Instead, the chartreuse glow on the soles of the giant’s feet flared—and both shot up and out from under it, as surely and swiftly as if they had been heavily greased. Marta looked ahead and quickly slowed their mount, swerving to avoid the downed hexaleg transport they had ramped over moments ago. Several of the horses from the herd caught up with them, parting on either side to go around the hexaleg remnants. At the same moment, two other things happened. The giant-class motorman slammed into the ground, shaking them, forcing her to stop and steady the two-man engine for balance ... and the majority of the horses flanking them abruptly vanished.
No ... Oh, Gods ... no!
The whistle of incoming munitions warned her. Hitting the galloper, she tore forward, joined by the now neighing and whinnying, frightened remnants of Zeilas’ stampede-enspelled herd. They scattered, scampering off in whatever direction looked safest to their now unguided equine minds.
Part of Marta grieved. The rest of her ignored the tears stinging her eyes, seeking instead to get as far away as possible from the magnetic mine-bombs being lobbed at the downed motorman. They clanged into its painted metal body, clamping onto its hide. Somewhere back there, if the operator crew were conscious after such a hard, concussive fall, they would be scrambling to get free of the machine and its impending blast zone. Most likely, they wouldn’t make it. Not when enough bombs were being lobbed its way by the two remaining hexaleg transports, heavily mage-shielded, on Guildara’s side of the battle.
The horses ... Sir Catrine swore the horses wouldn’t vanish . . . unless something happened to the Knight controlling their illusions! Zeilas!
Damn
you, Durn, you bastard!
Skidding to a stop by a pile of twisted metal, Marta grabbed and yanked out a chunk of pipe, what looked like a piece of iron hydraulics tubing from one of the limbs of the fallen hexaleg platform.
She shoved the length of metal back at Gabria with a terse command. “
Sharpen
it!” As soon as the other woman had it in her grip, Marta sent their ride roaring forward again. “Get ready to cast a really
big
ramp!”
It didn’t take long for Gabria to realize what she meant to do. “You can’t attack Durn!” she shouted. “That’s the most heavily shielded platform he has left!”
“No more!” Marta growled, glaring at the trashed fields and meadows and pastures, once green with early spring grass and now charred and fouled with mangled machines and murdered men. Off to her left were the bulk of the remaining forces, swirling and smoking, banging and bellowing in the chaos of combat. Off to the right, yet more fields damaged by the enemy’s munitions, with Heiastowne in the distance. “By the pricking of my thumb,
no
... what in the
Netherhells
?”
She slowed the motorhorse, startled by the sight of horses leaping down out of the air. Leaping in twos and threes out of thin air, no less. Out of at least ten
patches
of thin air, forming a shallow curve as long as a giant motorman would have been, felled end to end. The foremost of these cantered forward by a dozen yards, left hands raised and voices chanting, making the air glow in a wall in front of them.
“Mirror-Gates,” Gabria stated, awe coloring her voice. “They’re invading us with
mirror-Gates
! They’re ... wait, those aren’t Durn’s colors! Everyone in Durn’s forces is wearing brown! Those are ...”
“Those are the livery colors of the
Aurulans
!” Marta finished, equally astonished. Before she could voice the question of why they were even here, if it was an invasion or what, several riders carrying long poles leaped through the mirror-Gate portals. As soon as they gained level ground, they lifted the poles and tugged on ribbons, releasing the banners wrapped around the wooden shafts. What little Marta knew of mirror-Gates suggested that brushing up against the edges of the gate ran the risk of breaking the transportive link between its originating mirror and the location it was focused upon, so the ribbon-wrapped banners made sense.
What didn’t make sense were the banners themselves. On the left was a purple background sporting the Eye of Ruul mounted within a golden crown, symbol of the Aurulan kingdom. On the right side, the black length of cloth bore the bright yellow gear wheel of Guildara.
The mage-warriors at the forefront advanced, pushing their shield-wall past Marta and Gabria. A final man, clad in purple, gilt-edged armor, leaped through the centermost ripple responsible for this unanticipated army, and then no more appeared. He was more than enough, though. It only took him a moment, despite the distractions of the ongoing chaos and confusion behind them, to focus on the two women. Trotting his horse up to the two of them, he bowed over the animal’s armor-draped neck.
