side, his left wing canted at an odd angle. He rocked, as if attempting to roll up to the right to cover his belly. Despite his claws churning the earth, Mugwump could not get enough purchase to right himself.
The dragon’s effort focused Vlad’s attention on the rear saddle. Count von Metternin dangled there, his right foot caught in a stirrup. That leg was broken and the rocking wasn’t helping. Clearly unconscious, the Count made no effort to free himself.
“Mugwump, stay down.” The Prince tried to shout, but a sharp pain jabbed him in the side. He breathed in carefully and got another twinge. Broken rib, too.
He staggered to his feet and ran to Mugwump. He worked his way along to the rear saddle, cut von Metternin loose. The man tumbled into a pile on the ground. Vlad dragged him south by his collar and once he’d gotten him clear, Prince Vlad collapsed next to him.
He watched as the Shedashee drove the demons away from the dragon. They appeared to be Hellspawn themselves, painted up black and red. Though he knew them to be men, he found them very different. Whereas near the fort the Volunteers were fleeing, the Shedashee had pushed the enemy back. It seemed as if the force of their courage, combined with their ferocity, would not allow anything but victory.
Then the Prince watched through the thinning cloud of demons as the trolls regrouped. They turned and drove straight at the fort. With the defenders beset by the demons, the trolls would face no opposition, and would easily tear Fort Plentiful apart.
“Captain Mayberry, first battalion to the fort. The rest of you, on me. One shot at thirty, men, then give them your bayonets!” General Ian Rathfield rose in his stirrups, his saber shining high, then slashed it down. “Charge!”
The Fifth Northland Cavalry entered the small valley from the east and galloped across what had once been flat farmland beside the Snake River. When the Fifth had felt the tremor in the land Ian had ordered his men to saddle up. They left their baggage and supplies to come on as they could and rode quickly west. There wasn’t a man among them who didn’t feel outraged that the battle had begun before they arrived.
Ian didn’t bother to slide his carbine from the saddle scabbard. Through the smoke he recognized their enemy. The winged demons were nothing he remembered from Happy Valley, but he’d seen their like in countless church murals depicting Perdition. He figured them to be a nuisance. The larger figures, the white beasts that walked as men, those he recognized from the Prince’s description of trolls. To them, his men would likewise seem nuisances.
That did not cause him to pause, even for a moment. Though it occurred to him that he might be riding to his death, he knew his duty. Retreat was out of the question. So was anything else short of blind obedience to what the Queen demanded of him, which was that he do his duty to protect her realm. He might as well die with failure, because he certainly couldn’t live with it.
“For God and the Queen, men, God and the Queen!”
From where Nathaniel stood, the charge of the Fifth Northland Cavalry was both the most beautiful and most futile thing he’d ever seen. They came around the hillside, horses lathered, wide-eyed, and plunged into the troll flanks. Carbines fired and bayonets stabbed. One troll spun away, transfixed by three bayonets, then died as a saber harvested its head.
Other trolls turned and attacked, fangs bared and claws flashing. One lifted a horse and rider and hurled it deeper into the formation. Horses toppled and tangled in a mire of broken limbs and screaming men. A paw swiped through the air, tearing the head clean off a horse. The rider leaped clear, but the troll pounced on him and ripped him in half.
Nathaniel looked for Rathfield, but a troll scaled the rampart in a leap, eclipsing the battlefield. The beast raised its arms high and bellowed. Men ran as if scattered by the sound alone. The troll’s lips drew back and its red eyes became slits.
Nathaniel whipped his right arm forward. His tomahawk spun through the air. The steel blade buried itself the troll’s breastbone. A small rivulet of blood matted the white pelt, splashing over the monsters belly and thighs. The creature glanced down, tapping a talon against the metal head. The troll looked up at Nathaniel with the hint of a smile. It plucked the tomahawk from its chest, then took an effortless step toward him, clawed hands raised.
