Page 65 of The Mortal Queen

At last, Balor sagged backward, colliding against the gravel, a great thud that rattled the ground in which they stood. The image of a tree chopped down in the forest with a needle-like blade lodged in his creased, pale brow.

The next few seconds were a blur of fangs, armor, arrows, and blades as the rest of Lir’s knights swarmed the crater. They descended like the mighty warriors and the legendary heroes the Forbidden Lore described them as—a secret Annind had whispered when he’d drunk himself silly, and Aisling was forced to help him up the stairs to his chambers.

Swathed in tribal markings, these glorious fae warriors overtook the fomorians, slaying all those who dared to fight against them or their fae king. With lethal speed, Galad beheaded the fomori who charged him, sliding beneath the beast and swiping his whetted blade through Unseelie bone. Six fomorians surrounded Yevhen. He was outnumbered but thrived nonetheless. The knight thrust at one and kicked at another. But still they swung their kris blades and scratched with their blood-soaked nails. So, Tyr shot the Unseelie down till Yevhen could unsheathe his bloodied blade from the heart of the largest. One by one, Tyr’s reeds nailed the fomorians to the ground like flightless birds.

A hunched, crooked fomori leapt from the top of the cave to catch Gilrel unaware. Silently, it lifted its spear above its head. Poised to sink into the lady’s maid. Aedh, having spotted it the same moment Aisling did, shouted in warning. Gilrel spun on her heel, raising her throwing axe and swiping left. The blade made contact, digging across the chest of the Fomori. The creature screamed an unearthly bellow, tumbling across the dirt and down into the crater. But it wasn’t finished, it turned furiously, charging the marten. Gilreladjusted the axe in her paw, positioning her feet and hurtling the axe towards the approaching Unseelie. The blade flew, lodging in the fiend’s neck. Fountains of scarlet oozed down its thick crane and before the creature could snort its last breath, Gilrel was already racing to unpluck her axe to wield at another.

And a mere pace before the mortal queen, Lir slit the throat of one Unseelie, spinning with impossible speed to drive his dagger into the belly of another. One of the larger fomori swung his spiked mace at Lir. The fae king ducked, sprung to his feet, and kicked the fomori in the jaw. The ogre flew, landing face down on the gravel. But Lir wasn’t finished. The fae king pounced atop the beast, lifted its head to slice open its neck in a movement so quick, Aisling scarcely saw it occur.

His expression was feral, devoid of the kingly fair folk who breathed life into death. Turned black to green. Now he was the wild savage, all bloodthirst and fury, rippling with corded muscles visible even beneath his leathers. His slim figure cut through the fomorians as a deathly shadow. The same animal that had slain the Cú Scáth the night of theSnaidhm.

The mortal queen scoured the battleground for her dagger. No longer was it lodged in Balor’s skull. Somehow amidst the chaos, it had disappeared. It could be anywhere, buried beneath the bodies of fomorians steeping in their own sticky blood.

Lir grabbed Aisling’s wrist and spun her towards him. Hiding the mortal queen in the curve of his chest, Lir raised one of his twin axes above his head and hurtled it towards a fomori who—had Lir not pulled Aisling away—was an inch from beheading the mortal queen. The blade flipped, at last impaling the fomori in the stomach. But there was no time to rejoice. Another ogre, standing atop the center cave launched a shower of arrows at Lir and Aisling. The fae king reached for the shield from one of the freshly deceased, falling to his knees and raising the rusted contraption above both theirheads. Seven hollow pangs struck the center of the shield and when Lir tossed it to the side, Tyr had already shot the fomori down, the bestial thing strewn across the arch of the cave with a reed pulled through his left eye.

Aisling couldn’t tell how long this chaos continued. Red seeping into the crater till the mortal queen believed it would surely transform into a shallow lake before the Aos Sí had finished. Mightily, they slayed all who threatened themselves or their comrades, deigning to approach all those fomorians who hid in the caves or cowered behind the mountains. Even those who wept over the recently dead. No, those were left untouched.

“Go,” Lir shouted at her during a feint. “Take Galad and hide in the forest. I’ll come find you.”

Aisling hesitated. Her dagger was still here. Still lost somewhere on the ground, perhaps lodged in the gut of the dead.

