As the boy crouched at the cliff’s edge–unable to take his eyes away from what was about to happen–an odd feeling came over him. His skin pricked. It felt as if all the hair on his head and nape stood straight up. An uncomfortable sensation of crawling spiders ran up and down his arms and legs.
The uncanny feeling swirled over and around and through him. He only realised a moment afterwards that the skin-nettlings and gut-clenches heralded some manner of charmed spell. A powerful one, by the feel of it. The magic was bigger and more vast than anything he had experienced up until now. He looked around, wondering at the source of the hex.
The charm had darkness within. A bleakness. A nastiness.
So much so, that he felt profound relief when it ignored him, and took itself away, downward and along the cliff’s edge. Whatever the spell was, he was not its target. Neither–it seemed–were the hobbes, nor the white ghaists, nor Caewen, nor Dapplegrim, nor even the fane-queen. The spell eddied and churned–it whispered this way and that on unseen gossamer wings. As if alive. As if hunting for flesh. And then, it settled on the draig and rider. Both convulsed. Blood torrented out of the driag’s mouth. It’s eyes turned a brilliant red, and then bled copiously. The lizardish holes it had for ears poured with blood as well.
The spell appeared to be similar to the fey-stroke that Caewen had used, days and days ago, in the boggart-holes. Except that it was something more terrible: a great death magic to put down a great beast.
The boy looked around, his mind stark with wonderment and fear.
The spell had not come from Caewen. She and Dapplegrim had pulled up short, kicking dirt from hooves, gawping blankly, mouths slightly ajar, puzzlement clear on their faces. Behind them, the fane queen was equally startled. She looked around, and up at the mountain peaks. She tensed. Perhaps she expected to be the next target of the killing magic.
He looked up too. Far away behind them, high up in the mountain, way up the cliffs, somewhere up past the slopes and thin vagaries of mist that lived on the upper slopes: there he saw it. A faint red glow that flared big and bright, much as if one of the boggart’s watchfires had been turned momentarily into a pillar of flame. It died away, until only the little red sparkling embers of the boggart-fire was left visible. Someone was sitting at a watchfire on the mountainside, far and away up above them. Whoever had cast the killing magic had done so from this vantage. That made it worse somehow. The huge beast fell forward then, flopping down onto the rocky surface quite bonelessly. As it collapsed, it gave the impression of a sack of skin, full of minced meat and old blood.
Another withering blast immediately followed. This unpleasant, nasty smelling twist of magic curled on the air, before tearing blood and viscera out of the one remaining draig. It was still on the wing when struck. It plummeted with wings twisted backwards, and it’s rider floipping about uselessly–maybe already dead–a doll of straw and rags and blood. The noise of it hitting the rocky slope below the fight was so loud that even the boy could hear it from where he was perched. It was the noise of a boulder falling, if that boulder was made of wet clay.
A thin cheer went up among the Hobbes. The knights of Athairdrost’s household faltered then, and began to hold themselves back, not retreating, but not attacking either. They formed lines and did their best to defend themselves with flash and clang of steel. It did not take long to see that the remaining column of men-at-arms and mounted soldiers were spooked. They were losing their coherence. On the slopes below, a few men broke and ran. Those who were already on the narrow ascent tried to back up, and either toppled or trampled over those behind them.
Just as quickly as the battle started, it was over.
There was no command given, as far as the boy could see. No horns blew. Rather, a panic ran through the enemy. Once a few faltered, others wavered. Once a few broke, others ran.
It was over, bar for a few enraged owls that went chasing after the fleeing troops.