A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(107)
“Then we fight!”
The monsters unfroze. The Queen let out another one of her hellish screams, not at all disturbed by the change in her surroundings. And the black horse leapt, and carried Nan into the heart of the fighting.
No longer confined to the space between the four walls of the hall at the hospital, both sides spread out, and the fighting broke into little groups. Now the psychics could come into their own; now that they could see targets clearly, they could concentrate on one whose opponent was faring badly, wrest control of the creature from the Queen for a crucial moment, and give the human a fighting chance. The soldiers had exhausted their ammunition and were laying about themselves with bayonets and swords, often helped by one or more of the Hunters. Nan was surrounded on all sides, but the horse, whether it was demon or spirit or merely another form of Elemental, was as much of a fighter as she, and laid about itself skillfully with hooves and teeth. The Hounds of the Hunt did their share too; fearsome as they were, they were no match for the monsters one-on-one, but they could harry and distract, and so they did, like dogs keeping a great boar at bay while human hunters moved in with rifles and spears.
She lost all track of time, lost track of everything except the next monster to be cut down. Until suddenly, unexpectedly, she chopped the head off a thing like a stick insect with huge, venomous jaws, to find there were no more foes. Or at least, there were none in her immediate vicinity.
The Huntsman appeared at her side, out of nowhere. “So Battle Maiden, can you throw a spear?” He offered her something that looked more like a javelin than a spear; she took it and hefted it, and nodded. “Then yonder is the author of all this trouble.” He pointed at the Queen, still protected by row after row of her monsters.
Nan shook her head. “She’s protected,” she protested.
“Not from this.” The Huntsman raised the eyebrow over the eye not covered by a patch. “But it is my daughter’s and no man can wield it, only one who is willing to give all for her fellows can give it strength, and only the true-hearted can send it to the mark.”
Doubt struck her, as she balanced the spear in her hand. Was she “true-hearted”? And what would using this weapon of the Huntsman’s cost her? This was a “fairy gift”—but did it come with a hidden price? What did his words cover? What had he not told her? True, it might kill the Queen, but would it cost Nan her own life? Or would it doom her to ride with the Hunt forever?
It doesn’t matter what it costs me if our world is safe again, she decided. This has to end now. And she hurled the spear with all her might.
It flashed like a bolt of black lightning across the distance between her and the Queen. It pierced the barrier that protected the Queen with a sound like the tearing of the world in two.
And it buried itself in the Queen’s chest so deeply it protruded from her back.
Everything, and everyone, froze.
The Queen opened her mouth as if to shriek, but all that came out was a gurgling cry. She wavered in place for a moment, then, bonelessly, she collapsed to the ground and did not move again.
Her monsters shrieked in a thousand different voices; shrieked in panic, and tried to flee. But the Hounds were ready, and so were the Hunters, and while the humans fell to their knees in exhaustion, or leaned against one another, they hunted down and slew every last one of them.
When the final monster had been pounded into the ground by the hooves of one of the horses, the Hunt gathered itself around the Huntsman and Nan. Outside that circle waited Puck, Sarah, the Watsons, and Holmes, all of them staring numbly at her, none of them daring to move or speak.
I never thought I would see Sherlock Holmes speechless.
“A good Hunt,” the Huntsman said, with satisfaction. “A good kill. And now, Battle Maiden, what shall we do with you?”
Her heart pounded with fear, and she was afraid that if she did not keep control of herself she would burst into tears. But she had made the promise, and she had known what she was doing. She would have to honor it. “Whatever you will,” she said, steadily. “I vowed to Hunt with you until you released me. I’d like Neville to stay with me, though, if he wants to.”
“Hurrrr,” said Neville, raising all his feathers, making it very clear they’d have to pry his talons off her shoulder and bundle him off in a basket before he’d leave her.
The Huntsman laughed. “And what would I do with another raven? My own are trouble enough. Give me back my horse, Nan Killian, and go with your friends in peace. It was a privilege to see you fight.”
Feeling lightheaded with relief, she dismounted. And no sooner had she set both feet on the ground than the meadow faded, then the Hunt faded, and last of all, the Huntsman faded away, leaving them all standing in the decimated concert hall.
The place was an absolute wreck. Piled high with the bodies of the monsters and their Queen, bullet holes riddled the walls, and there was nothing left of the furnishings, sparse as they had been, that was bigger than a finger. And Nan looked around, and suddenly realized that, although there were many wounded or injured, no one had died.
She sat down abruptly where she was, as Sarah picked her way around the edge of the room to get to where the seven girls were still lying in their tangle of bodies. Nan was wearing the ordinary men’s clothing—riding jodhpurs, a heavy woolen tunic, boots, and a helmet borrowed from the soldiers—that she had been wearing before her transformation. Sarah, too, was back to her divided skirt and jacket. And Neville and Grey were their normal sizes. They both flew down from the rafters, Grey going straight to Sarah’s shoulder. Neville landed in a clear spot, hopped over to her and begged for a lap. She made room for him, stroking him, too exhausted to feel any relief.