Sir Jon retrieved his sword, tossing the borrowed blade back to its owner. He went to Sir Ducar, offering his hand. The knight took it, rising slowly.
“You alright?”
“I’ll live.” Sir Ducar grimaced. “At least for a little while longer.” He looked up to see a number of orcs and goblins, some climbing over the barricade while others simply burrowed through it like rodents. A handful of goblins had paused to watch the fight from above, but now that the berserker was dead, they leapt down among the soldiers, their eyes shining, their swords and spears flashing.
* * *
The timbers supporting the gate cracked. Men rushed to throw their weight against it but to no avail. With a screech of tortured metal, the hinges gave way. The gate twisted and broke. The trolls threw their massive bodies against it and the gate collapsed altogether. It fell with a splintering shriek and the trolls were inside. One troll swung the ram about like a club, crushing a man beneath it, while the other drew a massive two-handed sword and laid into the defenders.
Orcs clamored over the broken gate, howling and brandishing their swords, a dark tide of snarling faces and crimson eyes. A catapult boomed and the wall trembled with the impact. Goblin archers sent another volley of arrows over the ramparts. Arrows fell among the defenders, piercing men and orcs alike. Blayde and Rayzer fought their way along the walkway, hewing down the orcs with bloody efficiency, but others rose quickly to take their place. All around them, the world had turned to nightmare and confusion. Blayde glanced down to see a five men-at-arms fighting the troll with the two-handed sword. They cut it down with a flurry of blows, but not before it had slain three of their number. The other troll discarded the cumbersome ram and pulled out an axe the size of a plow blade. It brought the axe down on an armored solider, cutting the man in two.
Rayzer leapt from the wall, dropping lightly to the sodden earth behind the troll. He slashed the troll across the back of its ankles. The troll howled in pain, staggered, and went to its knees. It tried to turn, to smash its attacker, but Rayzer was no longer standing there. He leapt, one hand on the troll’s shoulder, spinning in the air, and landed on the ground in front of it. The troll swung its head around just in time to see Rayzer’s sword as he drove the point through its eye and into its confused brain. The troll made a short, ugly sound as Rayzer wrenched his sword free, then it shuddered, fell back, and lay still.
“Retreat!” Blayde shouted, leaping down the stairs and waving her sword above her head. “Retreat! Retreat! Everyone, fall back to the square.” Others took up the call, and townsmen and soldiers alike began falling back along the main road that cut a path through the middle of Nachtwald from the gate to the market square, while archers and spearmen tried to hold back the rising tide at the gate.
The wyvern came in low over the city, scattering the fleeing townspeople. The creature let out a long, thin cry that echoed off the walls and brought men to their knees in fear. A crossbow twanged and the thick shaft found its mark, burying the bolt into the wyvern’s flank. The beast roared, enraged, wings beating the air in fury. Blayde turned to see one of the townsmen, the same farmer who had spoken of his children and of his wife’s fury when he sometimes came home late. The man stood with a group of his neighbors, a crossbow in his hands. He reached for another bolt, but by then the wyvern was climbing away into the darkness.
* * *
The dark horde poured in through the gates of Nachtwald, a writhing mass of savage figures howling for blood. The clamor of their voices was like the wail of lost souls rising from the slave pits of Tironed-dum, the lands of the dead. Blayde and the remainder of her company fell back toward the center of town. Rayzer and Father Moram were beside her once more and, with the death of the trolls, the priest of Aedon was once again able to wield the power of his sainted patron. Father Moram unleashed a storm of lightning that left behind several smoldering corpses and taught the advancing goblins and orcs caution. They slowed their charge, licking their lips and swearing painful retribution. But the reprieve was a short one. Driven by their bloodlust and hatred, the orcs charged again, forcing the defenders to turn and flee for their lives.
At the edge of the market square, the hard-working townsfolk had dug a ditch, lining it with sharpened poles, then filled it with pitch and wood. Several men stood waiting as Blayde and her company ran past, clattering over narrow planks to the market side of the ditch. When the last of them had crossed, ahead of the pursuing orcs, the men cast their torches into the ditch, igniting its contents.
