itter as they fall, dancing when the wind picks up. Twisting, turning, billowing waves of snow blow and drift over the expanse of the field where we wait. Such beauty stands in stark contrast with the rest of the view. Battalions of redcaps line up in formation ahead of me. Far to my right, near Sláine and Seb, a small group of Seelie fighters—remnants of the guard Goodfellow tried to wipe out—prepare to defend that flank, a mirroring force to me and the Hunt here on the left.
Mother holds the center, every inch the warrior queen. She wears the armor in which she won the final battle for the Winter Court’s freedom. The older troops remember it and stood straighter when they saw her striding out to take her place. She’s a vision of darkness and moonlight made flesh. Her black tunic, breeches, and shirt stand out against this white battlefield, highlighting the fall of her silver habergeon and the ancient Pictish crown she wears over her braided hair. The sword belted at her waist is the one she claimed from Oberon’s father. Roark and Smith flank her, their matching black armor declaring their union even as they stand together facing the end.
If we were fighting any other foe, our appearance alone may convince them to turn tail and flee before the battle began. But Goodfellow has no intention of retreat, not after this many centuries of manipulating his own legend, of claiming the Green Man’s power. He will unmake the Winter Court to recreate Faerie in his own image, or die in the attempt.
We hear his forces approaching before we see them. His army crests the far hill and fills the horizon, marching closer to the line of the sealing. We stand in paltry defense by comparison. The blistering tinge of iron catches on the wind, rising and falling with the gusts, making my throat ache. At least my head is clear. The draugr lies in wait, eager to claim Goodfellow’s life for its own. It’s the only way I’ll be able to lay it to rest. No other shades drift over the field, or form a macabre gallery at Mother’s or Goodfellow’s backs. Even they have abandoned this place.
“Roark,” Mother says, her gaze fixed on Goodfellow, who watches us from horseback in the middle of his forces.
Roark steps forward and calls loud enough for the redcaps in the front rows to hear, “Until the sealing falls.”
A sharp call of obedience goes up and fades. The battlefield falls silent once more. One of Goodfellow’s Sluagh moves forward when we hold our position. His lance outstretched, he tests for the boundary of the sealing spell. The moment the weapon touches the invisible wall, it’s encased in a fractal wave of ice, which spreads too quickly for him to escape. He turns, takes a failing step forward, and collapses to the ground; his body shatters into frozen chunks on impact.
Goodfellow rides forward, his troops parting before him without a single word uttered. Now, as he approaches, the draugr begins to stir. Goodfellow pauses at the edge of the sealing and looks down at the body of his fallen soldier before turning his attention to Mother. His voice carries when he turns back to his army and speaks.
“This is the queen you fear. A relic hiding behind her magick. A fading emblem of a dying era.” He wheels his horse back to face us and his defiance infects every grandiose gesture, every carefully planned phrase. “If you could reach her, could any force keep you from claiming your natural right?”
“No!” his army roars.
The earth rumbles and trembles under our feet.
“Then allow me to open the door,” Goodfellow says, and gestures toward us.
A wall of vines explodes up through the snow, towering thorned stalks moving with eerie, lethargic swings, cresting higher and higher into the sky above us. They unfurl for an endless moment, only to crash down against the sealing. Smith makes a pained yelp when the vines freeze from the violent surge of the spell’s defenses. Mother pales and reaches toward him wordlessly. Her hand clamps down on his shoulder and they both flinch as the icebound vines fall forward, crushing the sealing under their weight, ripping through the spell as if it were nothing more troubling than wet paper. A cascade of ice scatters across the empty expanse between armies, and the magick in the air buckles and warps before drifting away at last on the wind. Our last protection has fallen. Defenseless fae hide behind us in the sídhe, trusting us to protect them. Ahead of us, death waits.
Roark strides forward with his rapier drawn. “Archers,” he calls as he nears the front line.
Smith and Mother aren’t the only ones reeling from the sealing’s failure. Goodfellow sways in his seat and struggles to draw his sword. The iron blade glitters and trembles in the broken light as he lifts it. I was watching for any sign of his remaining power. He hides his weakness quickly enough, but it was there. How quickly can we finish draining his reserves?
“Nock,” orders Roark.
Mother follows him, her glamour forging a glittering pair of daggers from the moisture in the air. Smith, skin sparking with the ley line’s energy, stays tight to her right shoulder.
“Hold.”
Goodfellow’s blade drops and his army moves, rolling over the field, gaining speed. He remains, a boulder standing fast in a swirling flood.
“Range.”
The farthest redcap battalions lower their lances as Roark, Mother, and Smith draw even with them. They move with their leaders. Goodfellow’s army will break against their pointed wall of lances. It’s a final effort to keep the tide of battle from reaching those who have taken refuge inside the sídhe.
Roark’s last command lifts over the din of approaching death, even as he adjusts his grip on his rapier. “Loose.”
Bowstrings hum, sending arrows arcing up into the sky. They cast shadows at the peak of their arc before whistling down toward the Sluagh. The first lines fall, and Unseelie field commanders take up the orders for the archers, who continue to cull what numbers we can from a distance. Of course Goodfellow’s prepared for such an attack. From my spot in the rear, I watch the advancing army split into three. One of the traitorous huscarls leads the charge to the right flank; Boros, the charge to the left, where the Hunt and I wait.
The Hunt and I urge our horses forward, gaining speed for our charge.
“Watch their weapons,” I tell the redcaps we ride past. “Show them no mercy.” The draugr growls its agreement.
The redcaps try to keep pace with our horses, but it’s impossible. We are the Wild Hunt and we ride the storm’s edge. Liath obeys when I press my heels to his flanks, pushing harder, faster toward Boros’s forces. He leads their charge, sword drawn, teeth bared as he screams his defiance at me. I adjust my sword arm, keeping my eye on the narrow strip of his neck left unprotected by his armor.
Boros’s scream dies in my ears when my sword separates his head from his body. I keep my seat despite the heavy shudder of bodies slamming into Liath. Most spin away when he continues the charge toward the open field ahead. I fight to keep a firm grip on my sword as I slash my way through this group. The blade bites in deep at times or deflects off armor. The Hunt stays behind me, focused on preventing the injured or unaffected from using their weapons to bring me down.
An eternity later, the fields open up around me. I check for injuries or pain from the cut of an iron blade. I promised Keiran we would be together until the end and I can’t leave him now... I’m whole. No scratch of Sluagh weapons against my skin. The Goddess decided to bless me today.
Liath trembles but obeys when I spin him to make another rout through Boros’s fighters. We don’t ride. Not when I finally see the whole of the battlefield.
The redcaps following me work to exploit the hole the Hunt tore through the enemy. Their armor keeps them safe from most of the blows, though a few fall from errant strikes. They’ve lost sight of their position though, and push too hard into the gap despite my scream to fall back. Boros’s fighters close around them.