The Tyrant's Tomb

the Five Unicorns of the Apocalypse. Their leather helmets reminded me of
those worn by football players in the 1920s. The steeds’ horns were fitted
with specially designed…What would you call them? Attachments?
Imagine, if you will, massive conical Swiss Army knives, with various slots
from which sprang a convenient variety of destructive implements.
Meg and her friends slammed into a horde of vrykolakai—former
legionnaires killed in Tarquin’s previous assault, judging from their grungy
bits of armor. A member of Camp Jupiter might have had trouble attacking
old comrades, but Meg had no such qualms. Her swords whirled, slicing and
dicing and making mounds and mounds of julienned zombies.
With a flick of their snouts, her equine friends activated their favorite
accessories: a sword blade, a giant razor, a corkscrew, a fork, and a nail file.
(Buster chose the nail file, which did not surprise me.) They plowed through
the undead, forking them, corkscrewing them, stabbing them, and nail-filing
them into oblivion.
You may wonder why I did not find it horrifying that Meg would use
unicorns for war while I had found it horrifying that the emperors had used
pegasi for their chariot. Setting aside the obvious difference—that the
unicorns weren’t tortured or maimed—it was clear the one-horned steeds
were enjoying themselves immensely. After centuries of being treated as
delightful, fanciful creatures who frolicked in meadows and danced through
rainbows, these unicorns finally felt seen and appreciated. Meg had
recognized their natural talent for kicking undead posterior.
“Hey!” Meg grinned when she saw me, like I’d just come back from the
bathroom instead of the brink of doomsday. “It’s working great. Unicorns are
immune to undead scratches and bites!”
Shirley huffed, clearly pleased with herself. She showed me her
corkscrew attachment as if to say, Yeah, that’s right. I ain’t your Rainbow
Pony.
“The emperors?” Meg asked me.
“Dead. But…” My voice cracked.
Meg studied my face. She knew me well enough. She had been at my
side in moments of tragedy.
Her expression darkened. “Okay. Grieve later. Right now, we should find
Hazel. She’s”—Meg waved vaguely toward the middle of the town
—“somewhere. So is Tarquin.”