“You love that old vomit trick,” I grunt, getting to my feet, wiping slime, blood, and some of the remains of Kernel’s last supper from my flesh.

“It works,” he says, looking for his next victim.

“I could have dealt with the demon myself,” I tell him.

“I know. But I didn’t like its face.”

He whirls away, scanning the masses for another face that doesn’t take his fancy. He certainly has plenty to choose from. I fry a few more demons, then push after Kernel. I’m worried he might do something stupid in his wired-up state.

We fight desperately, more demons crossing all the time, each wave stronger than the last. I haven’t sensed any demon masters hitting the scene, but these are certainly A-plus students. They slaughter soldiers for fun, and don’t have too much hassle dispatching werewolves or mages either. We’ve already suffered severe casualties, and the battle is only minutes old.

I force my way through a pack of zombies and grab Kernel. “The lodestone!” I yell in his ear. “We have to destroy it. We can’t take much more of this.”

“It’s over there,” he shouts, pointing to his left.

I stand on my toes. All I can see are demons and zombies, a few hapless humans trapped among them. “How far?” I ask Kernel.

“A mile, maybe more.”

“How are you at flying?”

“Never tried it on this world,” he says. “But I’m game.”

Linking hands, we jump high. I’ve flown once before, with Beranabus, when he dragged me out of a plane. I’ve tried to repeat the trick a few times since, but there was never enough magic for me to tap into. Now there is, and we soar forward, shooting over the heads of the warring forces like a couple of blow-ins from Peter Pan.

Some of the more powerful beasts fire at us as we flit by. We easily deflect the balls of energy and rocks. But as we get within three hundred feet of the tunnel, a squadron of winged demons flaps into the air. We draw to a halt and eye them warily.

The demons, thirty or forty of them, hang in the air above the lodestone. They’re deliberately positioned, an aerial guard to protect the tunnel.

“There are others on the ground,” Kernel says sullenly. “More powerful than any we’ve faced so far.”

“Can we take them?” I ask.

“Maybe.” He casts an eye over the demons behind us. “But we’d have more fun if we tackled that lot.”

“This isn’t about fun,” I growl.

“Of course it is,” he laughs. “You taught me that. We’ve lost. All that remains is to take as many demons down with us as we can, and have a blast killing them.”

I scowl, but I can’t refute his statement. If Kernel has become a suicidal, kill-crazy goon, it’s because of what I’ve done to him.

“Let’s try for the lodestone,” I mutter. “If we slip past the guards and destroy it, this will be a victory to savor.”

Kernel considers that, then nods. He swoops ahead of me, issuing a challenging cry to the winged demons. With a curse, I tuck my chin down and fly after him.

The dogfight is short and vicious. The demons aren’t just airworthy—they’re powerful too. We try to zip through the gaps between them, but they’re faster than us and more naturally suited to midair maneuvers. We hit them with balls of energy and acidic, projectile puke, but although we cause damage and kill a few of them, most shrug off our blows and respond with ear-splitting shrieks, six-foot-long talons, and beaks that can rip a head clean off a neck.

Within a minute we know it’s a hopeless task. I catch Kernel’s eye, shake my head, and peel away. He follows, deciding he’d rather not be pecked to death by a pack of demonic harpies. They don’t chase us but settle on the ground, ready to launch another defense of the lodestone if threatened.

“I told you we shouldn’t have bothered,” Kernel says sulkily.

“How long can they keep that tunnel open?” I ask.

“Do I look like I’m an expert?” he huffs.

“I know you are—you’ve boasted about it often enough. How long?”

Kernel chuckles, then focuses on the area around the lodestone, studying the patches of light that are invisible to the rest of us. He sighs. “It won’t crash any time soon. I reckon it can be kept going for a few years.”

I feel sick. I take a couple of deep breaths, clear my thoughts, then turn and stomp away.

“Where are we going?” Kernel asks, tucking in behind me.

“To signal a retreat.”

“We’re going to run?”

“Can you think of another course?”

“Not really, no.”

“Then shut up and help me pull back as many survivors as we can.”

We summon soldiers, mages, werewolves, and civilians, then help them fight their way clear. We lead them to a convoy of trucks and buses that is waiting a few miles away, set in place by a forward-thinking general in case the battle went poorly. The demons chase heatedly, eager to chalk up more kills before we slip through the net. Some of the faster monsters target the convoy and clamber over the roofs of the vehicles, breaking in, causing high-speed crashes. A few perish in the flames, like the humans they targeted, but most walk away, laughing, lugging severed heads, maybe to settle down over a few mugs of blood later and compare kills with their comrades.

Kernel, Shark, Kirilli, and I do what we can to minimize the damage. The others look to us for guidance, since we’re the most powerful and experienced. We guide the trucks and buses to safety, repel the demons and zombies, spread ourselves as widely as possible. But ultimately we’re just four guys. We can’t save everyone. The losses are horrendous, in the high thousands. And they’ll get worse once the demons stabilize and branch out.

When we’ve led the troops to safety, we head for a makeshift camp where scores of medics are tending to the wounded or setting aside the dead. I howl a few times, calling the remaining werewolves to my side. When sixteen—all that appear to be left—are gathered around me, I march to a large, vacant tent. Timas joins us along the way, responding to my howls as the werewolves did. He looks drained, and he’s covered in blood splatters, but he doesn’t seem to have been injured. Some soldiers try to waylay us to ask for instructions, but I wave them aside, telling them I’ll confer with them shortly.

We sink into chairs in the tent and I look around wearily. Larry isn’t one of the sixteen werewolves, and there’s no sign of Prae Athim either.

“If you’re looking for Prae, she’s dead,” Timas says before I ask. “She perished trying to protect a wounded werewolf. I cut her head off and incinerated it, so she won’t be coming back as a zombie.”

I process the news, then ask, “What about Larry?”

Nobody answers. I doubt if anyone cares. To be honest, I find it hard to work up much sympathy either, not when so many thousands have been killed. Sorry, Larry. I hope you died well, but tough luck if you didn’t.

“What now?” Kirilli asks. I’ve never seen him look so miserable, but it’s not the type of self-pitying misery he once wallowed in. He’s sad because of what he’s seen.

“We try to pen them in,” I sigh. “Hit them with all the missiles we can. Drench the land around the tunnel with a circle of gasoline. Light it when they try to push out—fire will kill a lot of them if we add magic to the flames. Establish a perimeter of mages. Fly in volunteers, test them for magic, set new mages to work with the others. Make another assault on the lodestone when we have support.”

“How far can they travel if they break through?” Kirilli asks. “On the ship, they were confined by a bubble of magic. Is there a similar bubble here?”

“No,” Kernel says. “The energy from this tunnel streams out freely. There’s a limit to its reach, but that might be a few hundred miles in all directions.”

“Then we need to evacuate everyone within a two-hundred-mile radius,” Shark says. “I’ll talk with whoever’s in charge, set soldiers on the job, turn this into a no-man’s land.”