drove into a storm of mimic dragons and nightshades. Already Agnus Dei's Beam blazed, shooting a ray that seared the storming nightshades.
Standing beside Gloriae, Kyrie pointed. "There's another griffin."
They ran through the snow. Men ran around them, shouting, swords drawn. Mimics crashed into the battlefield, roaring, their teeth and eyes red in the torchlight. Lightning blazed above them as the salvanae roared and fought the mimic dragons.
"Kyrie, you fly this one," Gloriae said when they reached the griffin. "His name is Malathor; he was one of Lord Molok's griffins. Fly, Kyrie! Fly now!"
Kyrie nodded and leaped onto Malathor. With shrieks and thudding wings, they soared into battle. Fire and light blazed around them. Kyrie's Beam seared through the night, and nightshades screamed and burned.
Gloriae scanned the battlefield, but the griffins had all taken flight. She saw them above—crashing into mimic dragons, swooping down to cut swamp reptiles, slashing at nightshades. On the ground around her, men and mimics still fought.
"Griffins!" Gloriae shouted. "I need a mount!"
"I'll mount you, girl," hissed a mimic, lunging toward her. She recognized the hunchbacked, warty form and matted red hair. Lashdig, the chief miner. It swiped its claws at her. Gloriae growled, leaped back, and swung her sword. Lashdig's arm flew, then came crawling through the snow toward her. She kicked it aside, spun, and cut Lashdig's legs at the stitches. The mimic fell and began crawling forward on its arms.
Gloriae raised her eyes. The nightshades were everywhere. They swarmed between the salvanae and griffins, wrapping around them, sucking their souls like a glutton sucking marrow from bones. Salvanae and griffins rained from the sky, helpless to hurt the nightshades. Agnus Dei and Kyrie shot the Beams in all directions, slicing through the demons of smoke, but they were overwhelmed.
Lashdig grabbed her leg and cackled. "You will be our slave, Gloriae." Spiders spilled from its mouth.
Gloriae kicked the creature, swung her sword, and cut off its head. She ran through the snow, hacking at mimics.
"Griffins!" she shouted.
A golden figure swooped.
Tears sprang into Gloriae's eyes.
Feathers flurried, talons glinted, and she saw her griffin.
"Aquila?" Her voice was small, hesitant. The griffin looked at her and lowered her wing.
"Aquila!" Gloriae shouted. She ran and embraced the griffin's head. "You've returned to me, girl. I thought you were dead."
The griffin cawed and tilted her head, anxious.
"Yes, Aquila, there's no time. We fly." She looked around her, ran forward, and grabbed a fallen branch the length of a lance. She leaped with the branch onto Aquila, her Beam held tight in her other hand.
"Now fly, Aquila!" she shouted over the roar of battle. Fire, blood, and lightning filled the night. "Fly like in the old days. To battle. To war. To glory. Fly!"
They soared.
The snow and blood dwindled below them, and they crashed through swarms of mimic dragons, swooping nightshades, roaring salvanae, and shrieking griffins. Blood, feathers, scales, and smoke blazed around her. Flaming arrows flew; mimics were firing them from below. Lightning flashed. Gloriae glimpsed Terra and Memoria flying to her north, raining fire upon the battle. Agnus Dei flew to the south, and Kyrie to the west, their beams rending the night. The roars, shrieks, and howls nearly deafened her.
"There, Aquila!" she shouted. "To the east. To those nightshades."
The demons of smoke and shadow were wrapping around salvanae, and the true dragons were falling fast. Gloriae snarled and dug her knees into Aquila. They shot through smoke, fire, and darkness. Gloriae nearly fell off, and she tightened her legs around Aquila as hard as she could.
She raised her Beam.
Lights shot from the skull's orbits, searing the night, slamming into nightshades.
They howled. The light turned them grey, and they shrivelled up, smoking, curling, falling. Gloriae spun the skull from side to side. Nightshades flew at her, maws opening, eyes blazing. She cut them down.
"I am Gloriae!" she shouted. "I fight for Requiem. I am her daughter. You will die before me."
Her armor was dented and dulled, its gilt chipped away, its jewels fallen. Her clothes, once priceless and embroidered with golden thread, were tattered and muddy, revealing more skin than they hid. Her lance was but a charred stick. Her griffin no longer wore gilded armor or a saddle; she rode bareback and wild. And yet Gloriae felt more powerful than ever. This was true power, she knew; this was justice and righteousness. This was the war she had always craved.
"I am Gloriae," she cried, "daughter of King Benedictus and Queen Lacrimosa, heir to Requiem. I kill for her