She scanned the long, seething mass of men ahead of them. Prince Rhohen’s icy, crackling magic filled the sky and spread alldown the line, reinforced with ice, stone, and plant magic from King Rharreth and the other troll and elf warriors.
Aeroplanes whizzed and twirled overhead. Most of the ones nearest the raging battle were those of Flight A. She recognized the aeroplanes—and the artwork—even from that distance.
Several of them seemed to be circling something on the ground below, as if marking a spot.
“That way.” Pip pointed to where one of the Flight A aeroplanes circled nearly directly ahead of them.
Uncle Thortrad shouted orders, and the dwarves shifted, forming a wedge with their shields locked and their axes raised. Uncle Thortrad called out a rhythm, and the squad of dwarves marched forward at double time, setting up a deep chant, punctuated by the pounding of their boots.
Pip matched their pace, her skin prickling as magic built around them.
As they neared the battle, dwarven magic spread before them, similar to her shield in that it was a shield like iron. But this magic was powered by the crafting, chanting rhythm of the dwarves around her, humming with the active power being funneled into it.
She mingled her shield with theirs, as she had with the dwarves in the battle for Dar Goranth.
Trolls filled the battlefield ahead of them, and as they neared, one of the trolls at the rear glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back to the fight, he was shouting orders, though the fighting men and women ahead of him didn’t seem to hear.
Not that it mattered. The dwarves reached forward with their magic, then shoved the fighting trolls with the magical shield, carving an aisle to march through.
The rhythm of the chanting and pounding boots changed as the dwarves launched from double time into a charge. Even then, they stayed in rhythm, holding their magic.
Pip found herself yelling as she charged forward, gripping her wrench. She wasn’t even sure why she was yelling. Just that it seemed like the right thing to do.
She tried not to look too closely at the bodies strewn on the ground, even as she had to look to avoid stepping on them. Her stomach churned, but as long as she kept yelling, she wasn’t tempted to vomit.
Ahead, an Alliance aeroplane swooped down, machine guns chattering, as the pilot strafed the mass of enemy soldiers. It roared back higher into the sky nearly as quickly as it had come.
The lead dwarves smashed into the front line of enemy soldiers, tossing aside soldiers even as machine gun fire pinged off the magical shield around them.
Pip’s stomach heaved at the sights. The sounds. The smells.
The dwarven rush slowed as they fought their way through the lines. Pip pressed close to the warmth of one of the draft horses, resting a hand on the horse’s shoulder.
As she stepped around one of the bodies lying on the ground, the man, dressed in a blue Mongavarian uniform, began getting up, his hand closing on his gun with its bayonet.
Pip shrieked and whacked the man with her wrench. He collapsed back to the ground.
Had she just…was he…
“Mak…” She froze, staring at the man, at the wrench in her hands. She’d always joked about a head-bashing wrench. But she’d never experienced what it actually felt like to bash a head with a wrench.
She was shaking, her stomach rising into her throat. She couldn’t do this. She had to get out of here. Had to escape. It was too much. Too loud. Too much blood.
Then Mak was there, wrapping an arm around her and tugging her to his chest, even as he kept a grip on the horses’ leads. “I got you. Just keep your shield up.”
Her shield. Pip squeezed her eyes shut and poured more magic into her shield.
Mak led her forward, and she tottered next to him, stumbling over the uneven ground. But she didn’t open her eyes more than a peek or two to check on her shield.
Then she sensed it. A strange magic brushing against her shield. It was just a trace of it, not enough to pose a threat.
The hulk of a metal machine lay a few yards away, similar to the dwarven tanks she’d seen but more rudimentary. Huge drag marks carved into the ground while the team of six horses hooked to it were sweat-slicked and breathing hard, too tired to even stir at the fighting going around them.
The dwarves set up a wedge-shaped shield of warriors and magic around the machine, keeping the Mongavarians at bay. They marched in place, knocking the flats of their axes or swords against their shields to maintain the rhythm and the magic held strong before them.
Machine gun bullets pinged off the iron shield. Mongavarian soldiers tried to bayonet it or shoot it, only for their blades or bullets to bounce off.
Pip stepped out of Mak’s grip and dashed the last few feet to the hulking thing on the tractor treads. How were they going to get this thing out of here? If those six horses were already exhausted, there was no way the two they’d brought would be able to haul it the other way.
