Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 156
A roar went up from behind them. “What’s that?” Mark demanded, wiping blood and sweat from his eyes.
“Reinforcements coming to join Horace and the others,” Cristina said grimly. “They were on guard around the city.”
Mark swore under his breath. “We have to get to Kieran.”
Cristina imagined Mark was having the same panic she was—there was only one of Kieran, and a mass of redcaps and Unseelie foot soldiers, from kelpies to goblins, who had sworn loyalty to Oban. In whatever direction she glanced, she saw Unseelie folk locked in battle with Downworlders and Shadowhunters: Simon and Isabelle were holding off imps with sword and whip, Alec felling ogres one after another with his bow, Maia and Bat tearing at trolls with claws and teeth. In the distance, she saw Emma and Julian fighting back-to-back, and Jace, locked in a fight with Timothy Rockford—but why was Jace using the flat of his blade . . . ?
“There he is,” Mark said. They had crested a hill; down the slope was Kieran. He carried the sword Nene had given him and was facing off against a broad-shouldered redcap in massive iron boots. Mark swore. “They call him General Winter because he can wipe out a whole village faster than a deadly frost.”
“I remember him.” Cristina shivered—she recalled the fierce fighting of the redcaps in the throne room of the Unseelie Court. “But—he’ll kill Kieran. I’ve read about redcaps. Mark, this is bad.”
Mark didn’t disagree. He was gazing at Kieran with worried eyes. “Come on.”
They made their way down the slope, running past a number of Unseelie soldiers who were racing for the thick of the battle. Oban was still surrounded by a circle of goblins, protecting him: A few redcaps had formed a loose group around Winter and Kieran. They seemed to have congregated to enjoy the fight.
The redcaps cheered as Winter lunged with his swordstaff, landing a glancing blow against Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran’s white shirt was already striped with blood. His hair was white, the color of snow or ash, his cheekbones blazing with color. He parried the next blow of the swordstaff and lunged for Winter’s torso; the redcap general barely slid aside in time to avoid the thrust.
Winter laughed. “What a pity! You fight like a King,” he said. “In a hundred years you might have been good enough to face me.”
“Bastard,” Mark hissed. “Cristina—”
She was already shaking her head. “If we go for Winter now, the other guards will fall on us,” she said. “Quick—signal Gwyn. He’ll attack Oban. It might give us a chance.”
Mark’s eyes flashed with realization. He cupped a hand around his mouth and whistled, the low, humming, Wild Hunt whistle that seemed to vibrate inside Cristina’s bones.
A shadow passed across the sky. It wheeled and returned: Gwyn on the back of Orion. He flew low over the field; Cristina saw Diana turn and reach up her arms. A moment later Gwyn had swung her up beside him on Orion. They soared back up into the air, Diana and the leader of the Wild Hunt.
Together, they flew low over the goblins surrounding Oban. Diana, her dark hair flying behind her, bent low from the horse’s back, swinging her sword down, slicing across the chest of a goblin guard. The others yelled and began to scatter as Diana harried them from the sky, Gwyn grinning beneath his helmet.
But Kieran was still in desperate trouble. He was barely holding off Winter, whose swordstaff rang again and again against his blade. As Cristina watched in horror, one of Winter’s blows knocked Kieran to the ground; he rolled aside and sprang to his feet, barely missing a second, deadly strike.
Mark and Cristina took off running toward him, but a redcap guard who had been watching the fight swung around to block their path. At this close range, Mark’s bow was of less use; he drew a shortsword from his belt and flung himself at the guard, hacking fiercely at the redcap as he tried to reach Kieran. Another guard rose up in front of Cristina; she dispatched him with a slashing blow, rolling under the stabbing path of another spear. A metal boot crashed into her side and she cried out, feeling her ribs break. Agonizing pain seared through her as she crumpled to the ground.
Meanwhile, Oban’s goblin guard had had enough. Dropping their weapons in their haste to escape, they fled away from Oban into the thick of the battle, Diana and Gwyn following. Oban, abruptly alone in the field, looked around in furious panic before seizing up a goblin’s sword. “Come back, you bastards!” he shouted. “Come back here! I order you!”
Gasping in agony, Cristina tried to push herself to her feet. The sear of broken bones made her jackknife against the ground; she saw two redcaps above her and thought: This is the end.
They fell, one on either side of her, both dead. A blood-covered Mark leaned over her, his face white. “Cristina! Cristina!”
Cristina caught at Mark, gasping in pain. “Iratze.”
Mark fumbled for his stele as Winter shouted aloud. “King Oban!”
Cristina turned her head to the side. Winter stood over Kieran, who was crumpled on the ground, his sword lying shattered at his side. Cristina’s heart sank even as Mark drew a swift iratze on her skin.
She barely noticed the pain depart. Oh, Kieran.
“General Winter!” Oban cried, waving his hands at the redcap standing over Kieran as if he were swatting at a fly. Stained lace flew from his sleeves and his velvet breeches were crushed beyond repair. “I command you to kill the traitor!”