“Your Highness.” Pulling a ribbon-wrapped scroll from beneath the baldric strap of his sheathed sword, he nudged his Steed closer and held it out. “It was foretold that I would meet Marta Grenspun, Consul-in-Chief and ruler of Guildara, right here and now. Is this correct?”
“Ah ... that would be me,” she offered, stunned further by his accuracy. Too much had happened, between the horrors of battle, the loss of her Knight, and now this Manifestation. Marta struggled to regain her wits. “You are ... ?”
“Mage-Captain Ellett of the Royal Guard. I bring you a signed peace treaty straight from His Majesty’s hands, countersigned by the Prime Minister, and sealed by the Will of Ruul. Contingent, of course ...” He had to pause as something exploded and fell in a noisy mess of shredded metal off in the distance, then continued as soon as he could be heard. “... That we are permitted to escort Gabria Springreaver to His Majesty at the end of this matter.”
“Ah ... of course. We would have sent her earlier, but the passes ... and the battle ...” Giving up trying to explain—wincing as something else exploded noisily, though the purple-clad mages seemed to be sheltering them from any possible shrapnel—Marta quickly accepted the scroll. “You’ll have to forgive me, but we’re a
little
busy at the moment.”
“Yes, we know. With your permission, Consul-in-Chief, now that we are bound as allies, I would be honored to direct my troops in mopping up these insurgents,” the Mage-Captain stated. “As you have reassured us many times in the last year, there should only be peace within these lands, and it would be our pleasure to teach them to properly behave.”
She eyed the thirty or so mounted men and women, their painted armor inlaid with gilded runes similar to the ones protecting her motorhorse, and nodded quickly. “By all means! Let there be peace!”
His smile visible through the grille of his helm, Ellett flicked up his hand. A sizzling line of light shot up, much like a festival-rocket, and exploded in bright purple sparks. All but a dozen of the mage-warriors surged forward, leaving the rest to cluster defensively around their captain and the two Guildaran women. They looked somewhat like Sir Catrine did, chanting spells and flinging them as they entered the fray, glowing with powers and mowing down the warlord’s troops with each fierce attack, save that they mostly used magic instead of the weapons slung at their backs, and that no rider-less horses, illusionary or otherwise, accompanied each warrior.
Absently, Marta shut off the engine of her motorhorse, conserving its fuel. She was sick of fighting, and neither she nor Gabria were the level of warriors and mages that these people were.
“... Your Highness, are you injured?” the Mage-Captain asked solicitously, diverting her attention.
Marta was fairly sure she had told her envoy, Pells, to tell them that her correct mode of address was Milady Chief, not Highness, but she didn’t quibble over protocol. The Aurulans were here to save her people, outnumbered by Durn’s forces, and she’d accept anything they called her, unless they called for her surrender. His inquiry did make her aware of her aches and pains, now that she wasn’t trying madly to steer a safe course through the destruction ruing the outer reaches of the Heiastowne Precinct fields.
“Um ... just some cuts and bruises. The worst one is on my cheek. Minor things, really. Gabria?” Marta asked, glancing back at her friend.
“A bruised ankle, a hoarse throat, and a couple scratches of my own from shrapnel and pellets, but I’m fine—save your healing spells for those out there who’ll need them far more than we will,” Gabria added, lifting her chin at the mess the warlord had wrought.
That reminded Marta of all the other casualties out there. The men and women groaning and bleeding from their injuries, the lives lost to munitions and machinery ... and the charred, exploded lump that had been the last giant-class motorman. Now that she wasn’t focused on her own survival, the tears came back, wavering her view of the battlefield.
This was why she didn’t like nor want war. Zeilas was only the most personal loss she knew of, so far. Undoubtedly there were plenty of others whose names and faces she knew, and far too many she didn’t.
The battle didn’t end instantly. It did end, though, particularly once Durn’s hexaleg transport, with its banner of a round, bronze munition on a white background, was immobilized by crackling violet-hued lightning. That banner burst into flame as the transport stumbled, faltered, and sagged to the ground, its limbs folding up awkwardly.
