Fletcher held her gaze, daring to share in her hope. With renewed resolve, he turned back to the scene below.
Flashes now, streaks of lightning and fire in the no man’s land between the two armies. There was a battle being fought there. Beasts, tearing into one another in shuddering clashes of claws, scales and fur. Hundreds of demons were waging war below him, the preamble to the final clash of civilizations.
He saw a row of battlemages scattered in front of their men, hurling fireballs and lightning at shamanic counterparts across the smoldering remains of the land. Harold and his father stood at the front of it all, a shield like a glass dome around them as they ordered a fresh pack of Lycans and Anubids into the fray.
Ahead of them, the Dragoons fought in the midst of the battlefield itself, their mounts lashing out at lumbering humanoid Onis and sharklike Nanaues in the center of the war-torn turf. Arcturus’s dark hair streamed behind him as his Hippalectryon reared, leading a countercharge toward the embattled western front. Pride swelled Fletcher’s chest as his mentor struck the enemy lines, holding his own against insurmountable odds. Even from a distance, Fletcher could see Hominum’s demons were outnumbered.
Above, a roar.
Ignatius was moving before Fletcher could think, shooting upward into the haze of fumes and mist. It was dark, the smoke-tinged mantle of vapor blocking the red rays of the setting sun below. All was silent now.
No. Wing beats. Like the slow pulse of a beating heart, somewhere to his south. In his scrying crystal, Athena hovered beneath the cloud bank, searching for clues of the Dragon’s whereabouts. Nothing.
And then it was there. Swooping out of the clouds, a dark mass on leathery wings. Talons stretched out and gouged the earth itself, ripping through a pack of Hominum’s Canids and snapping one up in its beak. Gliding the length of the battlefield, it swallowed its quarry in a single gulp and began a long, looping turn for a second pass.
As it swung around, Fletcher saw it was a Drake in all but size and skin, its body covered in armored scales. It might have been as large as three Phantaurs combined, with a wingspan that eclipsed the sun as it wheeled across the horizon.
“Fletcher!” Sylva’s voice called.
Lysander emerged from the cloud bank with a screech of frustration, his wings rotating in the air.
“The Celestial Corps are all dead or hiding,” Sylva spat derisively. “They took out the Wyverns, but only Captain Lovett and Ophelia Faversham are still fighting. They’ve been trying to blindside Khan in the clouds, but the Dragon flames at them whenever they get close.”
Behind Sylva, Fletcher could see the shadows of the pair, floating just behind the clouds.
But before he could greet them, there was a flash of light, and Fletcher turned to see.
The great demon was swooping again, a vast tidal wave of fire scouring the earth along the front of Hominum’s lines. Dragoons scattered out of its way, Arcturus just escaping the scorched trail of destruction with a flying leap from his mount. Behind, the less fortunate screamed, until only charred skeletons remained.
A roar of triumph erupted from the Dragon’s jaws. Fletcher could see the pale figure of Khan on its back, riding astride its neck. The orc waved his long macana club. Once. Twice.
It was a signal. In a great rolling surge, the orc ranks crashed forward, running through the flame-burned earth with a ululating chorus of war cries that chilled Fletcher to the bone. Sweeping around the edges, rhino riders charged in, horns lowered in preparation for impact. An unstoppable wave of barbarians.
Gunfire rippled down the line of men. Orcs spun, jerked and fell, but still they came, never faltering, never slowing. Fifty feet. Forty. Lightning and fire blazed from the battlemages and demons as they fell back to the lines, tearing holes in the hordes. It wasn’t enough. Not even close.
But there was something else. A rumbling could be heard. A thundering of hooves, and … singing. Voices, raised in harmony, sending elven words swirling across the landscape.
And then, galloping gracefully around the thin line of desperate men, came the elks, curling in like a ram’s horns, meeting the flanks of the orc attack.
Antlers swung down and tossed orcs aside, while bows thrummed arrows into oncoming ranks, whistling into skulls and necks with deadly accuracy. Falx swords swept left and right, cleaving tusked heads from their shoulders.
Rhinos and deer clashed in bone-shattering impacts, riders from both sides flying from their seats in the melee. And down the center, Hominum’s muskets swung inward to concentrate their fire where the elven pincer had not met. Twenty feet.
Orcs were thrown back by the ferocity of the gunfire, the closest hurled back like puppets jerked on strings. Staggered and fell, ragged with a dozen wounds. The charge was faltering.
To Fletcher’s east, the Dragon roared, circling in a long arc for an attack. And he could see what was about to happen. The flames, crashing over the thin line of men. The mass of elves drowning in a sea of fire. This was what Khan had been waiting for. He had been toying with them before. Waiting for the allied armies to meet.
Yet, as Fletcher watched the slow wheeling of the great beast, he knew what he had to do.
One last throw of the dice.
“Get Lovett and Ophelia and hide in the clouds above it,” Fletcher yelled to Sylva, digging his heels into Ignatius’s side. “Wait for my signal.”
Ignatius dove, and Fletcher heard Sylva’s response before it was snatched away.
“What are you doing?”
But he was committed. No time to respond.
“Thank you, my friend,” Fletcher breathed, hugging the demon’s neck close. He felt a pulse of love from the brave demon as they hurtled toward the Dragon, the wind tearing at his hair and watering his eyes. They would either win or die together. There was no other outcome.
On they flew, over the screams of battle and the crackle of gunfire. He could see the Dragon complete its turn ahead and begin its pass toward the massed allies. A cry from Athena, warning him of the danger.
It was now or never. He etched the amplify spell on his neck, squeezing the last trace of mana that he had left.
“Khan!” Fletcher bellowed, his voice booming out over the plains.
Even through the turmoil of battle, the albino orc heard his words. The Dragon looked up as Fletcher plummeted through the sky toward them, his khopesh outstretched.
Khan shook his head, ignoring him. The target beneath was too tempting. Thousands of his enemies, packed in a long strip along the battlefield.
“Face me, coward!” Fletcher taunted, attacking the orc leader’s pride.
Now Khan looked up, his lips drawn back over his tusks with a snarl. He raised a hand, and Ignatius jerked aside just in time. A lightning bolt sizzled by. Still they plunged toward their enemy.