61
They were everywhere. Thousands of orcs, more than Fletcher thought existed, sprawling in a great horde across a smoking landscape, the villages and trees behind burning like funeral pyres.
And a few hundred feet in front of them, spread in a thin red line in front of Vocans’ gates, were the remains of Hominum’s army. Perhaps a thousand men were left, garbed in red uniforms with a patchwork of a few hundred others, survivors from noble regiments that had been decimated in the fighting. And a single platoon of dwarves, strewn along the centre in twos and threes.
‘So few,’ Fletcher choked through the smog.
The stench of brimstone was thick in the air – a heady mix of gunpowder and smoke from the burning buildings of the hamlets that had been put to torch a mile away. The entire world was tinged orange by the distant flames, merging with the red glow of the setting sun. It would be night soon.
As the world below them smouldered, Fletcher was aware of Sylva’s every move beside him, and he couldn’t help but wish they could remain here, together, far above the fighting. Sylva’s hair streamed behind her as Lysander hurtled through the air, his wingtips brushing Ignatius’s. She looked glorious in the setting sun, her face drawn with determination, falx sword held ready for battle.
‘We can do this,’ Sylva said, her eyes meeting his.
Fletcher held her gaze, daring to share in her hope. With renewed resolve, he turned back to the scene below.
Flashes now, streaks of lightning and fire in the no-man’sland between the two armies. There was a battle being fought there. Beasts, tearing into each other in shuddering clashes of claws, scales and fur. Hundreds of demons were waging war below him, the preamble to the final clash of civilisations.
He saw a row of battlemages scattered in front of their men, hurling fireballs and lightning at shamanic counterparts across the smouldering remains of the land. Harold and his father stood at the front of it all, a shield like a glass dome around them as they ordered a fresh pack of Lycans and Anubids into the fray.
Ahead of them, the Dragoons fought in the midst of the battlefield itself, their mounts lashing out at lumbering humanoid Oni and shark-like Nanaues in the centre of the war-torn turf. Arcturus’s dark hair streamed behind him as his Hippalectryon reared, leading a counter-charge towards the embattled western front. Pride swelled Fletcher’s chest as his mentor struck the enemy lines, holding his own against insurmountable odds. Even from a distance, Fletcher could see Hominum’s demons were outnumbered.
Above, a roar.
Ignatius was moving before Fletcher could think, shooting upwards into the haze of fumes and mist. It was dark, the smoke-tinged mantle of vapour blocking the red rays of the setting sun below. All was silent now.
No. Wingbeats. Like the slow pulse of a beating heart, somewhere to the south. In his scrying crystal, Athena hovered beneath the cloud bank, searching for clues of the Dragon’s whereabouts. Nothing.
And then it was there. Swooping out of the clouds, a dark mass on leathery wings. Talons stretched out and gouged the earth itself, ripping through a pack of Hominum’s Canids and snapping one up in its beak. Gliding the length of the battlefield, it swallowed its quarry in a single gulp, and began a long, looping turn for a second pass.
As it swung around, Fletcher saw it was a Drake in all but size and skin, its body covered in armoured scales. It might have been as large as three Phantaurs combined, with a wingspan that eclipsed the sun as it wheeled across the horizon.
‘Fletcher!’ Sylva’s voice called.
Lysander emerged from the cloud bank with a screech of frustration, his wings rotating in the air.
‘The Celestial Corps are all dead or hiding,’ Sylva spat derisively. ‘They took out the Wyverns, but only Captain Lovett and Ophelia Faversham are still fighting. They’ve been trying to blindside Khan in the clouds, but the Dragon flames at them whenever they get close.’
Behind Sylva, Fletcher could see the shadows of the pair, floating just behind the clouds.
But before he could greet them, there was a flash of light, and Fletcher turned to see.
The great demon was swooping again, a vast tidal wave of fire scouring the earth along the front of Hominum’s lines. Dragoons scattered out of its way, Arcturus just escaping the scorched trail of destruction with a flying leap from his mount. Behind, the less fortunate screamed, until only charred skeletons remained.
A roar of triumph erupted from the Dragon’s jaws. On its back, Fletcher could see the pale figure of Khan, riding astride its neck. The orc waved his long macana club. Once. Twice.
It was a signal. In a great rolling surge, the orc ranks crashed forward, running through the flame-burnt earth with an ululating chorus of war cries that chilled Fletcher to the bone. Sweeping around the edges, rhino riders charged in, horns lowered in preparation for impact. An unstoppable wave of barbarians.
Gunfire rippled down the line of men. Orcs spun, jerked and fell, but still they came, never faltering, never slowing. Fifty feet. Forty. Lightning and fire blazed from the battlemages and demons as they fell back to the lines, tearing holes in the hordes. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.
But there was something else. A rumbling could be heard. A thundering of hooves, and … singing. Voices, raised in harmony, sending elven words swirling across the landscape.
And then, galloping gracefully around the thin line of desperate men, came the elks, curling in like a ram’s horns, meeting the flanks of the orc attack.
Antlers swung down and tossed orcs aside, while bows thrummed arrows into oncoming ranks, whistling into skulls and necks with deadly accuracy. Falx swords swept left and right, cleaving tusked heads from their shoulders.
