Page 61 of The Realm That Falls to Her

I put my full focus into my power, aware that blindly pushing won’t work anymore—I need to be intentional. I use the trick of visualization Ruskin taught me, imagining a square clear of iron shoots even as I look out across the mangle of writhing metal still polluting the ground.

I split it down the middle, parting it and chasing the iron out of the square, left and right, down the side streets. With Evanthe gone, the flow of my power intensifies again, and the iron bends to my will easily, scrambling its way out of the square like it’s fleeing a predator. In no time, I’ve cleared an aisle right through the center of the square, but it leaves a pathway of churned up earth, paving stones, and trampled bodies I don’t want to look too closely at.

“They’re not mounted,” calls Elias across our section of soldiers. “Catch them on the outskirts and run them down.”

What follows is the collective battle cry of the Unseelie, a roar that rings through my ears and rattles the ribs in my chest with the force of it, as they charge across the square and through the town. Several of the riders pull ahead of me—Parsley will never be the fastest—and I see a blur of black fur whip by me, recognizing the tail of Jasand’s wolfish form. I press my toes into Parsley’s thick flank, urging him onwards, not wanting to get left behind. Ruskin’s Calasian is still at my left shoulder, and he bends down towards me.

“Stay close to me,” he calls over the thunder of hundreds of hooves and paws.

I shake my head, noticing the buildings already starting to thin out around us.

“We can’t. It’s not safe.” He gives me a questioning look. “She needs to capture us both,” I explain. “If we stick together we’re an easier target.”

His jaw tightens. I can tell he doesn’t like the idea of us splitting up, but he also knows I’m right. He gives a tight nod as the town suddenly opens out into grassland, where a battle is already taking place between the Seelie and Unseelie. Ruskin reaches across from his horse to squeeze my hand, and then he peels away in the opposite direction.

I see that most of the Seelie have had time to mount—they must have left their horses behind to navigate Evanthe’s iron and the town’s narrow streets more easily, but here out in the open they can fight rider to rider. Still, even the biggest Calasians are at a disadvantage facing the ursinians. The bears unleash throaty roars as they swipe at the horses, leaving deep gashes across their shining flanks, and the air around me echoes with a terrible chorus of equine screams and the clash of weapons. The horses aren’t completely helpless, however—I watch one rear up and then come down on top of an ursinian with a deadly stomp of its huge hoof. It strikes the bear in the head, cracking its skull clean open. The ursinian goes down like a ton of bricks.

I scan the battlefield, searching for Evanthe. Wherever she is is where I’m inevitably needed.

There—beyond the throng of animals and armored figures colliding, the flash of cold, gray metal and a small tide of Unseelie fleeing in its wake.

So of course I ride straight for it.

She must have spent time building up the iron in the square, because there’s nowhere near as many tendrils here. She’s gone for size over number, I notice, as three shoots the size of tree trunks gouge furrows into the earth in opposite directions, sweeping away everything in their wake. One takes down the horse of an Unseelie I recognize—Lady Flardryn, the female with the scarred arm from court—and she falls, disappearing beneath the wall of iron. Meanwhile, a group of Seelie soldiers ride across the ditches the tendrils leave behind, unbothered by their proximity to the deadly metal.

I throw my magic out, attempting to lasso the shoots and wrestle them under control. But the moment my power touches them, there’s a shift in energy. The shadows swirl and congregate, and Evanthe materializes from behind them, her eyes blazing and fixed firmly on me. I knew there was a chance the shoots were bait, I just thought I’d have more time to stop them before I had to worry about a counterattack. No such luck.

Evanthe lifts her hand and points at me, calling to the soldiers riding behind the iron.

“Target Eleanor Thorn!” she shrieks. “Take her alive!”

Dozens of thick lead helmets turn towards me, and the Seelie raise their weapons. There might be small comfort in knowing they’re not attacking to kill. But then, in a world where healers are as good as the fae’s, there’s a lot they can do to me and still keep me alive.

I back Parsley up, wondering which to tackle first—the iron or their weapons. I’m just thinking I can maybe kill two birds with one stone when there’s a howl behind me, then a deep, bovine lowing.

Wistal, in his huge bull’s form, barrels up on my right side, as Jasand’s wolf takes position on my left. They’ve come to defend me, I realize with a surge of gratitude. The panic clears from my head, and I understand where my priorities lie. They can take care of the Seelie soldiers in their soft lead armor, but only if I protect them from the iron.

I lash my magic once again to the advancing tendrils, lifting them up and snapping them against the ground so that they recoil back a few yards, striking some of the soldiers hiding behind them. It allows Jasand and Wistal to reach the first row of my own personal Seelie attack squad. Wistal lowers his horns and bowls through a row of four horses with such force it’s like they’ve been hit with a battering ram. Their bones crunch and their riders are thrown, while Jasand snaps and rips at the heels of the other riders. It’s too much for the Calasians, who I doubt have ever been faced with any predators so large and fierce. Several of them bolt, but not before Jasand manages to rip a rider from his saddle by the leg, enclosing his head in his wolf jaws with an awful cracking noise.

Three yards—six—I push the iron back as quickly as I can, removing the Seelie’s protection. I can see Evanthe behind the fray, still hanging back from the action. The expression on her face is one of barefaced loathing. I take a moment to smile at her from across the field, though it turns into a snarl as I grit my teeth, trying to sustain my momentum as the iron creeps back ever so slowly. I can feel her fighting me, but I’m practiced at this by now. A Seelie soldier makes the mistake of backing up beside her, trying to avoid the iron that’s doubling back on them, and she turns her rageful gaze on him. She screeches—I don’t know if there’s words in it or just a pure scream of anger—and shoves the Seelie into the path of the iron. He stumbles and falls, quickly crushed under the passing tendril.

I absorb the scene in horror, realizing that it’s not just my strength that’s helping me here. Evanthe has lost her mind, and the manic aggression she’s carried back from Interra is scattering her focus, even as her actual control of the iron has become more precise.

Interra gives and it takes, I suppose.

Unfortunately, even Wistal and Jasand can’t stop every Seelie soldier coming after me. A rider closes in on my right, raising a sword as they approach. I have to pause my focus on the iron to turn, catching a flash of crimson hair beneath the helmet as they swing at me. It has to be Lady Rivera, my mind supplies uselessly, as I scramble for my own sword to block her.

Parsley growls and goes for her horse’s legs. It’s enough to send the first swipe of her blade wide.

“This is for Cebba!” she shouts, her sword coming round a second time.

I throw my own sword out to meet hers, the force of the collisions sending vibrations down my arm. The parry gives me enough time to marshal my magic so that I can yank the sword from her hand before she swings again, sending it flying across the grass. Rivera’s horse kicks out at Parsley, sending the bear growling and lumbering backwards, and Rivera lifts her hands—to conjure some magic. I think.

The spell never materializes. She jerks, making a gurgling noise, and her face goes blank. I look down to see a blade protruding from her chest. As it slides out of her, she slumps forward on her horse, revealing Ruskin holding his blood-stained sword aloft.

“An old friend of ours?” he asks.

I start to answer, but at that moment all the air is driven out of me by what feels like an almighty punch to my gut. As if time has slowed down, I see Ruskin’s eyes widen, the blood draining from his face as the force of the strike shoves me backwards, out of my saddle.

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