Exhausted and nearly blind with all the sweat and blood filling his eyes, Raithe called the switch. The front line stepped back, exchanging positions with the second line that moved up with renewed vigor and shoved forward in a burst of aggression. Even better than in training, the third line advanced, letting Raithe and his row sink farther back. There, they wiped their faces, took deep breaths, and swigged water from shoulder-slung skins. Looking around, Raithe found Malcolm still beside him, but Wedon was missing. So was Hanson, Killian’s eldest. Old Killian had a worried look as he searched up and down the ranks.
Behind them, Moya and her archers walked at a slight distance.
Just as Wedon had predicted, the flanks swung in, but Tegan and Harkon had wheeled around and were holding them off as best they could, and their best was excellent. They appeared to be gaining ground. Crazy, buoyant thoughts of survival rose as Raithe saw their little force of men ripping through the elven lines. They had momentum. They were winning. If they caused a rout, the battle—the war itself—might be won that day.
Then the giants came.
* * *
—
Moya felt the ground shake with footfalls. Vast tremors caught everyone’s attention. They came from the rear of the Fhrey lines, the same hulking monsters that had attacked Dahl Rhen. These were the big ones, standing three and four stories high, with fists the size of Roan’s wagons. Wielding great stone axes and hammers, they cleared swaths in the lines of men. Bodies were thrown in the air. Helmets came off along with arms and legs. The forward push halted as the giants, acting as breakwaters, turned the tide.
Moya looked toward the Wolf’s Head. She could see the rise, a barren patch in the center of the field, an exposed gray rock. On it, rings of Fhrey encircled one who stood in the center, a conductor flailing his arms, directing the others. They moved and writhed in concert, performing some rehearsed ritual. The lightning had ended, and the fires were gone. Moya couldn’t imagine what they might be doing, but also couldn’t imagine it was a good idea to leave them to it. They were still too far away—even for Audrey, even if Moya wound her tight. Raithe looked at her. She knew what he was thinking.
This might be as far as we can get. Tell me it’s good enough.
It wasn’t, and she shook her head.
Raithe frowned and his shoulders slumped, but he nodded.
Then Moya saw a giant turn their way. Raithe’s cohort had pushed the hardest, driven the deepest into the Fhrey and made itself the biggest threat. As a reward, they drew the biggest giant. Large as an old tree, he charged the center line.
Raithe gave her one last look, a sad one, as he shouted, “First Principal forward!” Then he rushed ahead to take his place once more at the front.
* * *
—
The giant, dressed in patchwork rags and sporting a bushy beard and a thin-lipped sneer, swept men away like dirt from the floor. The only consolation was his speed, or lack thereof. Raithe knew it took a lot of time to get that much weight in motion. Once the giant made a swing, there were several beats before the return stroke. Fighting a hammer-wielding mountain had never been on the list of things Raithe’s father taught him. The Galantians had skipped the lesson as well. Wasn’t like he had a lot of options. All Raithe could do was attack the thing’s feet. In that window between strokes, Raithe sprinted forward and shoved straight down; he pierced the beast in the foot with his sword just behind its big toe.
Grenmorian flesh was no tougher than a man’s—softer even, since the bones were spread out—and the iron blade went deep. The giant howled and jerked, which for a slow behemoth was more of a slow lift of his weight-bearing foot. This did two things. As Raithe refused to lose his sword and hung on with all his might, the blade was pulled down, dragging razor sharp iron. He would have severed the toe but couldn’t cut through the bone. Still, it caused the giant to stumble, which was good and bad. The mountain staggered—didn’t look as if he had great balance to start with. The giant wavered, swaying back and forth. Formed in lines of combat, men and their elven enemy had no hope of dodging bed-sized feet. Dozens, maybe more, died beneath that monster’s dance. Shining gems crushed underfoot, crackling like ice crystals.