There was a loud woosh as the flames sprang up, forming a barrier 20 feet high. The orcs at the front of the pack, unable to check their mad flight, ran headlong into the fire, falling, writhing and screaming as they were consumed by the inferno. Some others were pushed in by warriors pressing from behind and met the same terrible end. Archers gathered in the midst of the market square. They drew back their bowstrings and loosed.
“That ought to teach the dogs some manners!” Blayde growled, wiping blood and sweat from her eyes.
Arrows and bolts whined through the air, disappearing into the press of snarling orcs. Some bounced harmlessly off armored torsos and steel-shod limbs, while others found their marks, sinking into exposed flesh and soft throats. The defenders were rewarded for their efforts with cries of anger and pain. The orcs fell back, retreating from the archers’ deadly shafts and the heat of the fire that barred their path.
There was the creaking of ropes and a sharp snap as a catapult launched a massive chunk of stone through the air. The deadly projectile soared over the wall, passing overhead and striking with a thud into the middle of the square, only a few yards from where Blayde stood.
“Watch yourselves! They’re moving the catapults closer.”
Flaming arrows lit the night, striking walls and igniting rooftops. The inn was on fire as were the stables across the street from it. Another huge stone, heaved by one of the catapults, struck the inn, sending up a cloud of fiery embers. The city glowed, brimming with heat and flickering light. Despite the efforts of the townsfolk, many of the buildings now burned out of control. The air was sulfurous and difficult to breathe, stinking of wood smoke and death.
Blayde turned and made her way swiftly to the far side of the square. She stood just below the castle and looked up to see a handful of men looking down at her from the gate tower, waiting for their turn to join the fight.
A sudden burst of angry cries and shouts caught her attention. She looked to her right, along the narrow street that ran to the postern gate and was stunned to see orcs and goblins filling the avenue. They were climbing over the walls like maggots over a corpse. The postern gate was breached and the dark tide of enemies was coming their way.
Sir Ducar and Sir Jon, along with a handful of men, were battling to hold them back, but losing ground quickly. A fair number of combatants slipped past the defenders, while others simply sprang into alleys or passed through empty houses, spreading across Nachtwald like a plague of locusts. A company of goblins burst onto the square, attacking townspeople and soldiers who were even now falling back away from the flaming barricade, the fires already beginning to burn low. Several orcs ran at Blayde, but they squealed and fell back again at the sight of Sir Veryan’s sword. The pale green blade pulsed with power. They fled down an alley, looking for easier quarry, but Rayzer appeared, leaping from the shadows and cut them down before they had taken a dozen steps. Her brother flashed her a mad grin, then threw himself into the thick of the fighting with wild abandon.
Blayde looked around her, finding herself at the center of a dream, a nightmare, much like the one Sir Veryan had showed to her in the font of the cathedral. Buildings burned, turning into columns of charcoal and sending clouds of thick, black smoke billowing into the midnight sky. Men and women, soldiers and farmers ran past, their eyes wide with terror, arms streaked with dirt and blood. Anguished screams filled the night, the wailing of dying men and the fiery curses of the living who still struggled to su
rvive. There were goblins and orcs everywhere, ruby eyes and cruel swords shining bright.
Blayde shook herself, dismissing the dream that clouded her vision and renouncing its portents. She was no damsel to indulge idle fancies. She would not submit to any fate but one she herself chose, the Apportioners be damned! While there was life, there was hope. She was a warrior, a knight, and she would fight until the last breath left her body. She shrugged off the momentary torpor and leapt forward, raising her sword and hewing through the neck of an orc. She screamed her fury as she cut down another and another, the great sword flashing green and humming beneath her fingers.
The blast of a horn sounded from behind her, and the rumble of thundering hooves reached her ears. Blayde swung around to see armored men on horseback issuing from the gates of Nachtwald castle. Sir Henri was in the lead, his naked sword clutched in an iron-clad fist. He saluted her as he rode past, then dug in his spurs, racing up the street to meet the dark flow of invaders.
