Lost Ones

CHAPTER 10

T he gods came out of Perinthia at dawn, just as they had promised.

Kitsune had been sitting on a rock beside the Truce Road, thinking back to the last time she had been here, sneaking into the city with Oliver and Frost after their mad flight on horseback from Bromfield Village with the Myth Hunters in pursuit. Those had been anxious days, but they had been sweet as well. Their intentions had been pure, their understanding of one another uncomplicated.

It had all gone wrong since. Kitsune wished that she could go back. But there was only forward, now, to war-and to whatever life held for her on the other side.

Boredom had forced Coyote to shed his human form and to chase voles across the rough landscape on the outskirts of the city in the hour just before dawn. But as the horizon had begun to lighten and the city of Perinthia began to awaken, the coyote had come and laid down at Kitsune’s feet, gaze locked on the archway that led into the city. The arch connected two watchtowers. Dark figures appeared from time to time atop those towers, but Coyote’s attention was on the arch itself. On the road.

For her part, Kitsune tried her best not to look at the arch, superstitious that if she stared in that direction, the gods might never come. But when Coyote made a soft growl in his throat and rose from his haunches, then transformed fluidly from animal to man, standing almost at attention despite his usual slouch, she knew that they would not march alone.

The war goddess, Bellona, came first through the arch, one hand upon the pommel of her sword, chin high with salvaged dignity. Only steps behind her came a god all in black. The ebon armored chest plate he wore gleamed in the dawn’s light, as did the helm upon his head. His eyes were hidden in shadow, but Kitsune could see the thin line of his mouth and she shuddered. Never had she seen a being so grim.

“Ares,” Coyote muttered.

Kitsune shot him a look.

“It must be,” he whispered.

The fox-woman agreed. The god of war had come. How could he have resisted?

Salacia and Hesperos followed, but Kitsune’s lingering gaze was broken by a blur that swept past Hesperos and Salacia, darted around Ares and Bellona, and raced toward her with such speed that she barely had time to raise her hands in self-defense before he came to a stop in front of her. His narrow face and thin limbs trembled as though with terrible age, and there were lines upon his face. Yet despite the wisps of white hair, she knew this could only be Mercury.

His eyes were alight with youth and power, with speed.

Then he vanished in a blur, racing off along the Truce Road toward the south-toward Bromfield and the Atlantic Bridge and toward war.

“Where the hell’s he going?” Coyote said.

“To scout ahead,” Bellona replied.

Kitsune turned. The golden gleam of the morning sun made the gods seem almost like figments of her imagination. But the rust on Bellona’s chest plate and the dents in her helm were not illusions.

Ares walked past Kitsune and Coyote without a word, not even pausing to be introduced.

Another god came along behind Hesperos and Salacia, a fair-haired male in a pale blue robe who floated several inches above the ground, a small wind swirling up a dust devil underfoot.

“Thank you for coming,” Kitsune said.

“Where are the others?” Coyote asked.

“Most of the old gods are tired,” Bellona said, glaring at Coyote. “But there are those of us who refuse to be forgotten.”

Kitsune shot Coyote a hard look.

“And we’re very grateful,” she told Bellona.

Placated, the war goddess gestured around her. “Mercury and Ares have gone on ahead. Salacia and Hesperos you know.” She put a hand on Kitsune’s shoulder. “Notus, this is Kitsune of the Borderkind and her cousin, the trickster Coyote,” Bellona said, and nodded toward the floating god. “And this is Notus, the south wind.”

Kitsune bowed her head. “We are honored to have you with us.”

A gentle wind caressed her face, perhaps whispered something in her ear, and then was gone. Notus smiled at her, then continued along the road.

Kitsune glanced at Coyote, but saw that her cousin was not watching Notus, nor was he gazing at either of the beautiful goddesses who had joined them. His eyes were locked upon the watchtowers at the city’s edge and at the archway between them.

Head bowed, a giant lumbered through the arch, the road buckling beneath the heels of his leather boots. With his shaggy beard and dusty clothes, he looked like one of the carnivorous giants who lived along the Sorrowful River, eating wayward children and crushing their parents underfoot.

