She crawled back up to the top of the rise and watched that fury suck men into itself. Watched others, caught by the edge of it, flung aside as if they were nothing more than dry leaves. Archers fired into it, but nothing touched the center of that storm, and men who hesitated before turning to run couldn’t match the speed of a galloping horse.

How long could Selena channel that much power? How long before that funnel of earth and wind diminished, leaving her vulnerable to attack? How long before someone managed a lucky shot that wounded Selena or the horse, leaving the Huntress trapped?

Ashk leaped to her feet. “Archers! Now!” She fired. The men around her rose as well, firing at the companies of men who had changed direction now that the wind funnel was past them and were rushing up the rise to break through the open space and attack her people from behind.

She fired until her quiver was empty. She dropped her bow and unbuckled the quiver. They were useless to her now. But when she reached for the hunting knife in her boot, she remembered she had a better weapon.

The first man to reach the top of the rise had his throat torn open by a shadow hound.

She used her fangs to slash, her speed to dodge. She went for the throat if she could, but hamstringing a leg or tearing an arm down to the bone worked just as well to end that attacker’s ability to fight.

She saw the sword slashing down, but she slipped in the grass slick with blood and gore and knew she couldn’t dodge it. The stroke never fell, but the man did when a wild pig ripped open the back of one thigh with its tusks.

Their human weapons exhausted, the Fae used the weapons they had. Stags used antlers and sharp, cloven hooves. Wild pigs charged through clusters of men, ripping at legs with their tusks. The wolves among them gathered in packs and tore into flesh with fangs and fury. Hawks and falcons dove, raking heads and faces with their talons. And humans, who would have run from a wolf or a wild pig a few weeks ago, fought beside them now.

They slashed. They maimed. They killed.

And many of them died.

Then ribbons of fire swept down from the rise, racing through the grass, fanning out as they reached the middle of the field and swept over the catapults. The balls filled with metal and liquid fire burst, spraying the enemy with their own weapon. Wind funnels twice as tall as a man danced over the field, breaking up the enemy’s efforts to attack. Parts of the field turned soft as water was called to the surface, and men stumbled as they sank into mud between one step and the next.