Winter shook his head slowly. He was a massive figure, his shoulders almost splitting the seams of his blood-dyed uniform. “You must do this, sire,” he said. “It is the only way to render your claim on the throne a true one.”
With a petulant frown, Oban, sword at his side, stalked forward, crossing the swatch of grass between himself and Kieran. Mark looked down at Cristina. She nodded, yes, and he thrust out a hand, raising her to her feet.
They looked at each other once. Then Mark broke to the right, darting toward Winter and Kieran.
Cristina strode to the left and stepped directly in front of Oban. “You will not touch Kieran,” she said. “You will not take another step.”
She heard Winter cry out in surprise. Mark had thrown himself on the redcap general’s back. Winter flung him off, but not before Kieran had staggered to his feet.
Oban looked at Cristina with exasperation. “Do you know who I am, Shadowhunter girl?” he demanded. “Do you dare to cross the path of the Unseelie King? You are no one and nothing important.”
Cristina raised her sword between herself and Oban. “I am Cristina Mendoza Rosales, and if you hurt or kill Kieran, then you will have to deal with me.” She saw the flicker in Oban’s silvery eyes and wondered why she had thought he looked like Kieran. They were nothing alike. “You are not such stuff as Kings are made of,” she said in a low voice. “Run, now. Leave this behind you and live.”
Oban glanced at Winter, who was battling both Mark and Kieran; they were pressing him back, and back. Dead redcaps lay scattered around the field; the grass was slippery with blood. In the distance, Gwyn and Diana circled on Orion.
In Oban’s eyes Cristina saw his horror, not at the death around him but at the vision of all of it slipping away—kingship, riches, power.
“No!” he cried, and lunged at her with his sword.
Cristina met Oban’s blow with her own, swinging her sword in a savage arc. Surprise flickered in his eyes as their blades rang together. He fell back in surprise, but recovered quickly. He was a drunk and a wastrel, but still a prince of Faerie. When he lunged again, teeth bared, his sword clanged against hers hard enough to ring down through her bones. She stumbled, caught herself, and slashed at him again—and again. He met her blows, his own sword swift and furious. The tip of it nicked her shoulder and she felt the blood begin to flow.
Cristina began to pray.
Blessed be the Angel, my strength, who teaches my hands for war, and my fingers to fight.
All her life she had wanted to do something to ease the pain of the Cold Peace. Here was her chance. Raziel had brought it to her. She would do this for Emma, for the Blackthorns, for Diego and Jaime, for Mark and Kieran, for all the Rosaleses. For everyone harmed by the peace that was truly a war.
“Reinforcements coming to join Horace and the others,” Cristina said grimly. “They were on guard around the city.”
Mark swore under his breath. “We have to get to Kieran.”
Cristina imagined Mark was having the same panic she was—there was only one of Kieran, and a mass of redcaps and Unseelie foot soldiers, from kelpies to goblins, who had sworn loyalty to Oban. In whatever direction she glanced, she saw Unseelie folk locked in battle with Downworlders and Shadowhunters: Simon and Isabelle were holding off imps with sword and whip, Alec felling ogres one after another with his bow, Maia and Bat tearing at trolls with claws and teeth. In the distance, she saw Emma and Julian fighting back-to-back, and Jace, locked in a fight with Timothy Rockford—but why was Jace using the flat of his blade . . . ?
“There he is,” Mark said. They had crested a hill; down the slope was Kieran. He carried the sword Nene had given him and was facing off against a broad-shouldered redcap in massive iron boots. Mark swore. “They call him General Winter because he can wipe out a whole village faster than a deadly frost.”
“I remember him.” Cristina shivered—she recalled the fierce fighting of the redcaps in the throne room of the Unseelie Court. “But—he’ll kill Kieran. I’ve read about redcaps. Mark, this is bad.”
Mark didn’t disagree. He was gazing at Kieran with worried eyes. “Come on.”
They made their way down the slope, running past a number of Unseelie soldiers who were racing for the thick of the battle. Oban was still surrounded by a circle of goblins, protecting him: A few redcaps had formed a loose group around Winter and Kieran. They seemed to have congregated to enjoy the fight.
The redcaps cheered as Winter lunged with his swordstaff, landing a glancing blow against Kieran’s shoulder. Kieran’s white shirt was already striped with blood. His hair was white, the color of snow or ash, his cheekbones blazing with color. He parried the next blow of the swordstaff and lunged for Winter’s torso; the redcap general barely slid aside in time to avoid the thrust.
Winter laughed. “What a pity! You fight like a King,” he said. “In a hundred years you might have been good enough to face me.”
“Bastard,” Mark hissed. “Cristina—”
She was already shaking her head. “If we go for Winter now, the other guards will fall on us,” she said. “Quick—signal Gwyn. He’ll attack Oban. It might give us a chance.”
Mark’s eyes flashed with realization. He cupped a hand around his mouth and whistled, the low, humming, Wild Hunt whistle that seemed to vibrate inside Cristina’s bones.