A swirling herd of horses cantered their way. They slowed and milled a short distance away as Sir Catrine, clad in the surcoat of Arbra with its brown-and-green tree on a white background, emerged from the mass of enchanted equines. She pushed up the visor of her helm, eyed the Mage-Captain warily, then nodded briefly to Marta. “Milady Chief, the battle is won. Thanks to these ... Aurulans, yes?”
“Mage-Captain Ellett of the Royal Guard of Aurul, sent here to protect Her Highness and lend aid to our western neighbors on this day,” the armored man explained. “You are a Knight of Arbra?”
“Sir Catrine, Knight-Mage. Milady Chief, where is Sir Zeilas?” Catrine asked Marta. “He set himself to provide cover for the two of you.”
She had to close her eyes against a fresh sting of tears. Tugging off a riding glove, she scrubbed them from her face, then pointed at the fourth fallen metal man. “He was behind us when we toppled that last giant-class, and ... was caught under it.”
The other woman twisted in the saddle to look that way, her Steed pivoting with her. “Was he with his Steed when it fell? Was Fireleaf with him?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Then there’s a chance he’s still alive. Gabria, I’ll need your help; it’s too big for one mage to lift,” Sir Catrine ordered.
“We will go with you and provide help, as well as an escort,” Ellett offered unsolicited.
I am
not
going to look for the made-by stamp on a gift toolbox,
Marta warned herself, twisting the ignition crank on her motorhorse’s neck.
I am
not
going to ask why they acknowledge us
now
, after over a year’s wait for more than merely acknowledging our existence. Never mind giving us this much help so freely! I am just going to nod and say thank you, and leave it at that.
Some of her own people rolled up on rumbling motorhorses. A few were missing their combat teammates, others were injured. All of them bore a mixture of emotions on their battle-grimed faces, somewhere between grimness over the gore and hope for all of the help. A look she suspected was echoed in her own eyes. The dozen riders with the Mage-Captain made room for them, along with Sir Catrine once she had dismissed the spells linking the illusionary horses from the real ones, and dismissed the real ones to trot obediently toward either Heiastowne or the palace, to await collection and tending by their rightful owners.
Many of whom had gone on to ride into battle on machine-made beasts, and some of whom wouldn’t return.
By the time they reached the towering chunks of brass and steel, pipes and gears that had been the last of the giant-class motormen, most of the fighting seemed to have stopped. More than that, a knot of purple-clad riders cantered up, two of the mages holding a bound and gagged, brown-clad figure aloft between them, floating in a cocoon of golden light that streamed from their palms. Gabria dismounted to follow Sir Catrine deeper into the wreckage, leaving Marta to face this new development.
“Milady Chief,” one of them stated, reining his horse to a snorting stop, “I present to you the miscreant known as Warlord Durn the Dreaded, bound and secured for your judgment. It is your lands which he has invaded, and your people which he has harmed the most.”
Torn between accepting their gift and watching the efforts of the Aurulan mage-warriors, the Arbran Knight, and her best friend to levitate the chunks of metal in their way, searching for signs of Sir Zeilas, Marta forced herself to acknowledge her duty. Facing the murderer responsible for this mess was bound to be more pleasant than staring at the squashed remains of her would-have-been lover.
Marta swung out the rear leg of her motorhorse, leaning the vehicle on the prop so that she could dismount. Turning to the Mage-Captain, who was dismounting as well, she asked, “Being that you are a mage ... you wouldn’t happen to have a Truth Stone or a Truth Wand somewhere about you, would you? I’m afraid they were banned from being used by all but the old priesthood and vanished or were rendered inert when the False God was finally cast down—I suspect because they had been corrupted somehow. None of my mages know how to craft an honest one, just yet.”
“I have a spell which will suffice. When he speaks a lie, he will glow red, and when he speaks a truth, he will glow green,” the Aurulan offered. Handing the reins of his horse to one of his fellow Aurulans, he lifted his chin at the activity behind her. “... I think you should turn around, Milady Chief. It seems your intended has survived. As predicted.”
Confused, Marta turned and looked over her shoulder. The crowd of bodies and metal parts was a little thick, but she could just see Sir Catrine stooping to pick something off the ground ... and an overgrown, unruffled, red-and-cream stallion cropping placidly at the grass beneath what had been the house-sized, hip-joint casing for the motorman. The visibly dented hip-joint casing, its thick metal plates warped in a divot the length and size of an overgrown Arbran Steed.