La shifted in her saddle, wiping a sweaty palm against her trousers. She couldn't help but think the horses knew better than the men - and women, for here she was despite her better judgment - riding them. That black horde of Fallen kingdoms… they had swallowed up her people after taking one fortress, and she still had no concept of how they could have let it happen. They would never have given up without a fight, even without the active help of their gods. So what beneath heaven had convinced them…?

  She hadn't been there. She'd been halfway across the world, convincing the Jyo Republic to join this foolish coalition. Foolish. They'd had such high hopes. Harah had such high hopes, but now, looking out at that wall of black and surrounded by horses snorting and trembling with fear, only one thought followed the memory of Harah's impassioned speech.

  He was wrong. This was a mistake. We're all going to die.

  "Who invited them?"

  The muttered question startled her out of her grim thoughts, and she glanced sideways at the mounted warrior next to her. He was looking back towards the hills, and the little banners that were scattered across them behind the main bulk of the armies.

  Ah.

  A new one had risen in the last half hour, red and white, circle-and-stars. The symbol of the Godless.

  "We need all the men we can get," someone on the other side of La said, though his tone was forced. "I wouldn't question it."

  More muttering spread through the mounted soldiers as more noticed the newcomers. La heard the same sentiment a half dozen times. Their god abandoned them. We need the gods. We can't trust their help.

  They had been Yyle's personal mission, to show a truly united world standing against the evil one. It crushed at La's heart that her friend wasn't here to actually see it accomplished (she'd vanished last night after Harah's last little speech) for even with the muttering and distrustful glances, no one moved to refuse the Godless' aid. The newcomers were forming up in companies, each beneath a different variation of their banner representing a different clan or people who followed the Godless' creed. The entire United Front in microcosm.

  A horn blew across the plains, distant and piercing. La tensed - the enemy wasn't supposed to be ready yet! She instinctively looked up, locking her eyes on the soaring Tili and wishing she could see through the bird's eyes like Harah could. There was a stirring behind her, a shifting in the unwieldy machine of the Front as soldiers hurried to finish their preparations and get in formation.

  She wiped her hands off again, then slid them into her metal-backed gloves. She glared out across the distant line of black, feeling sick and angry in the same sudden moment.

  Harah had wanted their group to spread out and stand with different armies, to prove something. Long ago, he may have been onto something. Now… it was the same thought, the same ugly dark thought repeating in her mind.

  He was wrong. This was a mistake.

  We're all going to die.

  Movement drew her gaze. It was hard to see what was happening at this distance, but the Fallen were moving… shifting…

  A familiar sound sent ice through La's veins. The terrible, terrible sound of screaming horses, carried faintly on the wind.

  Shouts went up behind her, and off to her right sounded the signal drums of the Jyun army. A messenger on horseback galloped past, not even slowing as he passed La's company-leader, but shouted over his shoulder,

  "They're charging! The enemy is charging!"

  Now?!

  La didn't pray anymore - she hadn't for a year - but as the vague movement on the black enemy line began drawing nearer, she broke. She couldn't even think of which god to petition, so she included all of them.

  Gods ours and theirs… drag them all, I need my faith back for this.

  Chapter Two: Give Me the Sway-Backed Nag

  The horses were nearly mad with fear. They needed every Whisperer in the army to keep them from stampeding - in this state, they would be of no use in combat. And yet, the Fallen had brought them anyway.

  Chyren stepped up to the fence of the crowded corral, the stench of horse overpowering that of smoke and sweat. The animals were miserable, afraid, and hungry. Once, the mere sight of creatures in such obvious distress would have made him furious.

  But things were different than they had once been. A part of him wished he could see them all dead, here and now. He'd do it himself, gladly. The rest of him, though, trembled in fear at what that would mean.

  It wasn't fear that made his fingers tremble as he gripped the wooden plank of the hastily-constructed fence. The involuntary urge to dig his nails into the wood fought and nearly overwhelmed his actual efforts to loosen his grip. It was getting worse, that urge that tensed his muscles and weighed on his bones. He could not put this off any longer. He dared not.

