Angrah opened her mouth, her eyes hungry, famished for revenge. Then, without warning, the sound of a screech pierced the air.
“What in the damnable dark?” Cal said aloud as he beheld a sight he never dreamed to hope for.
“The Oweles!” Deryn said excitedly. “The Oweles have come for us! Oh, thank our Great Father!”
Cal watched in awe as the mighty Oweles collided with the dragon. Talons ripped and tore into flesh. Feathers and fangs alike clashed and bit, ravaging with an intense ferocity.
“Cal!” called the voice of Astyræ from up above.
He looked up and saw her there atop Uriel, beckoning for him to move from the center of the ring of fire. As he did, the lord of horses landed on the ground below, and Cal held his majestic white head in his hands for the briefest of moments. “Thank you,” he sighed in gratitude.
“Cal!” Astyræ shouted at him. “Hurry!”
Cal looked at the soldiers of the Raven Army that began to rush in, now not a dozen paces from them. He held tightly to the mane of the white horse and threw his leg up and over the saddle.
“Fly now!” Cal urged.
Uriel beat his wings, and as he did, the flames of the green fire began to dampen and extinguish in the wake of his righteous wind. The lord of horses took to the air as the Raven army overtook the hill of the dead dragon.
“Thank you!” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “That was … I mean, I thought we were—"
“We aren’t,” she interrupted him with a kiss upon his cheek.
He smiled. “Alright then. Thank you.” Cal looked to the battle that raged in front of and below him. The blasts of green fire and the scourge of razored talons rending the sky with their bloodlust above and the collision of Ravens and Rams below.
Hail, Calarmindon Bright Fame.
A familiar screech sounded inside his head as a white-winged bird soared alongside the lord of horses.
And hail to you, Uriel, Lord of the Tarrthála and brother to our cause. I, Edur, bring you tidings from the Watchers.
“Master Owele,” Cal said with head bowed. “You have saved us all.”
I have watched over you upon each leg of your journey as the THREE who is SEVEN has commanded. I have seen, and will see, to the carrying out of His will alone.
“And what is the will of the THREE who is SEVEN, Edur?” Cal asked as he held tight to the mane of the white horse.
His will for me is to bring aid to the lost children of Ádhamh in their time of need.
Cal watched in amazement as another mighty bird flew before the entrenched forces of Shaimira and beat his wings against the violent, green fires of the dragon. So powerful were the winds issuing forth that the men had to cling to their gilded helms for fear of losing them amidst the gale. Within moments, the fires that had ravaged man and mountain had all been extinguished in the wake of the wings of the Owele Haizea, the “Wind of God”.
“Uriel!” Cal spoke to the horse lord. “Quickly now, back to the cleft in the rock … we have to help them all, we have to find the light.”
Horns began to blow, and the mighty dragon Angrah retreated back into the ranks of the Raven army. The Oweles circled overhead, watching as Navid's men came barreling down the highlands and collided with the vanguard of the Sorceress’ men.
Do not be afraid, children of Ádhamh! The screeching words of Ruarc “Storm Words” resounded. For a new light is near, and by it all shall truly see!
A horn blast from within the Nocturnal ranks rang out a second time, and a volley of black darts, thousands strong, was let loose upon the men of Shaimira. Crashes and screams and blood-soaked gasps could be heard as both man and ram alike fell under the assault.
Ram and Raven fought relentlessly, metal against metal, as desperate hope pounded against thoughtless destruction.
Johanna watched from the mountainside. She saw her commanders give their orders and fire their arrows. She saw them run through a sea of evil with their lances buried to the hilt in the black blood of the Raven army. She watched as dozens and then scores of men at a time were cut down in the field of battle against an army that far outnumbered them.
It was the sight of the Owele Zigor, “Punishment”, with a boulder clenched between his armored talons, that allowed the words of Ruarc to flicker in the darkness of her doubt. The mighty Owele swept fast and low, releasing the massive stone with such force and such speed that it plowed a cut right through the ranks of the enemy.