At last, Aisling nodded her head and turned to search for Galad, unaware that Gnoll approached her from behind. She scrambled, stumbling through the chaos, tripping over bodies and primeval armor. Aisling’s head swiveled on her shoulders, searching for the sapphire-eyed knight. He’d be looking for her too if Lir had requested it. But all Aisling could see, could determine from the bedlam, were weapons flying, limbs kicking, screams of pain, the crunch of broken bones, and then Galad pinned beneath a large Fomori, struggling to free himself. Aisling paused, searching for something, anything, to help. To make use of her increasingly useless self. But there was no time.

Gnoll tackled the mortal queen from behind, sticking her to the rocks. Aisling screamed but the sound was lost amidstthe discord.

Ice seeped beneath Aisling’s flesh as Gnoll held her against the earth. The fomori rubbed his corrugated tongue atop her clavicle, inhaling and savoring the scent of her mortal flesh, eager to sink his teeth into her skin and munch on her bones.

“You do smell strange, fleshling,” Gnoll drawled. “I’ll eat half of you today and half tomorrow.”

Aisling screamed, thrashing wildly to no avail. A mortal man could pin Aisling to the ground easily, and so she stood no chance against an Unseelie thrice her size. Fae and mortal warriors alike feared for their lives before the Unseelie, fighters trained and bred for bloodshed. So, the prospect of Aisling, nailed to the earth before this ravenous, insatiable aberration was as certain as death itself.

None appeared to hear her screams as she writhed beneath Gnoll, too distracted by their own brawling to behold the fomori widening its gaping maw to peel apart her skin. Six fomorians surrounded Lir with more on their way, his vision obscured by their massive bodies.

“Please,” Aisling begged, for pride seemed useless now. Tears streamed down her cheeks. A wave of hysteria washed over the mortal queen, tossing her like a violent sea till she knew not which way was up and which was down. She grew numb to his touch. Deaf to the bedlam surrounding her. Blind to the night.

Was she dead? Killed by the fomori so quickly? Without as much pain as she’d anticipated? Or perhaps horror consumed her? Fury? She couldn’t tell, both blended seamlessly, slapping at her inner walls to be let loose. A sentient, eager, tempest pleading to be set free. Aisling fought the urge, the desire to allow such a thunderous rage to spill forth from every pore in her body. Like the impulse to drink when one is thirsty. To eat when one is hungry. To sleep when one is tired. To run when one is afraid. To scream when one is angry. To tear away the bridles of civilized society.

The lust for such release scared Aisling. For now, it wasnot only she who occupied the sentiency within her but another whose name she knew not. Someone else asked to take control. To stoke the embers that hungered for a kill, embers looming in her periphery since the trow. Even the Cú Scáth. And what’s more, shewantedto hand over control to this sentient, persuasive creature within.Neededthat vengeance so clearly, it brought more tears to Aisling’s eyes.

So, Aisling complied to the voice within her, inhaling as deeply as she was capable and when she exhaled, the world spun back into motion.

It was painful. Alarming, like the sudden bang of a loud, unexpected crash. But a crash that whirled around her in not only sound but also sight and feeling. For when Aisling opened her eyes, she beheld Gnoll leaping off her, swaddled in amethyst flames.

The fomori danced. He swatted at the fires enveloping him, but it was useless. The more he struggled, the greater and more brightly the fire burned. And, once Gnoll realized this, he turned towards Aisling, horror swimming in those yellow pits for eyes.

The mortal queen crawled backwards, clawing at the earth beneath her. Gnoll knew he was dying, eager to take Aisling with him. The fomori stumbled towards her, the scent of his burning flesh rancid. Aisling floundered to her feet in search of a weapon. There was no time. Gnoll lunged, flying towards her like a pale, violet breath of flame.

The mortal queen squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the impact.

It never came.

When Aisling opened her eyes, Filverel stood behind the Fomori, a sword staking the creature through the center of its chest. Gnoll stared at Aisling, eyes vacant. And as if they knew, as if the fire listened for the beating of the Fomori’s heart, the flames stilled, dimming until only smoke swathed the Unseelie’scharred corpse.

Filverel slipped his blade from Gnoll’s chest. Aisling soured at the slushy sound of it. The fomori slumped to the ground, a blackened pile lying amongst countless of his dead comrades. For now, the mountain clearing was a graveyard of Balor’s horde; only a handful, those who’d chosen not to attack, retained their lives, scurrying into the caves from which they’d emerged.

Filverel wiped his sword on the body of one of the deceased before sheathing it on his back. The fight had loosened his braid, strands of white-blonde hair falling across his blood-splattered face.

And once his eyes found Aisling’s, he considered her, circling like a vulture. But there was something more in the glint of his opal stare. Something Aisling hadn’t seen before.

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