Frantic, she glanced around for cover. Not all of the Myth Hunters, it seemed, had gone to war.

But Bellona laughed softly and both Hesperos and Salacia turned to smile lovingly at the giant.

“Have no fear,” the war goddess said.

“It is only Cronus,” Hesperos added.

Kitsune shook her head in confusion. “Cronus?”

Salacia stepped up beside her, looking almost sickly in the morning sun despite her beauty. Her green-hued skin had an almost Atlantean caste, but the dawn light gave her a kind of jaundiced, cadaverous appearance.

“A Titan. They were forerunners of the gods. Cronus is the father of Zeus. His mind is not what it was, once, but he is fearless and savage in battle.”

Coyote stepped close to Kitsune. “I don’t doubt it.”

Kitsune watched the Titan as he lumbered toward her. His head was still bowed and she looked at his eyes, expecting them to be cruel but finding only lost innocence there.

Cronus smiled at her. “Pretty fox,” the Titan said.

Bellona stood straighter, hand gripping the pommel of her sword.

“Shall we go?” the goddess asked.

Kitsune bowed with a flourish of her copper-red fur cloak. “By all means.”

The morning had been gray and bitter, but as the lunchtime crowd began to make the pilgrimage back to their offices, the sky allowed a tantalizing glimpse of spring. In the passenger seat of Jackson Norris’s new Jeep-his personal vehicle, since it wouldn’t be very subtle to sit there in a car emblazoned with the logo of the Wessex County Sheriff’s Department-Sara Halliwell gazed up at the blue sky peeking through the clouds above and thought about the hope that spring inspired. Spring, she had told more than one girlfriend, was what made people believe in God and the afterlife. The seasons followed the arc of human life, and when men and women hit autumn, they began to fear the snowfall. Come winter, brittle and white and cold, people were desperate to believe in spring.

Sara didn’t know if she believed in an afterlife-in a spring after human winter-but she had no doubt that when she reached her own autumn, she would wish for a little faith.

“Doesn’t this guy ever eat lunch?” Sheriff Norris said.

Slouched in the driver’s seat, he stared over the top of the steering wheel at the facade of Bullfinch’s, a small used book shop two blocks out of the center of Chesterton, Connecticut. They had been there since shortly after ten A.M., and Sara had to pee, but mentioning this to Sheriff Norris seemed like a bad idea. This was supposed to be a stakeout. But the man they were waiting for would have to leave the bookshop at some point to eat lunch.

Wouldn’t he?

A terrible thought struck her, and she couldn’t stop herself from giving voice to it. “What if he brought his lunch to work?”

The sheriff sighed and glanced at her. “I’ve been trying not to think about that. I really don’t want to have to sit here all day. My butt’s already asleep and before long I’m going to need the bathroom.”

Sara grinned. “Thank God. Me too.”

Jackson looked through the windshield again. “Let’s give him half an hour. If he doesn’t come out, we’ll take turns for bathroom breaks.”

“Deal.” Sara nodded. Then she glanced at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to just go in there and talk to him?”

“For a dinky little bookstore, they’ve got some healthy traffic. Seems like there’s nearly always someone in there,” the sheriff replied. As if to punctuate his words, a pair of fortyish women came along the sidewalk carrying cups of coffee-office workers still on break-and entered the store. “I really don’t want to be interrupted.”

Sara felt a twinge of sadness for Marc Friedle. “We’re just going to ask him some questions. You talk like he’s the one who killed all of those kids.”

A furrow wrinkled the sheriff’s brow. “Nothing like that. But the more I think about it, the more I’m sure Friedle knows something that he didn’t tell us. Kind of pisses me off. I wonder what we would have done differently if he’d been forthcoming with us from the outset. I wonder if your father would still be around, bitching to me about some policy change or other.”