Owele after Owele began to follow suit, soaring in from the peaks of the Itxaro to drop a payload of retribution upon their foes. Arrows came faster and in greater number, and though rocks found their marks, so too did the black barbs of the Ravens cut down the assault from above.
Edur turned his violet gaze down upon the Nocturnals, his eyes ablaze in righteous fury, though no protest dared to pass the beak upon his holy face.
“Fire!” called the Queen of Shaimira. “We have got to drive them back from Navid’s men! Cut them down!”
Goran looked to his brothers, some bleeding heavily, while Gvidus tended to his badly burned arm. He peeked his head out from behind the outcropping of rocks and looked to the sky for any sign of the dragon’s return. “Well, brothers … I can’t see what sense running is going to do, and at least that damned dragon is not out there burning the hell out of us all.”
“Aye,” Oren agreed.
“And those birds?” Alon added. “What in the damnable dark are they?”
“I’m not rightly sure,” Goran said in reply. “Though they appear to be rather friendly at the moment.”
“Aye,” Oren agreed.
“What about Yasen?” came the voice of another.
Goran thought on it before he spoke. “He is out there. Bewitched, if you ask me.”
“Can’t we go get him, then?” Alon asked, innocently enough.
“Aye,” Oren answered.
“Well, let’s be on with it then,” Gvidus said, wincing and grunting in wounded exasperation as he stood to his feet.
“Aye,” Goran answered.
“Aye,” came the reply of the remaining woodcutters.
They grabbed their axes and cinched their belts, and at the nod from Goran’s large head, the men of the North let out a blast from their horns and a terrible yell, and then ran into the fray.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The great courtyard door burst open in a storm of metal and splintered wood, and the cold, ominous winds of the North whipped up the stairs and into the great hall, blustering into the flaming hearth of the Halvard.
Vŏlker tightened his grip upon his mighty war hammer, and through gritted teeth he spat doom upon the horde of Ravens coming up to him through the breached door.
“Ye have come for your death, now, have ye?” the giant growled. “I’ll have me vengeance for me HlÍf!” And with a soul chilling shout, the giant let loose a fury of swings, snapping necks and collapsing helms of the invading army.
“Vŏlker!?” came a shout from the stairs behind him. “Are you alright?”
But the giant paid little heed to the concern of his friends as he piled body after broken body upon the stone floor of the hall.
The clanking of the siege scorpions could be heard over Vŏlker’s vengeance, as more spikes with more ropes were fired at the towers above.
Harmier risked a peek out from the protection of the rounded stairwell at the back of the great hall, and his heart nearly fell into despair at the sight of so great an army. The merchant fired a lone arrow that pierced the eye of a nearby attacker before he turned and ran back up the flight of stairs and into the armory above.
“What is it, Harmier?” Georgina asked as he rushed in, joining the few who had nervously entrenched themselves behind toppled tables and barrels of lamp oil, with their bows drawn and at the ready. “What is happening?” she begged in her bravest little girl voice.
“It is lost,” he said as he looked at his worried friends. “The door is breached
, the enemy will soon be upon us all.”
“What?” came the shaking voice of an older woman.
“What do you mean, it is lost?” Georgina demanded. “I can still hear Vŏlker!” she shouted in a frightened cry. “What do you mean, Harmier?!”
But the merchant dropped his bow and ran out past the door up to the battlements, fear overtaking his senses as he searched for a way of escape.
Arrows flew up from the ground below, and the remnant did their best to release what repellant they might down upon the army below. Harmier looked at the vast horde below and saw the doom that waited for them, hunger and bloodlust glowing in their sickly green eyes. He walked, stunned by the terror that he beheld, not heeding the danger around him, without so much as a crouch to hide himself from the angry bolts that buzzed furiously overhead.
It was Portus that spotted him first, as the large tanner had been desperately trying to burn the siege ropes that hung from the west tower near where Fryon was still grieving. “Harmier!” he shouted to his friend. “Harmier! You must get low! What are you doing?”