Rhinos and deer clashed in bone-shattering impacts, riders from both sides flying from their seats in the mêlée. And down the centre, Hominum’s muskets swung inwards to concentrate their fire where the elven pincer had not met. Twenty feet.
Orcs were thrown back by the ferocity of the gunfire, the closest hurled back like puppets jerked on strings. They staggered and fell, ragged with a dozen wounds. The charge was faltering.
To Fletcher’s east, the Dragon roared, circling in a long arc for an attack. And he could see what was about to happen. The flames, crashing over the thin line of men. The mass of elves drowning in a sea of fire. This was what Khan had been waiting for. He had been toying with them before. Waiting for the allied armies to meet.
Yet, as Fletcher watched the slow wheeling of the great beast, he knew what he had to do.
One last throw of the dice.
‘Get Lovett and Ophelia and hide in the clouds above it,’ Fletcher yelled to Sylva, digging his heels into Ignatius’s side. ‘Wait for my signal.’
Ignatius dived, and Fletcher heard Sylva’s response before it was snatched away.
‘What are you doing?’
But he was committed. No time to respond.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Fletcher breathed, hugging the demon’s neck close. He felt a pulse of love from the brave demon as they hurtled towards the Dragon, the wind tearing at his hair and watering his eyes. They would either win, or die together. There was no other outcome.
On they flew, over the screams of battle and the crackle of gunfire. He could see the Dragon complete its turn ahead and begin its pass towards the massed allies. A cry from Athena warned him of the danger.
It was now or never. He etched the amplify spell on his neck, squeezing the last trace of mana that he had left.
‘Khan!’ Fletcher bellowed, his voice booming out over the plains.
Even through the turmoil of battle, the albino orc heard his words. The Dragon looked up as Fletcher plummeted through the sky towards them, his khopesh outstretched.
Khan shook his head, ignoring him. The target beneath was too tempting. Thousands of his enemies, packed in a long strip along the battlefield.
‘Face me, coward!’ Fletcher taunted, attacking the orc leader’s pride.
Now Khan looked up, his lips drawn back over his tusks with a snarl. He raised a hand, and Ignatius jerked aside just in time. A lightning bolt sizzled by. Still they plunged towards their enemy.
‘Where are your Wyverns, Great Khan?’ Fletcher shouted. ‘Did you lose the rest of them on your way back from the ether?’
Now the Dragon was angling upwards, its enormous wings throwing dust along the battlefield below. It was working. Khan spoke, his words drifting up.
‘I am the Redeemer.’ His voice tinged with religious fervour. ‘I am the Chosen.’
‘Prove it,’ Fletcher bellowed back. ‘Fight me! Or is “the Chosen” scared of a single boy?’
A roar, so loud that Fletcher felt it in his chest. And then the Dragon was flying towards them, its maw gaping wide. Within, Fletcher saw the roil of flame.
‘Do it,’ Fletcher whispered.
Ignatius pulled out of the dive with a howl, the speed creating a gale-force wind that nearly tore Fletcher from his seat. Then they were beating for the clouds above, Ignatius lunging with every flap of his wings. Too slow.
Khan was laughing madly now, swinging his club-sword in anticipation. Seconds raced by as the Dragon gained on them, the draft of its wingbeats pulling them down. Almost there. He could feel the moisture of the clouds in the air, see the grey-white bank a stone’s throw away.
Beneath, the demon’s mouth stretched open like a snake’s. Fire pooled within, casting Ignatius in an orange glow.
‘Now, Sylva!’ Fletcher screamed.
Three figures burst from above, hurtling towards them. He caught a glimpse of Lovett’s Alicorn. The antlers of a Peryton. Lysander, screeching an eagle’s cry.
Light flashed over them as the flames tore through the air.
‘Now,’ Fletcher breathed.
Ignatius unfurled his wings, holding them dead still in the sky. Fire rushed up to meet them. Flames beat at Fletcher’s body, smashing him into Ignatius’s back. He breathed in the inferno, felt the dry heat in his chest. His shirt and jacket were torn away.
He cracked open his eyes, saw the blaze part around them and twist into the sky, blocked by Ignatius’s outstretched wings. A vortex of flame – with three demons flying down the empty tunnel in its centre.
The fire stopped, the Dragon’s attack petering out. He heard the sizzle of heat on his skin. And a scream of hatred as Lovett, Sylva and Ophelia whipped by them. Then they too were falling, Ignatius’s wings pinned back as they joined in the attack.
Already, Ophelia was gone, the Peryton limp in the Dragon’s beak, the battlemage’s body twisting as it plummeted to the ground below.
Lovett’s lance shattering on the Dragon’s cheek as she was nearly thrown from her saddle, tumbling away in a jumble of wings and hooves. And then Sylva, leaping, her falx outstretched. The Griffin snarled in the beast’s wing, tearing at the delicate membrane. A roar of pain as Sylva’s blade buried itself in the demon’s eye, and she hung on for dear life.
Time seemed to slow.
Ignatius crashed into the Dragon’s head, his claws tearing at the armoured scales for purchase. Fletcher was hurled from the Drake’s back by the impact. He spun through the air, hitting Khan in a tangle of limbs.
They were falling. Spinning. He could see Vocans, rushing up to meet them. The dome of glass at its centre. Shattering.
Darkness.