Just like that, she didn’t feel sad for Friedle anymore. She laid her head against the cold glass of her window and watched the door of Bullfinch’s Books, willing the man to emerge. Sara had known Jackson Norris most of her life, but she had never envisioned spending long hours in a car with him. They had exhausted topics of conversation two-thirds of the way into their trip to Connecticut and she had no idea what they would talk about on the way back. But for now, silence was just fine.

Chesterton had a certain appeal. Forty minutes south of Hartford, it wasn’t quite close enough to the ocean to be considered seaside, and was neither large enough to be a city, nor small enough to be called a village. Yet Chesterton was clean and upscale enough to almost be considered gentrified. The locals cared about their town. A banner that hung over the street announced that the Spring Fling Festival would be held the first weekend of May.

There were many places Sara had been that she’d felt could be summed up with that classic bon mot, “It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.” Chesterton seemed like it would be a wonderful place to live, but visitors would be bored out of their skulls.

“Here he is,” Jackson said.

Sara’s eyes popped open and she drew in a long breath, realizing she had begun to drift off to sleep. It took her a second or two to interpret the words. Sheriff Norris stared out through the windshield and Sara followed his line of sight to discover a small, almost dainty-looking man standing in front of Bullfinch’s Books with a ring of keys, locking the door. Doubtless when he stepped away, there would be a “Back in thirty minutes” sign or something similar on the glass.

Friedle started along the sidewalk toward them. Sara reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” Sheriff Norris said, one hand on her arm. “Not until he passes.”

So they watched him go by. Sara studied him out of the corner of her eye. He had thinning hair and a vaguely European look, but his distant gaze and despondent air diffused some of her antagonism toward him.

When Jackson opened his door, Sara did the same. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, her muscles throbbing at the change in position. They closed their doors simultaneously and the sheriff moved swiftly around the back of the Jeep. Sara fell in beside him and the two of them quickened their pace, catching up to the neat little man.

“Mister Friedle?” Jackson said.

Sara thought it odd that, instead of stopping, Friedle walked on a couple of paces, then slowed, halting with his back still to them. He seemed to deflate.

“I wondered when you would come for us,” the man said, his voice a strange rasp.

Then he turned toward them. Sara flinched back, horrified. His face had changed. The pale, somewhat effete countenance had become a twisted, ugly thing with leathery furrows and jagged, broken teeth. She stifled a small cry and then blinked-

And the illusion had passed.

Illusion? That didn’t feel right, but how could it have been anything else? She glanced at Sheriff Norris, but he didn’t seem fazed at all. If he had caught a glimpse of that ugly, inhuman face, he gave away nothing.

“Us? Who do you mean by ‘us,’ Mister Friedle?” Jackson asked.

Now, though, more than one mask had come up to cover Friedle’s features. A caul of suspicion pulled tight across his face as he studied the two of them.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

Jackson pulled out his identification wallet. As he took a step nearer to Friedle, he glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention.

“We’ve never met, Mister Friedle, but you probably know my name. I’m Jackson Norris, the sheriff from up in Wessex County.”

The man blinked, and a different kind of sadness seemed to burden him than had troubled him when he’d strode past the car.

“I know the name, Sheriff. Mister Bascombe spoke highly of you.”

“And of you, Marc. Which is why I’m confused about a few things.”

Friedle’s eyes narrowed. “What things might those be?”

“Is there somewhere we could talk?” Jackson asked.

The man arched an eyebrow and looked at Sara. She realized that it was the first time he had focused on her since she and the sheriff had walked up behind Friedle together. A shudder went through her. Already the details of that face had begun to fade from her mind. She had caught only a momentary glimpse and it had disappeared in an eye blink. Sara had to consider that it had only been her imagination, the stress of the past few months, and her inner conviction that Friedle was some kind of monster.

But she’d never had hallucinations before, nor seen visions, so she couldn’t brush it off so easily.

“I had just been going to the cafe for a sandwich and coffee. You’re welcome to join me, and I’ll answer whatever questions you’ve come so far to ask. But, first, who is your lovely companion?” the man asked, and his accent became stronger. Where did you get an accent like that? Switzerland? Denmark?