The rest of the remnant looked up from their targets below and saw the pale, panic-stricken merchant, walking obliviously through the storm.
“Harmier!” Margarid shouted out to him. “Harmier, get down!”
“It is lost,” he began to shout back at them. “It is lost … it is all lost!”
“Harmier!” Michael shouted. “Get low, you fool!”
“It is lost … it is lost!” he continued as bolts zipped murderously past him.
“What are you talking about?” Michael shouted, furious at this display of recklessness in the midst of a battle.
“The enemy has breached the hall, and the army of darkness has come for us all!” he said as grief-filled tears ran down his cheeks.
Portus ducked low and ran towards his friend, tackling him to the stone floor as a score of raven-fletched arrows zoomed just overhead. “Are you mad?” the tanner shouted at his friend. “They are going to kill you!”
“They are going to kill us all!” Harmier screamed as spittle flew from his trembling lips, and tears fell from his bloodshot eyes.
“And you would just let them?” Portus said, his sizable brow furrowing in confusion at the posture of his merchant friend.
“Why resist, Portus? Why drag out the torture of life when death has so certainly marked us all with its doom,” he said as he struggled against the large calloused hands of his friend.
“What are you saying?” Portus asked as he relaxed his hold a bit.
“Let me be, Portus!” the merchant screamed and spat. “The Ravens have come to pick my body clean, and I would rather not suffer the torture any longer than I must!”
“What?” Portus asked, all the more confused.
“Let me be!” he said with a violent shove of desperate strength, causing the tanner to raise up above the merlons that sheltered them. As he did, a half dozen bolts pierced the ancient bronze armor that Portus wore, biting deep into the flesh of his side.
“Portus!” Margarid shouted and screamed. “No!!!”
Michael ran towards them, arrows flying past as he tried to get to his friend.
“Why?” Portus asked in shock as he pulled his hand from his side and beheld the crimson stain of his leaking life.
“Let me be,” Harmier said, rising to his feet and surveying the hopeless scene before him. “Just let me be.” Before anyone could stop him, he took a step out from between the merlons and threw himself down into the throng of Raven soldiers that waited for him at the base of the Halvard wall.
“Harmier, no!” came the shouts of his friends.
Portus began to cough as blood spurted from his lips. Margarid leaned back against the safety of the wall as she held and stroked the head of her dying friend. “Portus, no! You are going to be alright! Right, Michael?” she begged, her beautifully sad eyes now wet with tears. “Right? He is going to be just fine… you’ll see!”
Portus coughed again and blood leaked down his chin. He struggled to speak as the gurgles of death came for his body. “He said the hall was lost. We’ve got … to … we’ve got to help Vŏlker.”
“Shhh. Rest now, Portus. Rest now, my sweet friend,” Margarid cooed as she dabbed his bloody face with the hem of her dress.
“Portus, I am so sorry,” Michael whispered.
“Ahhh!” The scream of a little girl sounded from the direction of the armory.
“Go,” Portus replied.
Michael looked back at the entrance to the armory and then reached for the hand of his dying friend. “Seek the light, my friend,” he said with a sad squeeze, and then ran, crouched, towards the sound of the scream.
As he came upon the barricade, he saw half a dozen Raven soldiers, felled and bleeding their blackened blood upon the ancient floor outside of the armory. He angled himself against the doorway, where he could see both the stairs going down to the great hall as well as the battlements atop the wall.
“Are you alright?” he asked the two ladies who were entrenched within, arrows drawn and aimed at the opening before him.
They were too stunned to answer him. The sounds of Vŏlker’s mighty hammer and enraged curses could still be heard from the chamber below, but they could also hear the sounds of more boots upon the stairs.
“They are coming again,” Michael said as he notched an arrow to his bow string and readied himself for whatever torment came next. The sight of the green glowing eyes and the muted iron of the Ravens’ blades glinted out from the darkened bowels of the stairwell. Without so much as a single whisper, the weary remnant of Haven fired their arrows to defend their position.
