Page 216 of Fate Breaker

She expected to see pride, or at least a flicker of triumph. Instead, Thornwall stared blankly at the field, stone-faced. All along the line of commanders, she saw the same, even in her Lionguard.

“This is not war,” Thornwall murmured, glancing between the field and the castle above it. “This is slaughter. Death for no reason.”

“Galland prevails. That is reason enough,” Erida sneered. Again, the hooks pulled, again the river pushed at her legs, begging to sweep her forward into the city. At any cost.

Even her horse seemed to feel it, pawing the ground impatiently.

“Bring the cavalry around again, my lord,” she said.

Thornwall blanched. “The knights need time to recover, Your Majesty. Let the infantry and archers do what they were trained for. I will not give that order.”

Her eyes stung, her anger leaping.

“Will not?” Erida replied, wheeling on him. Her voice went dangerously low. “Their line is breaking. Sound another charge, and we will sweep them away.”

There was some truth in it. The pike wall had collapsed, leaving the Ionians vulnerable.

“I will not,” Thornwall said again. “The cavalry must recover. We will only lose—”

“Do you deny me? That is treason, my lord,” she purred, leaning close. Her veils stirred in the dragon wind, the edge of her face exposed for a second.

And her burning, glowing eyes.

Thornwall’s face went slack.

His mouth opened, only to be cut off by a blowing horn.

Not from their own line, but the Ionian army, echoing out over their massed companies. It was a high keening sound, not like the deep bellowsof the Gallish horns. Erida rankled, squinting into the chaos, watching as the armies shifted.

Her breath caught.

“The elephants,” Thornwall said flatly.

Before their eyes, a marching wall of war elephants tramped across the field, their armored legs crashing through Erida’s infantry. Ibalet archers swayed on their backs, raining arrows on any Gallish soldier who managed to dodge their living siege engines.

Erida fought down a frustrated scream, her body buzzing, overcome with the urge to move. It was almost too much to bear.

“They will be worn down in time,” Thornwall said distantly, his voice weak and already fading in her mind. “We can outlast any army in this valley.”

Another horn blast stopped him cold.

This was not the trilling sound of the Ibalets calling another charge, nor the Gallish troops communicating through the battlefield. Not Kasa. Not the Elders. Not even the dragons could make such a sound, the long, shuddering call deep and metallic.

Erida whirled in the saddle, looking toward the southern horizon, to the long lake below the ridge of the castle. It shimmered red, turned to blood by the hellish sky.

“I have not heard that horn in decades,” Thornwall murmured. His face went white, his hands shaking on the reins.

His officers whispered, exchanging confused glances. Erida’s lords were less tactful. One of them choked out a sob. Another wheeled his horse and fled entirely, spurring his mount to a gallop.

The hooks in her skin threatened to tear her apart, so strong was their pull. Erida grimaced against them, trying to read the horizon and her commander.

“Thornwall?” she hissed through gritted teeth.

His throat bobbed, his eyes glassy.

“The Temurijon comes,” he whispered.

Again the horn sounded, again her commander trembled. And the Countless wavered into being, a shadow crawling along the shores of the lake. The southern horizon turned black with their number, their flags streaming over the great army like a flock of birds. All were on horseback, armed with bow and blade.