“This is Sara Halliwell,” the sheriff said. “Her father was-is-my best detective. He’s gone missing, just like Oliver and Collette Bascombe.”

Friedle gave her a sympathetic look. “Ah, yes. He’d gone to England with Julianna. I’m very sorry. It appears that I must add your name to the list of people I have failed.”

Sara stared at him. “What do you-”

Jackson shot her a look that reminded her that he was the sheriff and would ask the questions.

The man they had come so far to speak with saw the moment of tension between them and nodded as though in approval. “Perhaps you could both do with a bite to eat as well. We can find a comfortable booth and discuss all of the mistaken assumptions that have been made about Max Bascombe’s murder, and the fate of those who’ve vanished.”

That sounded good to Sara, in spite of the fact that she did not want to move any closer to the man who sometimes had the face of a monster.

But Sheriff Norris took insult at the man’s words.

“What mistaken assumptions?”

Friedle did not smile. Instead, he gnawed his lower lip and such sadness came over him that his eyes grew moist and a tear slid down his cheek.

“Oh, nearly all of them, I’d say. Come along, my friends. I’ll give you the truth. You won’t accept it, but telling it is the least I can do. I owe them all that much.”

The man turned and started away from them. After a few steps, he glanced back and Sara flinched, afraid she would see that hideous face again. But he looked perfectly normal, now.

“Come along, Sheriff, Miss Halliwell. It’s a story that could cost my life, and it’s what you came for, so you’d best pay attention.”

The Twillig’s Gorge militia marched southwest on the Orient Road, dust rising in their wake. They were a motley crew of men, women, and legends, carrying a broad array of weaponry, but still Ovid Tsing felt proud of them.

They would follow the Orient Road toward the Isthmus of the Conquistadors, and the moment they found a detachment of Hunyadi’s army, they would pledge themselves to the commander of that force. Whatever it took to defend Euphrasia, they would do. In all his life, Ovid had never done anything as important. The Atlanteans had attempted genocide against the Borderkind. They had shattered the Truce. They had murdered the King of Yucatazca and invaded the Two Kingdoms.

They had to be stopped.

The Jokao marched behind the Twillig’s Gorge militia. The Stonecoats had rendezvoused with them when they left the gorge, coming across the plateau with a rumble that shook Ovid’s heart in his chest. Some of them had designs engraved in the stone that armored their bodies, dyed deep, natural colors. He had not been with them long enough to recognize any hierarchy dependent upon these sigils, but knew their leader from the three ochre-painted furrows on his chest.

Ovid would have preferred to have the Jokao at the front of their force, but the Stonecoats’ thunderous passing raised a great deal of dust. Also, their presence seemed to unnerve the human members of the militia. Legends were often formidable, but rarely came in such large numbers. There were perhaps one hundred and fifty Jokao marching with them-an enormous number, far greater than Ovid had hoped-and they had sworn the same vow as the militia had, to drive the Atlanteans from the Two Kingdoms.

When the last of his militia had passed, Ovid nodded at the leader of the Jokao and fell in with the final line of his recruits-the seven archers he had helped to train. They greeted him cheerfully, and that gave him heart. The march had already been long, but enormous distance still separated them from the Isthmus. It gladdened him to see that none of the militia were flagging.

They marched on. From time to time he saw someone sip from a water-skin. In another hour, they would stop for a brief rest and dry rations. No full meals would be eaten until they camped tonight. It had been planned fairly well, he thought. The help he’d received from his lieutenants had been invaluable, but he would be relieved to hand over command of the militia to the king’s army. They would know how best to utilize volunteers, as well as how to keep them fed and armed.

Such thoughts occupied much of Ovid’s thinking as his feet rose and fell. The march became a numb monotony, but they were traveling to war, and there would be no monotony once the arrows began to fly and the steel to sing.

The day grew warmer. As they continued southwest, the heat would only increase, but he didn’t mind. Ovid liked the way heat settled into his skin and then down into his bones. It made him feel alive and vital. Death always seemed close by when the snow fell.