  The Whisperer in charge of this particular area approached him with hurried, anxious steps. He had been told Chyren would make the rounds, of course, but he obviously hadn't expected to be the first stop on those rounds. Why should he? Chyren had ordered all the army's horses sorted by breeding, experience, and training, and this was where they kept the lowest of the low. Packhorses and worse, the dregs not even strong enough to haul a wagon.

  To Chyren's gray eyes, they were the closest he could find to a glimmer of hope. A chance of salvation.

  "My lord! Ah, how may we serve you?"

  Poor man.

  Chyren tore his gaze away from the animals - those hateful animals - to glance at the Whisperer. Onyx skin, pale eyes… like La. No, don't think about her. But that meant the man knew his horses. Those people were almost as obsessed with the creatures as the Kyres were.

  "Is this where you keep your most useless animals?" Chyren asked, speaking through the break as his throat disobeyed him. It was uncomfortable, like rubbing sandpaper against his voice, but he was getting used to it. The Whisperer, on the other hand, flinched when Chyren's fairly average baritone switched without warning to that ungodly rumble, that two-voiced echo…

  "I– yes, my lord. Yes. We had to gather them somewhere…"

  That inspired a reaction deep inside Chyren's chest: the man's timid voice, almost a whimper, as he addressed him. Chyren hated it. His fingers clenched reflexively against the emotion, finally digging into the wood. They splintered under the sudden surge of strength.

  Hurry.

  He returned his gaze to the horses to examine them more closely. Some were old, most mixed-breed, a few mules… there! Off on its own, lying down in the grass. That was his answer.

  "Give me that one."

  The Whisperer drew in a breath, perhaps to question, but thought better of it. Wise. Chyren didn't wait for them to fetch the animal - he vaulted the fence and walked through the ruined field, his eyes locked on the crooked, weak old mare who looked too tired to even run away. The other horses shied away from him, but she just made a halfhearted attempt to stand when he drew near, her eyes wide with fear.

  For a moment, pity almost outweighed his grim dislike for the pathetic animal. She didn't deserve this.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered to her, more out of tradition than actual regret, and grabbed her mane. "You're his."

  It tore out of him like molten rock, fluid and heavy and alive with malice. His fingers lost all strength, his knees buckled, and he fell to his knees next to the horse as she screamed in pain and terror. He closed his eyes and did not open them again until the screaming cut off into dead silence. He had seen it before; he didn't want to see it again.

  A shiver ran through him as a familiar chuckle replaced the eerie silence. Low, rumbling, the voice that slipped too often into his own now dominating the horse's throat.

  "You never fail to amuse, little rider."

  He felt sick. It was never going to work. Nothing ever worked. Reluctantly, he took a steadying breath and raised his head.

  The nag had gotten to her feet, her back still crooked, her bones still showing, but now… none of that mattered. She loomed over him, eyes gleaming with the soul of a devil, muscles tense with unnatural strength, mane and tail flickering with torn ribbons of the darkness he wore like a cloak.

  Maeltore. The Fallen God. That was how he had introduced himself at the height of Chyren's despair, at the beginning of the end. Chyren didn't know if he was a god, or a demon or some other accursed spirit, but it didn't matter in any case. Maeltore was his curse - inescapable - but now, for a short time, the curse would carry him.

  Strength, Chyren's own strength, finally returned after the sudden departure of the devil-steed's spirit, puny in comparison but such a glorious relief in its mundanity. He had lost his grip on the nag's mane in the transition, but now he grabbed Maeltore's crooked knee to pull himself up. The horse stomped a back hoof impatiently, the force of it throwing mud into the air.

  "I hunger, rider. No more stalling."

  Chyren wished he'd thought to bring a saddle as he swung himself up onto the horse's bony back, but Maeltore was right. Now was their chance. Maeltore needed no harness or instruction anyway; he always seemed to know what Chyren was thinking and, when their intentions aligned, he did not mind going where his rider desired. The possessed horse trotted confidently over to the fence and easily jumped it, stopping right in front of the now wide-eyed, terrified Whisperer.

