Lily of the valley

41

There was a gentle hiss as a thousand arrows shot through the sky, the birds of war. As they landed there was the sound of agonised cries as iron sunk into flesh. The bows were reloaded and the strings pulled back, again they flew, casting a heavy shadow across the battlefield. The earth drank death that day. An army of dwarves had been waiting over the horizon, expecting a fight, they rushed forwards. Brandishing steel and the roar of their rage. Creatures of the forest came down from the north, dryads rode on centaurs backs and witches brought down rain of fire. Before long the heath was ablaze, men and monsters fought through thick smoke. The light of day was blocked out.

The grove keeper marched towards Isolde's army, her flesh was a dazzling ever changing night sky. At her will the earth trembled and opened up, deep cracks appeared in the landscape. The earth swallowed the spider Queen's mercenaries, they tumbled down endless chasms into the planets deep centre. Dark and pagan clouds filled the heavens, a gale began to rip up tussocks and send armoured men flying. The ground became slick with rain, thick black bogs deepened and made movement impossible. The earth was fighting back. Heather twisted and unraveled, wrapping around men's ankles and pulling them into the underbrush.

Queen Isolde stood by the window and reddened, she fought not to express her fear. Thunder cackled and lightning struck the ground, slaughtering warriors. She could not have predicted the rise of the forest, nor the strength of Thea's forces.

Her army was vanquished in one stormy afternoon, war clung to the moorland like some heavy red mist. Isolde let out an agonised wail as she watched her men finally fall, everything she had worked for was gone but she was long from finished. From under the folds of her black velvet skirts she pulled a foot long silver dagger, she turned to Thea who was stood behind her and with one swift movement sunk the weapon between her ribs.

The Queen of sunlight spluttered and gasped, Isolde ripped the knife from her body and blood poured onto the flagstones. Agathe rushed to her dying mistress, sobbing and aching, warrior Kings and knights ran at Isolde to restrain her. She was lost in some berserker rage, unable to think or see clearly, all there was was pure hot anger. Isolde slashed and shouted, she slit throats and maimed great monarchs. She was a hurricane. Eventually the King of the mountain was able to get behind her and snap her neck. The powerful, manic, Queen of chaos slumped into quiet death. Katherine and Lily clung to each other like two waifs lost in a cold northern wind. Thea was dead. It was over. At last there could be peace.