Glennet dropped the sword and kicked his stallion. With a crash of drums and incendiaries and hooves, the charge was begun.
Mauritane watched as the mages streaked the sky, the archers filled it with arrows. Watched the cavalry cloud the valley with dust and the infantry charge. He would have given anything to have been in Glennet's place.
Everess rode toward him. 'I believe this is our cue to be leaving,' he said. 'We fancy folk don't want to get in your way any more than we've already done.'
'Good,' said Mauritane. 'Go.'
'I appreciate your help with Glennet,' said Everess.
'Don't thank me. I didn't do it to help you. I did it because he was a filthy traitor who tried to have my best friend killed.'
'Such loyalty!'
'And don't forget,' said Mauritane, 'now I've got something to blackmail you with if I ever need to.' He kicked his horse and rode off toward his tent.
The two lines met outside the city walls and things swiftly turned ugly. Whatever grim satisfaction Mauritane might have had at sending Glennet to his doom swiftly vanished into the frenzy of command. The Unseelie regiment was engaging Mauritane directly, and the Annwni battalions were positioning themselves for a flanking maneuver. Mauritane knew his soldiers were the best in Faerie, but these were unbeatable odds and he knew it. Even if his troops killed two for every one lost, they'd still be behind in sheer numbers, and the Unseelie had a strong position to fall back to, behind the walls of Elenth. Everess should be grateful that he and his friends were already on their way back to the City Emerald.
But this was a day that every commander knew he might someday face. Leading his men into death, praying for a miracle. Knowing that he had done everything he could do, Mauritane nearly resigned himself to loss. If the tide did not turn soon, he might actually consider surrender. The war would end then, and there would be nothing to stop the Unseelie incursion across the border. But his troops would survive the day. And an Unseelie occupation would meet with strong resistance. Even in the darkest hour the Seelie would find a way to hope. They would bend, but they would not crack.
As the morning progressed, things grew worse. The Annwni were nearly in position now, and once they joined, the Seelie would be finished. Mauritane was determined to announce his surrender before that happened, before any more lives could be lost. He mounted his horse, feeling lower than he had ever felt, even worse than the day he'd arrived at Crere Sulace after being branded a traitor. He'd thought that there could be no worse feeling than that. He'd been wrong.
An aide approached, somber. 'Shall I fetch the flag, sir?'
Mauritane took a last look down the hill. The Annwni battalions had taken formation, but not where they ought to have. They were in no position to flank the Seelie. In fact, they were far better suited to-
A horn sounded and the Annwni charged. But not at Mauritane's troops. Instead, they rushed the Unseelie at its exposed right flank. Caught utterly off guard, the Unseelie force crumbled; chaos rippled through the army from right to left as the Annwni plowed into them.
Mauritane reached down from the saddle and grabbed his aide by the neck. 'Get word to the commanders in the field,' he shouted. 'Move left and block the Unseelie retreat!' The aide looked at him, wide-eyed.
'Move!' shouted Mauritane, kicking the man in his shoulder.
'Wait!' he cried. 'Come back!' The harried aide circled back around. 'Give me your sword,' said Mauritane, holding out his hand.'
'But sir!' the aide said.
'If you don't give me that sword this second, I will take it from you and remove your head with it, boy!'
The aide gave him the sword. Mauritane tested it in his hand, flicked it in the air. It wasn't his sword, but it would do.
'Sir, you can't just-'
'My officers know what to do,' said Mauritane. 'Give them the order and tell them to get to work!'
Mauritane dug in his heels and sprinted out of camp, nearly knocking over the aide. He waved his sword, felt the air rushing past him. This was good.
When the first soldiers spied him approaching, they raised up Mauritane's famous battle cry. 'The Seelie Heart!' they shouted. The cry was taken up across the front. Mauritane rode up through the lines, toward the battle.
There was a chance.
A flier came in low from the north, its sails luffing in a crosswind. It had traveled at speed all the way from the City of Mab without stopping and had nearly used up its entire supply of Motion. The pilot fought the tiller,