Nathaniel leaped back and caught his heels on a discarded musket. He landed on his backside, staring up at the monster looming over him.
Another tomahawk spun through the air. Thrown from atop the palisade, it caught the troll full in the forehead. The blade pierced the flesh and stuck in the bone. The haft, a feather dangling from the end, rested against the top of the troll’s muzzle. The creature looked at the tomahawk, crossing its eyes, for a heartbeat appearing confused. It raised a hand to pull that tomahawk free as well, but before it could, the blade quivered. More bone cracked. The head sank deeper into the beast’s skull. Three inches, then four, then up to the haft.
The troll staggered. Splitting the bone with a thundercrack, the tomahawk disappeared entirely into the skull. Ruby-gray tissue gushed from the wound. The troll’s eyes rolled up into its skull, then it pitched backward and disappeared.
From above. Msitazi smiled.
Nathaniel got back to his feet. “How, Msitazi?”
“You, my son, threw to hit.” The elder warrior nodded sincerely. “I threw to kill.”
Nathaniel, his mind reeling, bent to retrieve his rifle. I’m gonna have to learn me that trick. As he rose, he realized he’d not have enough time.
The troll cavalry charged.
Owen kicked and slashed and bit and pushed to free himself. He spat out bitter demon blood and snarled as more of the gray hellions smothered him. He cut and fought, but their weight shortened his breath. The air got hot and their stink filled his head.
Then, suddenly, cold air poured over him. The demon that had been huddled over his head, jerked upright. A blade flashed around its neck. Blood splashed, adding another coat to the gore covering him, but Owen didn’t mind. Another demon got pulled off, then he kicked two more away and stood.
Bethany Frost stood there, bloody knife in hand. Corporal Brown clubbed one demon off Makepeace and Justice dragged another one away.
Bethany fixed Owen with an icy glare. “Not a word, Owen.”
“That word would be ‘thanks.’” Owen crouched on the gun carriage again. “Give the wedge a tap, Makepeace. Just an inch.”
The large man banged his dagger’s hilt against the elevation wedge, driving it deeper and lowering the cannon’s angle. “You sure that’s enough?”
“Four hundred yards if an inch. It’s as good a shot as we’ll get.” Owen grabbed the gunner’s handhold, dropped his palm to the firestone, and invoked a spell. Magick pulsed through him, making his senses swim, then ignited the brimstone. The cannon roared and rocked back, almost toppling him from the carriage.
The six-pound ball flew true but short. The ball landed about a dozen yards below Rufus, on a direct line with him, and bounced up. His left hand flicked out by reflex, to swat the annoyance away. The ball did ricochet from him, but the impact knocked Rufus to the side.
His long hair flying in a whiplash, Rufus stumbled and flailed. He drove his staff into the ground again, clutching it in both hands, and leaned heavily upon it. For a heartbeat it seemed as if he would remain upright, but his staggered steps had brought him too close to the troll hole. The earth gave way. He teetered to the left, then disappeared deep into the dark hollow.
The Fifth Cavalry’s charge had sliced through the marching trolls’ formation. Some of the beasts had continued to fight, but with Rufus’ departure, their resolve deserted them. They turned to flee back toward their hole, which would have permitted the cavalry to slaughter them wholesale.
Unfortunately the mounted trolls remained in control of themselves and their rhinoceri. They raced down the hillside, warclubs still slung on their backs. Their mounts’ horns gleamed and coats flew. The ground trembled as they came, a wall of muscle and horn.
Owen leaped from the cannon, grabbed Bethany, and turned her face away to the east. “Don’t look.”
The trollish charge slammed into the Fifth Northland flank, rolling horses and men over as if they were debris caught in a bloody tide. Men’s faces twisted with pain or wide-eyed with panic. They’d vanish for a moment, then that same face would reappear, stripped of flesh but still somehow recognizable. By the third time the man’s body would have come apart, bloody limbs flying, a skull arcing through the sky with scalp attached by white sinew. Then