“Michael!” came the tear sodden voice of Margarid. “They are on the wall!”
He turned his head to look out past the opening and saw that several of the damned devils had climbed a rope and scaled the Halvard wall, headed straight for the bleeding body of Portus and the lady Margarid. He notched his arrow and loosed it through the back of the helm of one of the invaders, just as three more came up the stairs into the armory. Two of them met their doom from the volley already fired, but the other leaped at Michael with a broad blade, narrowly missing his throat.
“Michael!” Georgina shouted at him as he drew his blade just in time to parry the thrust of the Raven soldier.
Screams came from atop the battlements, but he had neither the time nor the wherewithal to turn and see whose screams they were. More invaders came rushing up the stairs, and Georgina did her best to pierce their advance with her own arrows while Michael swung his blade and buried it into the belly of the beast that assaulted him.
A scream rose up again, and this time he was certain that it was the lady Margarid. He saw her fire upon one of her assailants, but another followed right behind the one she had just taken down. Margarid reached for another arrow, but her quiver was empty. The Nocturnal raised his blade, his sickly green eyes glowing with a hunger to devour the life from her. All that stood between his blade and her body was the pierced body of her friend the tanner.
“No!” she screamed. “Michael!”
Portus, using the very last of his strength, reached his massive hand up to catch the black blade before it buried itself in the amber-haired head of his screaming friend. His hand found iron, and just as the sharpened edge of the sword cut through flesh and bone, the point of an arrow shot through the mouth of the Nocturnal and sent him in a heap to the mob army below.
Michael ran, his bow still in his hand, and his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest. “Margarid! Margarid, are you alright?” He tripped and stumbled to his knees, nearly crawling on all fours to get to her. “The blood!” he shouted. “There is so much blood! Are you…?” He tried to speak through worried labored breath. “Are you alright?”
She nodded and sobbed. The blood of her friend had soaked her body and covered her face. The black blade of the Nocturnal still protruded from the chest of the tanner as his fingers laid scattered upon
the battlement floor.
“Oh, Portus,” Michael said through his own tears. “Thank you.” He looked at her and carefully helped her up and away from their large friend's dead body.
“Michael! There!” Celrod shouted and pointed toward the same siege rope that had given entrance to the enemy.
“Burn it!” Celrod shouted at him.
Michael looked about and saw a torch at the entry to the armory still burning in the grip of the iron sconce.
“Stay here!” He ordered. “Shoot everything you see!”
He ran towards the torch, and as he came close to the armory doorway his foot nearly slipped in a puddle of slick wetness. Worry was heavy upon his mind as he feared the worst for his friends who were so bravely defending them from inside. But the smell of leaking lamp oil calmed his worry and gave him cause to hope.
“Georgina … are you hurt?” he shouted as he sniffed the wetness that soaked through his leather gloves.
“No, we are alright … but we don’t have many more arrows left, Michael,” she said, as bravely as she could muster.
Just then, a loud, soul-chilling scream reverberated from below. Not a moment later, a great crash sounded upon the ground below them.
“Vŏlker?” Georgina cried. “Vŏlker, no! Not you, too!”
“What now?” the old woman asked, terrified. “We haven’t the arrows to repel the whole bloody Raven army!”
The smell of lamp oil caught his nose again, and he knew in an instant what needed to be done. “The two of you, get out here, and stay low! Grab what you can to hide behind, and fire whatever you have at anything that comes at you.”
“What are you going to do, sir?” the old woman asked.
Without so much as a word, Michael slammed his blade into the side of a barrel, spilling oil down the stairs as he did. He toppled the large barrel and sent it bouncing and crashing into the great hall below. The sounds of the enemy could be heard as they began to march up from below. Michael reached up and grabbed the torch from the sconce, and with a silent prayer on his lips, he threw the fire upon the lake of oil.
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 30