  "Gather your horses. Upon my command, prepare to release them," Chyren ordered, his voice once more wholly his own but just a little weaker for it. He knew how he must look, how he must sound. Dark circles beneath his eyes, too-long unkempt hair and week-old stubble he hadn't even attempted to trim of late, and that forgettable voice with a wobble that betrayed how gods-cursed tired he was…

  Hardly the image of the unstoppable conqueror the rumors claimed. Rumors he had, curse him, allowed and encouraged.

  If people ran, they might live. If they stood their ground, they would die.

  He refused to look at the army - armies - gathering across the plains. He knew who and what they were because of the scouts, but he didn't want to feed the black pit in his stomach by actually seeing it. His mental visualizations were bad enough.

  Maeltore's bones moved weirdly beneath him, muscles writhing, as the fallen god wrestled with the mare's physical body, but the beast still moved with the utmost confidence as it trotted over to the nearest command tent, a banner flying above it to indicate the presence of royalty. Chyren didn't try to guide him elsewhere. He didn't have the energy for a fight, and where else would he go? Maeltore, even in his departure, had left Chyren feeling drained and empty, like he was in the throes of some wasting illness.

  "Ha. Then eat something. We're going to the final victory and there will be no more rest - you'll need your strength."

  The very thought made Chyren's stomach twist in on itself, but the horse was right. As they passed one of the smaller company camps, Maeltore paused. The time for a morning meal was long over, but Chyren could smell leftovers slowly burning over a neglected fire.

  This army is a mess.

  Eyes followed them as Chyren slid off Maeltore's back to claim the charred flatbread and, reluctantly, some dry jerky. Eyes followed him as he forced the food down and followed the impatient horse on up the hill, his hands too full to remount now. Following his horse… like a child scurrying after a disapproving parent…

  Messengers scrambled around them as they neared the forward command tent, on foot since all their steeds were indisposed. Those were the two areas in which the Army of the Fallen had remained organized - messengers and line of command. Chyren had helped come up with the relay system they used to get commands across the army quickly, but the rest was up to the coordination of the involved nations' existing military structures, with an extra position right at the top.

  When Maeltore wanted to war, they warred. There was no discussion, no diplomacy, no compromises.

  "Lord Conqueror! Welcome!"

  Chyren recognized the voice, but he could not remember the man's name. They were all just Fallen Kings now, representing kingdoms that barely existed. The war-loving king-commander in Forward Command was a vile, despicable man, but he kept the soldiers moving. Chyren tore a piece of jerky off with his teeth and began working on the resilient slab, nodding curtly to the men standing guard as he entered the pavilion. The Fallen King inclined his own head in Chyren's direction and the officers accompanying him saluted, but any more formalities were skipped over.

  "The enemy prepares. How long will you wait?" rumbled Maeltore, the distant light of his pale white eyes gleaming out of the nag's brown orbs.

  "Our forces haven't finished gathering," the Fallen King replied; answering Maeltore, addressing Chyren, and avoiding looking at either. "Erab's knights are still a day out since their horses–"

  "We attack now."

  The king and his officers all looked up, their expressions a predictable mix of shock, annoyance, and resignation. Chyren locked eyes with the king, silently daring him to disagree. Maeltore snorted in eager anticipation, half-rearing to beat the air with his hooves.

  "Ye-es! Now," he nickered, his pale eyes widening.

  Chyren pointed back, towards the distant armies he refused to look directly at. "Tchek and Lach are out there. Every day we spend waiting, organizing, preparing, they will be doing the same, and their armies are better trained than this rabble. We do nothing but help them by stalling. Our goals are better served by attacking before they are entrenched."

  "With all due respect, that is not how war–"

  "This isn't war!" Chyren snapped, and Maeltore's voice overlapped his own in dark harmony. Thank the gods, from the outside this time.

  "This is not war," the horse repeated, low and intense. "This is victory. A glorious, bloody victory. Prepare what you can, little king! The Steed of Conquerors is done waiting."