A voice shouted his name, shaking him from his reverie. Ovid glanced to his left and saw LeBeau, the swordsman among his lieutenants, hurrying along at the edge of the road even as the militia marched on. The troubled expression on the swordsman’s face forestalled any greeting.

“What is it?” Ovid demanded as he stepped out of the ranks.

“Another army awaits us on the road ahead. A rabble, I’d say, but I don’t see Hunyadi’s colors anywhere.”

“Damn it.” Ovid slipped his bow from where it had been slung across his chest, then caught up to the other archers who made up his personal guard. “Come with me.”

The archers hurried out of the marching ranks. Ovid and LeBeau led the way, running alongside the rest of the militia. As they neared the front of the march, Ovid shouted for them all to halt, waving his bow in the air to draw their attention over the stomping of the Stonecoats at the rear. Men and women, and the handful of legends that’d joined them, came to a stop. Some watched him curiously, but the front line knew exactly why Ovid had halted them.

Two hundred yards ahead, an army camped on the road. They flew no colors that might have proclaimed their allegiance to any king, but there were a great many of them-perhaps three hundred-and a third of those had horses. Where in a thousand Hells had they come from?

“What will you do?” LeBeau asked.

Ovid stared at the men and women blocking their path. The horsemen were all mounted. Some of the foot soldiers, however, had been resting on the side of the road as he arrived at the front of his volunteers. Now they all began to rise. From what he could see there were no legendary among them, only Lost Ones.

“Bows,” he said.

His seven archers unslung their bows and drew arrows from their quivers, preparing to fire at his order.

“LeBeau, with me,” Ovid said, slipping his own bow across his back once more. “Archers, if we fall under attack, you are to respond in kind.”

“Yes, sir,” Yangtze replied curtly. Of all of the archers, he was the only one with any military training.

Ovid studied the road ahead, tempted to bring the Jokao up to approach this motley army with him. But he worried that the approach of Stonecoats might incite violence, and he wanted to find out if these were enemies before slaughter ensued. He had certainly not expected to meet armed resistance until they had traveled much further south.

LeBeau fell into step beside and slightly behind him. The lieutenant did not draw his sword, but kept his hand upon the pommel of the weapon. Ovid held his own hands out, palms up, in a gesture he hoped would be seen as peaceful. Together they crossed half the distance between his militia and the soldiers who blocked their path. There, he stopped. LeBeau shot him a quizzical look, but Ovid ignored it.

They waited.

After perhaps twenty seconds, a woman-an officer, it seemed-dismounted from her horse and handed the reins to another. A gray-haired, bearded man kept pace with her and the two walked out to where Ovid and LeBeau waited. Wariness flickered on their faces; they weren’t any more certain what to make of this meeting than Ovid.

The woman and the gray-bearded man approached. Ovid could feel the combined attention of the soldiers on both sides, and knew he was just as much a target as those he now faced.

“We are in range of your archers,” said the graybeard. His accent was unmistakably Spanish, tinged with humor. “I hope that you do not intend for them to kill us.”

Ovid raised his eyebrows. “We are soldiers and citizens, not killers.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” the older man said. He executed a small bow. “Do I have the honor of addressing the leader of the Twillig’s Gorge militia?”

Surprised, Ovid blinked. “You do. Ovid Tsing, sir. My lieutenant is Andre LeBeau.”

The man inclined his head. “Then we are in time, after all. I had begun to fear you had passed by before we arrived. If it pleases you, sir, I am Cristobal Aguilar, Mayor of Navarre.”

In confusion, Ovid stared at the man. “You have me at a loss. Do you mean to say you’ve been waiting for us?”

“Indeed,” Mayor Aguilar said. “Word reached Navarre of your militia. Many of the men and women of our town had been talking about volunteering for the king’s service. When we learned of your march, it…how do I say it? We were inspired. Preparations were swiftly made, and now we are here, General.”

Ovid shook his head. “I am no general, Senor Aguilar.”

“Ah, but it seems you are,” the mayor replied, gesturing to the troops aligned behind Ovid. “We offer you our services, if you will have us.”