* * *
Orcs and goblins by the score leapt over the barricade or pushed through it, hacking maniacally at the piled detritus. They boiled into the street, falling on the soldiers and townspeople gathered there, still reeling from the berserker’s attack. Sir Ducar and Sir Jon drove into them, cutting down their foes with deadly precision, but the deluge was too great and they were slowly pushed back. Arrows flew from bowstrings, striking orcs with dull, meaty thumps and dropping a handful of them in their tracks, but more crowded in behind, leaping over the bodies of their fellows and attacking with wild abandon.
Sir Jon was forced to one side, falling back to the base of the hill upon which the castle stood while orcs leapt at him from all sides, clamoring for his blood. Sir Ducar tried to reach him, but was quickly surrounded himself. His long sword hacked and chopped, severing hands and lacerating flesh. It was all the knight could do to stay on his feet while his foes pummeled him with sword strokes and stabbed at him with spears and daggers. Goblins ran past, gibbering with glee. The few townsmen and soldiers that remained in their company fought to keep them back but were quickly overrun. The world swam in a crimson mist, accentuated by the gleam of hateful eyes and glittering fangs.
Sir Ducar staggered to his knees, still lashing out with his sword as he tried to regain his footing. Somewhere, close at hand, he heard the sudden braying of a horn and the earth trembled beneath him. He fell back, struggling and gasping for breath. Screams and howls of pain rose up around him, and then he was free from the crush of the horde. He rolled over and heaved himself to his feet, spitting blood and looking wildly around for some foe to strike.
A column of armored men flashed past him, plowing into the sea of goblins and orcs like the prow of a ship cleaving through the waves of a stormy sea. Sir Henri was at the head of the column, his sword flashing in the firelight as he hewed and slashed at the grasping arms and upturned faces. Unmanned by this sudden onslaught, the orcs tried to retreat, falling over each other in disorganized panic. But they were packed into the street like cattle, with no means of escape, and the armored horseman rode over them, crushing limbs beneath their hooves.
A minute passed. Surely it was no more than that. Sir Henri and his company of horsemen cut a bloody swath to the end of the street, driving against the orcs with lance, spear, and sword, sending their attackers racing back out the postern gate and into the darkness. It was a bloody affair but effective. Sir Ducar found Sir Jon standing at the base of the hill, leaning on his sword. The ground beneath his feet was wet with blood and gore, the street littered with dead and dying orcs and goblins.
Sir Henri reined in beside them. Steam rose from his mount’s flaring nostrils and the horse’s flanks were wet with blood and sweat.
“Your timing could not have been better, brother. I’m not sure Sir Jon and I could have taken them all.”
“That was my thought as well,” Sir Henri said, “but that won’t keep them at bay for long. Come away. We make for the castle gates!”
* * *
Blayde cleaned her sword on a fallen orc’s tunic and then waded through the carnage to the end of the square. Flames still rose from the barrier at the other end, but they were nearly extinguished. Orcs waited on the other side. In a matter of moments, they would be across and come at them again.
“We’ve lost the town,” Sir Henri shouted. The knight’s armor was dented and streaked with blood and viscera, his sword red to the hilt. “We have to fall back to the castle now!”
The knight was off his horse, approaching her from the street, with Sir Jon and Sir Ducar beside him, while the remaining mounts and armored cavalry rode over the bridge and into the castle.
Blayde nodded her head. There was nothing else to be done. The town was overrun and they did not have the men or resources to retake it. Their best option now was to hide themselves behind castle walls and try to hold out until morning, although what difference the dawn would make she could not say. Still, somehow, it seemed important.
“All of you,” Blayde shouted, waving to the remains of her small force. “Into the castle, now! You’ve fought well, but we must retreat to the barbican and hold there.”
Rayzer came toward her from across the square, his naked torso spattered with gore, his bloody swords clutched in his fists. Father Moram was with him. The priest’s robes were filthy and he walked like a man who had aged a decade in a matter of a few hours.