  Maeltore insisted they ride out of the pavilion, and Chyren complied. The demon rested comfortably now in the horse's scrawny body, so much so that the nag was practically impossible to see beneath the presence embodied in her. Maeltore's spirit made the gaunt, bony crookedness an aspect of his own terrible majesty, his eyes glowing from within and his ragged mane fluttering on still air, edged with darkness.

  He was still gods-cursed uncomfortable to sit on, though, so Chyren made a quick detour to the nearest quartermaster.

  The burly old man and his assistants were trying to service an entire crowd, disorganized and clamoring for weapons, but even that unruly mob parted naturally before Maeltore's hooves. In some ways, it was convenient being the only person in the entire army to have a steed - everyone knew immediately to get out of his way. The quartermaster bowed deeply when they reached him, that same instant recognition flashing across his face in the form of fear. And hatred.

  Chyren saw it, though the man hid it well. Maeltore seemed to chuckle silently at the look.

  "What can I do for you, my lord?"

  "Riding tack. The best you have."

  The quartermaster shook his head wonderingly. "We've got plenty of it. Can't quite believe we're… ah, never mind. Jou, get the set the general dropped off!"

  Maeltore waited with seemingly uncharacteristic patience while the quartermaster's men hurried around. When they were finally equipped, though, and Chyren had swung into the saddle with a sense of utmost relief, the horse took off at a brisk trot without waiting for direction. Towards the center of the army, the rocky rise that gave the best view of the low-rolling plains.

  "No more stops. No more distractions."

  "No more," Chyren whispered, and his gaze followed a messenger scurrying past. "The horses should be prepared by now."

  Maeltore chuckled again, deep and rumbling so his sides vibrated with the sound. "You delight me, little rider. Your schemes breathe the same air as Chaos Incarnate."

  Chyren shuddered.

  "What of the emissary? Have you spoken to her?"

  No.

  He didn't want to think about that. Maeltore knew he didn't want to think about that. It, and the armies gathering against them, and so many other things that weren't right here, right now, in front of him.

  "Forget her," he said, and realized his mouth was dry. It was the bread and jerky. "There are no terms they could offer that we would accept."

  The horse did not respond, but he was pleased. Chyren could feel it, even now that the spirit had vacated his own body. Every time Maeltore left Chyren for a new equine host, it felt like he left traces behind - lingering reminders of what, exactly, Chyren had gotten himself into.

  Those remnants were pleased. And hungry.

  Maeltore broke into a run near the bottom of the jagged spur of rock, charging up through all the officers and lords and advisers who had gathered for what they presumed to be a war counsel. They were wrong.

  "Send word!" Chyren shouted over his shoulder as Maeltore ran past them. "Release the horses, drive them towards the enemy, and ready your men!"

  "GO!" screamed Maeltore, and his voice echoed from the top of the spur. All across the war camp, nervous horses finally broke. "CHARGE!"

  ~

  There were no riders.

  Harah saw it from above through Tili's roving gaze, and a creeping cold ran up his back. The enemy thundering across the plains towards them were not the armies of the Fallen.

  Ten thousand terrified horses in one horrible, wild stampede, mad with the fear of a Fallen god. Despite that, they stayed strangely focused. They were charging directly at the Kyres' cavalry.

  At La.

  Chapter Three: To Victory and Blood

  The horses crushed themselves against the defenders' line, driven by a fear stronger than animal sense. Chyren could not avoid it any longer. From atop his spur, surrounded by the army rushing to form cohesive companies, he had no choice but to look. And once he saw it, he could not tear his gaze away. The United Front. The most powerful nations of the world Unfallen… arrayed against him. And they were already dying.

  The horses' fear spread like a plague, sweeping over the Kyres' cavalry. It was a small mercy that Chyren could not see well enough to watch individuals getting thrown and trampled by their own steeds, that he was too far away to hear their screams, but he could imagine them. The chaos of the assault was more than evident even at this distance, and it was only the beginning.

 

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