For a moment, nothing seemed real. Ovid glanced at the army ahead and the one behind. He wondered how word had traveled so fast, and if it was spreading. Would other Lost Ones-other ordinary subjects of King Hunyadi-come to join the fight when they heard?

A smile touched his lips. His mother had been right all along, and now her dream was coming to life. He only wished she were alive to see it.

“We’re honored to call you allies and friends, Mayor Aguilar.”

Damia Beck let out a battle cry. Her sword flickered in the shafts of sunlight that came down through the branches of the Oldwood. All through the forest around her, combat raged. The company of soldiers she had sent to bait the southern invaders into the wood had succeeded. Cernunnos had commanded that the creatures of the Oldwood allow them to pass, waiting to attack until Commander Beck herself gave the word.

Now the word had been given. Blood flew, dappling leaves and soaking into the ground. The stink of the Battle Swine filled her nostrils. She had never been so close to one of them before and the stench nearly crippled her. The Swine brought its axe around in an arc meant to cleave her head from her shoulders. Damia grunted with effort as she dropped into a crouch, avoiding the blade, then rolled out of the way as the stinking, sweating boar kicked her. Its heavy boot caught her in the side, but added to her momentum as she rolled away.

The commander leaped to her feet. Pain spiked through her side where the Swine had kicked her, but she ducked behind a tree even as the boar swung its axe again. The blade bit deep into the wood and lodged there. The Battle Swine squealed in rage.

“Die, wretched beast!” Damia snarled, and drove the point of her sword toward the Swine’s throat.

It dodged enough that the blade only slashed the side of its neck. Blood flowed over the heavy, leather armor that covered its chest. Its eyes gleamed yellow in the shade of the tree and it glared at her, snorting breath even more rancid than the stink of its body.

It lunged. Damia sidestepped to put the tree between them. Branches shook and leaves drifted down. A flutter of bright, tiny creatures darted into the shade-some breed of pixies whose wings were lavender, bottle green, and eggshell blue. They attacked the Battle Swine’s eyes, distracting it. The idiot thing squealed and batted at the pixies, striking itself in the face.

Damia glanced around in search of help. A single human soldier against a Battle Swine might as well be suicide. But there would be no help coming. Corpses littered the forest, some in the colors of King Hunyadi and many more in the uniforms and helmets of the army of the south. Some of the dead, clad in Yucatazcan garb, had the unmistakable features of Atlantis. Dead goblins had been flung against trees or broken beneath the tread of the invaders. Strigae had been shot from the sky with arrows, plummeting to the ground as black-feathered lumps. Other wild things from the Oldwood lay dead as well, but far more-brownies and hobs, owl-men and a massive spirit bear-continued the fight alongside Damia’s own troops.

Horses thundered through the wood, splintering branches and driving up divots from the earth. Her cavalry hacked at the Yucatazcans with their swords. As she spotted a handsome young horseman from Galacia, a Battle Swine emerged from between two trees and took hold of his mount, dragging soldier and horse together to the ground, hacking downward with his axe.

No help. Not now. Not in time.

Pixies shrieked and died. The Swine she’d been battling snatched one from its snout and thrust the brilliant little creature into its mouth. The pixie died between its teeth even as the Swine swept the others away and launched itself at Damia. Blood still flowed from the wound on its neck.

Weaponless, it threw itself at her. Damia raised her sword and, as the Swine attacked, she struck. Her blade sliced cleanly through the the massive beast’s throat, but its momentum was too great. Even as it died, it fell upon her. By instinct, in its dying moment, it lowered its head and tried to gore her with its tusks. One of those yellowed ivory tusks plunged into her shoulder, rending flesh.

Damia Beck screamed in fury. She ground her teeth together as she pushed upward on the Swine’s massive head. A sucking noise came from the tusk as she lifted it out of the wound in her shoulder. Her body quivered with shock and pain and she felt a terrible chill go through her.

A moist grunt came from behind her. Not far from her head came a thump upon the ground that could only be another heavy boot. She had killed a Battle Swine in hand-to-hand combat, but now as she rose to her knees, three others surrounded her.

