ben-Elim circling above them. And behind them all was another ditch and two more legions of White-Wings, both at full strength.
We are going to die. It dawned on Fritha in a moment, like a candle being snuffed out.
Where is Asroth and his Kadoshim? Where is Jin and her Cheren? Where is Morn and the half-breeds, or Gulla and his Revenants? There are still thousands of them left, but none of them are here.
She looked down at Aenor, at Arn and Elise, and she stroked Wrath’s bloodied neck.
A glorious death, then, and take as many of them as I can with me.
“Let’s do this,” she said, her companions hearing her. They all hefted their weapons, shifted their feet. Prepared themselves for one last charge.
And then she saw the White-Wings in front of her staring beyond her, eyes wide, mouths gaping.
Fritha turned in her saddle, looked at the blue flame barring her way.
The earth around the ditch was moving, crumbling away, as if something were burrowing beneath it, sucking it down. The blue flames rippled, flickered, thinned. Fritha heard a voice.
“Crochnaíonn an talamh an lasair, buail mo shliocht. Lasair, bogha do do rí…”
“Earth, smother the flame, bear my passage. Flame, bow to your king,” she whispered, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
The earth began to seethe and bubble.
“CROHNAÍONN AN TALAMH AN LASAIR, BUAIL MO SHLIOCHT. LASAIR, BOGHA DO DO RI,” the voice bellowed, and earth exploded upwards in a great gout, spraying over the blue flames, raining back down into the ditch, and with a hissing crackle the flames went out. A ridge of earth rose up from within the ditch, wide enough for a score of men abreast to cross.
Asroth rode across the hard-packed earth, blue flame still crackling either side of him. Warriors marched behind him in ordered rows. Behind them Fritha glimpsed a wall of dark mist concealing Gulla and his Revenants. And above them all flew the Kadoshim and their offspring. Fritha saw Morn amongst them, a spear in her fist.
And then Asroth was beside Fritha. He looked at her, smiled, for Fritha the world fading for a moment. Asroth dismounted, marching forwards to stand between Fritha and the White-Wing shield wall.
Asroth stared at them, his coat of mail and dark helm glistening and shimmering like oil. Then he shrugged his long axe from his back and gripped it in both hands, swirled it around his head in a looping circle, leaving a trail of black smoke in the air.
“Who is first to die?” Asroth said.