“I have seen too much death already this night,” the priest said. “I’m not sure I can stand any more.”
“You must. This battle is far from over.” Blayde glanced up at the archers who waited on the wall, above the gatehouse, ready to shoot any foe that drew near. Townspeople and soldiers hurried through the opening, supporting wounded neighbors and nursing injuries of their own. They had lost many.
“All this was pointless,” Sir Jon grumbled. “There was never any chance we might prevail against such numbers. You can see that as well as I.”
“Jon.” Sir Ducar put a restraining hand on his brother knight’s shoulder. “Leave it be, for Nurta’s sake.”
Sir Jon shook him off and moved to within an arm’s length of Blayde. “We should never have attempted to hold the city. It was a foolish waste of lives. This woman—”
“Take another step toward my sister,” Rayzer said, “and I’ll remove your ignorant head from your shoulders.”
“Everyone, please—” Father Moram tried to move between them.
“This woman knows far more of war than you do, you pompous ass!” Blayde pressed the priest back, albeit gently, and moved forward to confront Sir Jon. He half raised his sword, but she knocked it away and shoved him hard. Sir Jon’s eyes widened in surprise at the force of the blow. He very nearly went down but managed to keep his feet by taking a quick step back.
“What would you have of me? Simply open the gates and let the devils in unopposed? That is the coward’s way, the fool’s way! If they want this city, they must bleed for it.” Blayde’s eyes shone in the darkness, twin coals of emerald fire. “The orcs have already lost far more than we, and we will make them pay for every step they take. War is terrible business, Sir knight. If you can’t handle it, you shouldn’t be here!”
“You’re going to get us all killed!” Sir Jon shouted. “How dare you question my courage, you trumped up sprite! I have fought and bled as much as any—”
“We’re all likely to die here,” Blayde snarled. “Your continued whining about it helps no one. I—”
“Enough!” Sir Henri moved between them and pushing them both back. He held his hands up, urging calm. “The two of you are acting like children. We’ve no time for this nonsense. There are plenty of foes all around us, without fighting amongst ourselves. I will not—”
There was a distant thrum and a crack, and a stone the size of an anvil arced over the square and fell into the midst of the company. It struck Sir Henri square in the chest, taking him off his feet and hurling him to the ground. The event was so sudden and so devas
tating that it left them all gaping in shock and surprise. Sir Jon was on his knees. He pulled off his helm, dropping both helm and sword to the ground and covering his head with his hands. He reached down to grasp the stone, but hesitated for fear of doing further injury. He looked up at Blayde.
“Help me, please! He is badly hurt.”
Blayde and Rayzer both sprang to Sir Henri’s side. Sir Ducar moved to help as well, but was hampered by his injured leg. Still, he gritted his teeth and took hold of the stone. Together the four of them carefully lifted the stone from the knight’s crumpled form and heaved it to one side.
“Aedon preserve us,” Father Moram whispered.
“He still lives,” Sir Jon said, his face betraying far more emotion than Blayde had ever seen. Sir Henri’s face was pale and twisted with pain. His eyes were open, but he appeared unable to speak. His breastplate and hauberk were a ruin of torn and twisted metal, and blood pulsed onto the ground beneath him. His chest and right shoulder were a mass of pulverized flesh and broken bone.
Blayde looked around. There were dark shapes moving in the street, and the flames of the barricade across the market square had burned low. They were out of time. The orcs and their goblin compatriots would be on them again in a matter of moments.
“We need to get him into the castle, and we need to do it now.”
The four of them picked up Sir Henri as gently as possible, but he still cried out in pain. There was nothing for it. They moved up the slope to the foot of the drawbridge, with Father Moram following close on their heels, his hammer lifted, ready to strike should the orcs attack. The rest of their company was already in the castle and the soldiers at the gate urged Blayde and her companions to make haste. They carried Sir Henri inside. Behind them the bridge groaned as it was raised and the portcullis dropped to the ground with a loud, metallic clang.
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 30