“Bitch,” one of them snarled.

Damia nearly laughed. She didn’t think the rancid beasts capable of speech. Why the Battle Swine-legends from the Northlands of Euphrasia-had fallen in league with Atlantis, she had no idea. They were brutal, savage things fit for nothing but killing. Perhaps they simply hadn’t had much opportunity for war and bloodshed of late. No matter. They were the enemy, now.

“Traitorous pigs,” she sniffed.

The three Swine laughed, then began to move in around her. Commander Beck raised her sword and tried to figure out how to survive. From the few glimpses she had gotten, her battalion stood poised to triumph. But she would not live to see it.

One of the Battle Swine lifted its axe and started for her. Damia shifted, held her sword across her body, and shot a kick at the nearest boar. As she did, she extended her sword in the other direction, stabbing through the hand of the attacking swine. It squealed and dropped its axe.

Her heart raced. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck and trickled between her breasts as she steadied her breathing. The trio of Swine glared at her with their little piggy eyes, and she knew they saw her as a threat for the first time. They would not play with her, now. They would just kill her.

Damia smiled. She would not make it easy for them.

Both hands on the grip of her sword, she glanced back and forth between two of the Swine, keeping track of the third in her peripheral vision. A single second stretched into eternity, and she felt them move even before they began to attack.

Then a massive gust of wind blew down on top of them, staggering Damia and pushing the three Swine back a single step. A shadow blocked out the sunlight that streamed through the branches, and then a body struck the ground, driven down by the supernatural wind. Bones cracked. Green feathers danced on the breeze. Antlers snapped.

The Peryton that had scouted for the Yucatazcan battalion lay dead, separating Damia from two of the Battle Swine. The Atlantean Hunter’s green wings were folded beneath it. Arrows had been shot through its chest and neck, but it had been the strength of the wind that had slammed it to the earth and killed it. Dark ichor leaked from the broken Peryton in a spreading pool.

A low grunt and a scuffle came from behind her, and Damia spun to face the third Battle Swine only to find it already dead. Gaka, the Japanese oni who served in her Borderkind platoon, had come up behind it. The ox-headed oni held the head of the Swine by its matted hair. Gaka had twisted the beast’s head right off.

Damia nodded to him. Gaka blinked all three of his eyes as he nodded in return. The commander glanced around to see the remains of her Borderkind platoon closing in. Four ogres had survived, though one had grievous wounds on his side and face and a broken arm. Two Naga archers slithered across the ground, bowstrings drawn back, arrows aimed at the remaining two Battle Swine.

The wind spiraled down and took human form as Howlaa, an impossibly tall, impossibly thin, blond female, clad in white fur. The elemental wind spirit came from the Northlands, like the ogres and the Battle Swine. Howlaa spat at the Swine. One of the ogres, huge war hammer in one hand, cuffed a Swine with the other. They felt betrayed by these other legends from their homelands.

Damia waved off the Nagas. The archers lowered their bows.

The Battle Swine grunted and one of them laughed. Neither had dropped its axe.

“Take them,” the commander said.

She turned her back, having been witness to more than enough death for one day. As she did, Old Roger stepped from a tangle of underbrush. His flesh seemed more like knotted wood than she remembered and his ruddy cheeks were red as apples. She wondered how effective he had been in battle, but that was before she looked past him and saw the three Yucatazcan soldiers who had been impaled from the ground up, with branches growing out of their sides and faces. Apple blossoms tipped each branch.

“All over but the tears, eh, Commander?” Old Roger asked.

Damia glanced around. Her soldiers had begun to come together in small clusters. Some were tending to wounded, others gathering the weapons of their fallen enemies. Goblins scampered up into trees. Pixies darted off and disappeared, normally unwilling to be seen by the Lost Ones. All sorts of other Oldwood creatures had aided them in this battle, but most of them had hidden themselves away again.

“So it appears,” Damia replied.

A cavalryman cantered through the trees toward her.

