One of Thyran’s wizards raised its boneless hands and sent a bolt of icy power screaming toward Branwyn. She threw herself sideways to avoid it, crashed against a pile of rubble, and staggered backwards, slashing out at a twistedman that was grabbing for her.
She regained her footing in time to see Katrine, her fellow Sentinel, and Sir Olvir, an earnest draft horse of a man who served the god of justice, rush Thyran’s mount from behind. It staggered as two swords sunk into the backs of its knees; in that instant, Amris leapt with all his strength. His blade hit the center of the colossus.
Then three of the twistedmen were on Branwyn—an arrow had taken out the wizard, thank the gods—and she turned her full attention to them.
Yathana pierced the ribcage of the first with her usual ease, the metal of a soulsword divinely sharp even when the inhabiting spirit wasn’t present. One of the soldiers jabbed the second in the side with a spear—not a fatal wound but enough of a distraction that Branwyn had time to yank her sword free and plunge it into a more vital organ.
She simply slammed her head into that of the third. Its gaping maw sought purchase on her face for a futile second before Branwyn’s full weight hit it, knocking it backwards and into a hatchet that had only cut firewood a few days before.
For a few heartbeats, the world was clear around her. The construct had collapsed into a pile of corpses. The air was heavy with blood and smoke, much of it acrid: Darya, who was immune to poison, had led a squad of the twistedmen into a building and then set fire to a nasty packet of herbs.
Branwyn inhaled deeply anyhow.
There were still too many of the twistedmen, she realized. Only eight of the people she’d led still remained. She knew that she had only a few more minutes until she became flesh again, with the enhanced strength and skill of any Sentinel but no more.
And Thyran rose from the mountain of dead meat glowing with sickly fire. Olvir and Katrine stood below him: they’d been helping Amris to his feet, but now all three were still. Branwyn saw Darya start running toward them, and knew that she herself was too far away to possibly intervene.
She was going to die.
Everyone was going to die.
There was nothing to say to the soldiers around her. There was nothing to do but face her death as bravely as she could. More twistedmen were running toward them already. Branwyn braced herself, lifted Yathana—
—and saw the twistedmen freeze in place, staring at the same multicolored radiance that Branwyn glimpsed from the corner of her own eye, as it surrounded Katrine, Olvir, and Amris. Thyran’s flame froze too, when it struck the shimmer, and then went hurtling back at its creator.
They had a moment. Branwyn didn’t know why, but she knew they’d better use it.
She broke into a run, crossing the distance toward the nearest still-distracted twistedman, saving her breath but shouting a battle cry in her mind.
From beyond Oakford’s walls, she heard the clear, sonorous sound of a war-horn.
Reinforcements had arrived.
The Nightborn
On sale April 2021
About the Author
Isabel Cooper lives outside of Boston, where she spends her days editing technology research and her nights doing things best not discussed here. (Actually, she plays a lot of video games.) She likes road trips, but camping is best left to fiction.
You can find her sporadically updated blog at isabelcooper.wordpress.com.
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The Stormbringer Page 27