Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 160

“The Cohort won’t give up,” he said instead. “They’re still fighting. We’re trying not to harm them, but they’re not making it easy.”
“Where’s Horace?” Emma demanded, craning her head to see what was happening across the field.
“He’s kept himself surrounded by his followers,” Julian said, leaping over the body of a dead troll. “Jace and the others are trying to get to him, but the Cohort are willing to die for him and we don’t want to kill them. Like I said, they’re not making it easy.”
“We should get back and help.” She started to head across the field, Julian beside her. Downworlders flashed past them, hurling themselves at Unseelie faeries and Cohort Nephilim. Jessica Beausejours was struggling to fend off a black-haired vampire with a seraph blade, while nearby a werewolf rolled on the ground with a massive troll, two sets of fangs snapping.
Emma heard someone yell. It was Mark—she could see Cristina, too, not far away, sword to sword with Vanessa Ashdown. Cristina was fighting carefully, trying not to hurt Vanessa; Vanessa was showing no such care—she held a swordstaff in her hand and was pushing Cristina back with slamming blows.
Mark, though—Mark was facing Eochaid. A Rider had found him.
Emma and Julian took off instantly, racing toward Mark. He was backing away, bow in hand, taking careful aim, but each arrow that hit Eochaid seemed only to slow him down, not to stop him.
No one’s killed one of Mannan’s Riders in all the history I know.
Emma had killed one of the Riders. But Emma had Cortana. Mark had only an ordinary bow, and Cristina and Kieran were both caught up in the vast crowd. They could never make it to Mark in time.
Emma heard Julian whisper his brother’s name. Mark. They were racing flat-out over the uneven ground—Emma could feel the parabatai energy driving them forward—when something reared up and struck her. She went flying, hit the ground, rolled to her feet.
Standing in front of her was Zara.
She was cut and filthy, her long hair matted in clumps of blood and dirt. Her colorful Centurion gear had been cut to ribbons. There were tracks of dirty tears on her face, but her hands, gripping a longsword, were steady. As was her gaze, fixed on Cortana.
“Give me back my sword, you bitch,” she snarled.
* * *
Arrested by Emma’s fall, Julian spun around and saw his parabatai facing Zara Dearborn. Zara was whipping her sword back and forth while Emma watched her with a puzzled look: Zara wasn’t a very good fighter, but she wasn’t this bad.
Emma met Julian’s eyes as she raised Cortana: Go, go to Mark, her expression said. Julian hesitated a moment—but Emma could more than handle Zara. He whirled around and ran for his brother.
Mark was still fighting, though he was pale, bleeding from a cut across his chest. Eochaid seemed to be playing with him, as a cat might play with a mouse, thrusting his sword and then turning it aside to slash rather than stab. It would mean a slow death of cuts and bloodletting. Julian felt the sourness of rage in the back of his throat. He saw Cristina slam the hilt of her sword against Vanessa’s head; Cameron’s cousin went down hard and Cristina turned, sprinting toward Mark.
Another Rider cut her off. Julian’s heart sank; he was nearly there, but he recognized Ethna, with her long bronze braid and vicious scowl. She carried a sword in one hand, a staff in the other, and swung out at Cristina, knocking her hard to the ground.
“Stop!”
The word was a gravel-toned bellow. Cristina and Mark were both on the ground; their opponents turned, staring. Kieran stood before them, his shoulder knotted with white bandages. It was Winter who had spoken: The redcap stood upright, swordstaff in hand. He pointed the sharp end of it at Eochaid.
“Stop,” he said again. “The King commands that you stand down.”
Eochaid and Ethna exchanged a look. Their metallic eyes simmered with rage. They would not soon forget being cast down from the sky and humiliated.
“We will not,” said Eochaid. “Our King was Arawn the Elder. He commanded us to slay the Blackthorns and their allies. We shall enact that command and no word from you shall change it.”
“We have not yet sworn allegiance to you,” said Ethna. “You are not our King.”
Julian wondered if Kieran would flinch. He didn’t. “I am your King,” he said. “Leave them be and return to Unseelie or be considered traitors.”
“Then we will be traitors,” said Ethna, and brought her longsword down.
It never struck its target. The air seemed to ripple, and suddenly Windspear was diving toward Ethna, rearing back: He struck Ethna full in the chest with his front hooves. There was a clang as she was flung backward. A moment later, Cristina was on her feet, her wrist bleeding but her grip on her sword steady.
“Go to Mark!” she shouted, and Kieran leaped onto Windspear’s back and plunged toward Eochaid; the Rider was like a fall of sparks, graceful and inevitable. He flew into the air, whipping around with his sword in hand, the blade clashing against Kieran’s.
Mark leaped into the air—a spinning, graceful leap—and caught hold of Eochaid, wrapping his arms around the Rider’s throat from behind. They tumbled to the ground together; Eochaid leaped to his feet. Julian raced toward Mark, hurling himself between his brother and the Rider, bringing up his sword to parry a slashing blow.
Eochaid laughed. Julian barely had time to help Mark to his feet when something struck him from behind—it was Karn the Rider, a roaring tower of bronze. Julian whirled and hit back with all his force. Karn staggered back, looking surprised.
“Nice hit,” Mark said.
It’s because of Emma. I can feel the parabatai bond burning inside me.
“Thanks,” he said, raising his blade to fend off another blow from Karn. Kieran and Cristina were harrying Eochaid; Ethna was battling Winter to his knees. Even the parabatai strength wasn’t enough, Julian knew. The Riders were too strong. It was a matter of time.
There was another flash of bronze. Mark muttered a curse: It was Delan, the one-handed Rider, drawn to his siblings. Now there were four of them: only Etarlam and Airmed were still missing, somewhere in the battle.
Delan wore a bronze half mask and swung a golden spiked flail; he was running toward Kieran, the flail swinging—
An ax crashed into him from behind, sending him sprawling. It was Eochaid’s turn to swear. Ethna yelled, even as Delan staggered to his feet and spun to face his attacker.
It was Diego Rosales. He winked at Kieran just as the flail swung toward his head; he fended it off with the flat of his ax. Kieran, who had looked both astonished and pleased at Diego’s appearance, leaped from Windspear’s back and raced toward Delan. Winter darted after him as Cristina swung at Ethna—
There was a shattering crack as Cristina’s sword broke. She gasped, leaped backward—Mark and Kieran turned, stricken—Ethna raised her blade—
And was blown off her feet. Lines of golden energy laced across the field, lifting each of the Riders into the air and sending them tumbling across the grass like scattered toys. Julian turned in astonishment to see Hypatia Vex standing nearby with her hands raised, light cascading from her fingertips.
“Magnus sent me over,” she said as the battling Nephilim stared at her. Even Winter was staring, looking as if he might have fallen in love. Julian suspected his chances with Hypatia weren’t good. “This’ll buy us some time, but they’ll be back. The Riders of Mannan . . .” She sighed dramatically. “Shadowhunters. Why do I always end up mixed up in their business?”
* * *
Zara was fighting like a wild thing. Emma had remembered Zara as a mediocre warrior, and she was, but from the moment their two blades had touched, Zara had been electrified. She swung her blade as if she meant to hack down a tree with it; she flung herself at Emma over and over, sloppily leaving her defenses completely open. As if she didn’t care if she lived or if she died.
And perversely, it was making Emma hold back. She knew she had every right and reason to strike Zara down. But Zara seemed wild with what Emma could only identify as grief—she had lost friends, Emma knew, dead on the field like Timothy. But Emma suspected her grief was more for the bitterness of losing and the sting of shame. Whatever happened, the Cohort would never regain their glory. The lies they had told would never be forgotten.