“Report,” she said.

The soldier bowed his head. “From what we can tell, Commander, none of the invaders who entered the Oldwood made it out of the forest alive.”

“Excellent.” Damia glanced at the wind spirit. “Howlaa, take a look. Do not allow yourself to be seen. If there are others to the west of the Oldwood, we’ll wait until dark and attack. If they march north to try to go around, we’ll pursue them and still have the element of surprise.”

Old Roger made a small noise.

“What is it?” Damia asked.

“You don’t think either of those things is going to happen.”

“True. I believe they will retreat southward and wait for reinforcements before making any further attempt to reach Perinthia. There are too many unknowns for them here, and they have just learned their forces aren’t sufficient to overcome them.”

Howlaa smiled, and the wind whipped around her, sweeping her up into invisible nothingness. The trees rustled and she was gone, off to observe the enemy’s movements.

“Their forces aren’t sufficient,” a shrill, grating voice said, “but they will be soon.”

Damia glanced around and saw the swift-footed Charlie Grant leaning against a tree as though he had been there for hours. Behind him, Cernunnos, lord of the forest, stepped out from the daylight shadows, his antlers crusted with dripping gore. Damia held her breath. Apparently the lord of the forest had engaged in battle himself.

But it had been the boyish Charlie who had spoken.

“You can talk?” Damia said, studying him.

The little man took out his whistle and gave it a toot. “I like the sound of this and despise the screech of my own voice. Once I had a beautiful voice. You should have heard me sing. Women swooned. Men laid down their weapons. Then I bedded the daughter of a witch, and the hag punished me thusly.”

Damia understood. His voice made her skin crawl. The whistle was vastly preferable.

“If you have news, Master Grant, you’d best announce it,” Damia instructed.

Charlie nodded grimly. “Dire news, but not unexpected, Commander. The alliance has been struck between Atlantis and Yucatazca. Of course, the High Council presents it as though they are only now coming to the aid of Prince Tzajin against Hunyadi, blaming Hunyadi again for the murder of King Mahacuhta.”

Frustrated, Damia sheathed her sword with a sharp click. “Do the people of either kingdom believe that? How could anyone?”

“Some will,” Charlie replied. “Many in Yucatazca, of course, but far more in Atlantis. And the governments of Nubia and other lands are not going to get involved if they can at least pretend the war is just. The invasion force has been driven back in many places, but a single, massive battle front has formed thirty miles north of the Isthmus.”

Her infantry and cavalry had begun to gather around her. Damia forced herself to put on an air of confidence she did not feel.

“Then we have not a moment to lose. Hopefully more troops will come from the north and east. Until then, we must do all that we can.”

She studied Cernunnos. He shifted, muscles rippling under his pelt. There was grace and majesty in the lord of the forest, but grim disdain as well.

“What of you, milord? Will you and the wild of Oldwood help us to defend Euphrasia?”

Cernunnos scraped the ground with one hoof. “I have told you that we will not leave here. If the invaders pass through, we will stop them. But the Oldwood will not fight Hunyadi’s wars for him.”

“Even though your help could mean the difference between victory and defeat? If we fall, you will have no allies to defend your own land.”

Many of the wild things in Oldwood had emerged once more to hear her speak. Goblins and owls watched her closely. A hideous hag-woman with blue skin stood only a few feet from Cernunnos, shaking her head as though angry at the idea of any further alliance.

“We will survive,” Cernunnos said.

“Yes. Until they come and burn down the whole wood.” Damia sighed. “Whatever you wish, milord. I only hope we’re able to defeat the invasion without your help. Otherwise, by the time the war comes to you for the last time, you’ll be on your own.”

The lord of the forest studied her a moment from beneath the rank of antlers that sat heavy upon his head like a crown.

“You will want to bury your dead, I presume?”

Commander Beck nodded. “Yes. If it’s no trouble, and their remains won’t be disturbed.”

“They will be left at peace,” Cernunnos replied. “They died with courage and as our friends. But leave the corpses of the invaders to the animals. The forest has to eat.”