Page 115 of Vale of Dreams

The portal magic grows vulnerable, weaker, as the Fey travel through it, I realize.

Before I can make use of this discovery, three Fey warriors bear down on me, yards away, their teeth bared in grimaces. A bullet takes out one of them, and he twists and topples backward down the hill, but the other two keep coming, and they’re not ten feet away. I look at them, petrified. I reach for an arrow, knowing that it’s already too late?—

A blade swings, sending one soldier’s head flying, and the rest of his body collapses onto the hillside. Viviane stands over him, her sword dripping blood. She pivots to the other and breaks his nose with the pommel of her sword, then kicks him brutally in the chest. He tumbles down the slope.

“Nia, get that fucking thing closed!” she shouts.

I turn my attention back to the portal, blocking out the screams and volleys of bullets around me, sending a tendril of magic at the portal, probing it carefully.

It flickers, and I see two worlds.

It’s as if Brocéliande and Scotland suddenly exist in the same place and time. I can still see a Scottish valley, the stream churning through it, our soldiers fighting the much larger force of Fey. But I can also glimpse the snowy landscape of Brocéliande spreading out and a military camp with white tents surrounded by high snow-capped mountains. The Fey soldiers stand in large formations—legions of them. A vast army waiting to charge through.

My heart skips a beat.

It’s one thing to know that the advancing army numbers two thousand. It’s a different thing to see them. Rows and rows of armored cavalry, archers, magicians, and knights. And behind them, a midnight-blue dragon raises his head, opening his maw to roar. The sound rumbles through my gut, making me want to run. Dread dances up my nape.

Now, mounted cavalry charge through the portal, and I can glimpse them shifting from one reality to the other, materializing in the battlefield here.

My double-world vision fades. I blink, my head pounding. The Fey horses are spooked and run in different directions. One collapses, crushing its rider. But the other riders take control of their mounts and manage to turn them to the hill.

They’re charging right for us.

A volley of fire hits them. Some go down. Some don’t. Through my fear, I force myself to focus.

When it opened, I saw the two worlds shift together. That’s when I have to strike. But it’s easier said than done. My mind isn’t built to see two realities intertwined. I’m nauseated, and my head spins. Most of my magic is already depleted from my earlier attempts. I summon what I can of it, gathering the red flares, and send my power out to the portal. Now, the battle sounds seem muted in my ears. An arrow thunks into the ground a few inches away from me, but I don’t lose my focus.

The portal shifts again.

The worlds coalesce.

More Fey are gathering to charge through, a group of archers and another group of heavily armored warriors. A man, taller than the rest, shouts commands at them, and his dark cloak billows around him. He turns to face me.

My heart sinks as I behold the shockingly beautiful face of the Fey prince.

His black hair catches in the wind as he roars orders at the men, urging them to move. Fear cuts me down to the marrow. He’s going to come through the portal. He’ll find me here—Brocéliande’s worst traitor. The mistress who turned on her prince.

I dig my fingers deeper into the cold soil and focus my senses on the portal. I now have a sense of the complex energy that weaves it into the world. It’s a masterful work of magic—an art form, like a tapestry. And yet, I can see its weaknesses. I can unravel it, thread by thread, if I just have enough time. I concentrate on one weak link and channel my power at it. The portal’s magic vibrates under the onslaught of my power, thinning, about to shatter?—

The archers charge through the portal, and a flash of raw energy runs through it as they do. The power jolts through my bones, and I grunt in agony, my concentration shattered.

The portal flickers again. Brocéliande disappears, and Talan is no longer in view.

In the valley before us, the archers all kneel, the warriors standing in front of them, protecting them with their shields. A hail of arrows flies through the air, more precise than before. Talan has now brought the best of his archers forward to eliminate our forces. He wants to end the threat from us as quickly as he can.

Pearson shouts, but his command is cut short as an arrow tears through his throat. Around me, I feel death closing in. The scent of gunpowder and blood fills the air.

The earth thunders as the cavalry gallop up the hill, hooves pounding. Fear keens in my skull.

Blood runs down Viviane’s face, dripping into her eyes. “We’re running out of time. It’s now or never. Can you do it?”

This time, I’m certain. “I can do it.”

“I believe in you, Nia. Stop those fuckers. Save us all.”

She turns to face the incoming riders. “For Camelot!” she roars, and rushes at them.

I’ve never seen a warrior move so quickly. She leaps at the first, lopping his sword arm off. Pivoting, she’s already throwing a knife at another. She blocks a sword swing, the metal blades scraping together, and manages to pull a rider off his horse. More men are upon her, and an arrow sinks into her side, but she doesn’t stop. She’s a whirlwind of thrusts and slashes.

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