A shadow passed across the sky. It wheeled and returned: Gwyn on the back of Orion. He flew low over the field; Cristina saw Diana turn and reach up her arms. A moment later Gwyn had swung her up beside him on Orion. They soared back up into the air, Diana and the leader of the Wild Hunt.
Together, they flew low over the goblins surrounding Oban. Diana, her dark hair flying behind her, bent low from the horse’s back, swinging her sword down, slicing across the chest of a goblin guard. The others yelled and began to scatter as Diana harried them from the sky, Gwyn grinning beneath his helmet.
But Kieran was still in desperate trouble. He was barely holding off Winter, whose swordstaff rang again and again against his blade. As Cristina watched in horror, one of Winter’s blows knocked Kieran to the ground; he rolled aside and sprang to his feet, barely missing a second, deadly strike.
Mark and Cristina took off running toward him, but a redcap guard who had been watching the fight swung around to block their path. At this close range, Mark’s bow was of less use; he drew a shortsword from his belt and flung himself at the guard, hacking fiercely at the redcap as he tried to reach Kieran. Another guard rose up in front of Cristina; she dispatched him with a slashing blow, rolling under the stabbing path of another spear. A metal boot crashed into her side and she cried out, feeling her ribs break. Agonizing pain seared through her as she crumpled to the ground.
Meanwhile, Oban’s goblin guard had had enough. Dropping their weapons in their haste to escape, they fled away from Oban into the thick of the battle, Diana and Gwyn following. Oban, abruptly alone in the field, looked around in furious panic before seizing up a goblin’s sword. “Come back, you bastards!” he shouted. “Come back here! I order you!”
Gasping in agony, Cristina tried to push herself to her feet. The sear of broken bones made her jackknife against the ground; she saw two redcaps above her and thought: This is the end.
They fell, one on either side of her, both dead. A blood-covered Mark leaned over her, his face white. “Cristina! Cristina!”
Cristina caught at Mark, gasping in pain. “Iratze.”
Mark fumbled for his stele as Winter shouted aloud. “King Oban!”
Cristina turned her head to the side. Winter stood over Kieran, who was crumpled on the ground, his sword lying shattered at his side. Cristina’s heart sank even as Mark drew a swift iratze on her skin.
She barely noticed the pain depart. Oh, Kieran.
“General Winter!” Oban cried, waving his hands at the redcap standing over Kieran as if he were swatting at a fly. Stained lace flew from his sleeves and his velvet breeches were crushed beyond repair. “I command you to kill the traitor!”
Winter shook his head slowly. He was a massive figure, his shoulders almost splitting the seams of his blood-dyed uniform. “You must do this, sire,” he said. “It is the only way to render your claim on the throne a true one.”
With a petulant frown, Oban, sword at his side, stalked forward, crossing the swatch of grass between himself and Kieran. Mark looked down at Cristina. She nodded, yes, and he thrust out a hand, raising her to her feet.
They looked at each other once. Then Mark broke to the right, darting toward Winter and Kieran.
Cristina strode to the left and stepped directly in front of Oban. “You will not touch Kieran,” she said. “You will not take another step.”
She heard Winter cry out in surprise. Mark had thrown himself on the redcap general’s back. Winter flung him off, but not before Kieran had staggered to his feet.
Oban looked at Cristina with exasperation. “Do you know who I am, Shadowhunter girl?” he demanded. “Do you dare to cross the path of the Unseelie King? You are no one and nothing important.”
Cristina raised her sword between herself and Oban. “I am Cristina Mendoza Rosales, and if you hurt or kill Kieran, then you will have to deal with me.” She saw the flicker in Oban’s silvery eyes and wondered why she had thought he looked like Kieran. They were nothing alike. “You are not such stuff as Kings are made of,” she said in a low voice. “Run, now. Leave this behind you and live.”
Oban glanced at Winter, who was battling both Mark and Kieran; they were pressing him back, and back. Dead redcaps lay scattered around the field; the grass was slippery with blood. In the distance, Gwyn and Diana circled on Orion.
In Oban’s eyes Cristina saw his horror, not at the death around him but at the vision of all of it slipping away—kingship, riches, power.
“No!” he cried, and lunged at her with his sword.
Cristina met Oban’s blow with her own, swinging her sword in a savage arc. Surprise flickered in his eyes as their blades rang together. He fell back in surprise, but recovered quickly. He was a drunk and a wastrel, but still a prince of Faerie. When he lunged again, teeth bared, his sword clanged against hers hard enough to ring down through her bones. She stumbled, caught herself, and slashed at him again—and again. He met her blows, his own sword swift and furious. The tip of it nicked her shoulder and she felt the blood begin to flow.
Cristina began to pray.
Blessed be the Angel, my strength, who teaches my hands for war, and my fingers to fight.
All her life she had wanted to do something to ease the pain of the Cold Peace. Here was her chance. Raziel had brought it to her. She would do this for Emma, for the Blackthorns, for Diego and Jaime, for Mark and Kieran, for all the Rosaleses. For everyone harmed by the peace that was truly a war.
