“To Hell with you, devil!” Ulrich cried, splitting the man’s head with a devastating chop. He staggered back, dropping his axe and grasping the broken spear that jutted from his flank. The pain was unbearable, and he could already taste the blood that began to seep into his mouth.
“Ah!” he cursed. “Not yet.” He pulled at the spear, gritting his teeth as the jagged blade tore at his flesh. His vision began to blur, and a wave of nausea came over him. Around him, he could see his kinsmen gather around him, forming a circle of protection. Ceor glared at him, his eyes wide with horror.
Though safe for the moment, Ulrich felt the impending blanket of darkness settle over him. He was spent.
His minutes were numbered.
Eamon chopped his way through the Jindala, ignoring the splashing blood that filled the air like a crimson mist. He was covered in it; friend and foe’s blood alike. But it mattered not. His only goal was reaching his friend, Ulrich, who now knelt on the ground; defenseless, but guarded by his kinsmen.
Eamon ducked a swinging blade, countering with an upward slash that disemboweled his attacker. He spun and kicked the wounded man out of the way, thrusting the Serpent’s Tongue into another man’s back. He withdrew the blade, shouldering the man off balance, and stumbled forward toward his friend and ally.
As he came nearer, he saw the look of death in Ulrich’s eyes. That same look he had displayed in the nightmare.
“No!” Eamon cried. He felt himself slowing down, as if that same thick air had surrounded him. His phantasm was becoming reality, and he knew that his knights were in danger as well.
He stopped, frantically searching the battlefield for Wrothgaar. He could not see him, but he knew he was near. Whether or not he was in danger, Eamon could not guess. But, he had to get to him. It was too late for Ulrich.
His knights needed him.
The world swam around Ulrich as he swayed on his knees. The pain in his side throbbed heavily, gushing large amounts of blood. He removed his hand from the wound, holding it up before his eyes. It was covered in blood; his blood. Though he had seen his own blood before, somehow it seemed different. It would be his last wound, he knew.
But he would not go out this way. Not while Kronos was watching. Roaring into the air, he reached down to retrieve his axe, rising slowly and menacingly as the surrounding Jindala resumed their attack. He spun wildly, summoning the strength of Kronos. Though his senses were dulled, his attacks were accurate and deadly. The Northmen, seeing their king rise again, shouted into the air and broke their circle, raging into the battle like hungry wolves.
Ulrich’s axe met the flesh of his enemies with splattering impacts. He was blinded with rage and pain; determined to take as many Jindala down as he could. He swept his axe from side to side, feeling it chop through his enemies with every strike. His shouts echoed across the battlefield, telling his kinsmen that their Jarl was at his end. As his strength drained away, his attacks came slower and less frequent. His vision blurred and swirled. Even the sounds of battle around him became muffled. He briefly saw Ceor in his vision, fighting with the strength and honor he always had. His tribesmen surrounded him; rallying behind him as if they knew he would be their new leader.
Their new leader. Ceor, Jarl of the Tribe of the Wolf.
That was good.
Ulrich grinned as his strength finally gave out. He sank to his knees once more, and the battle around him seemed to fade away. He saw the bloodied sand at his knees; small puddles of crimson fluid mixed with the gritty, lumpy earth. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath that resonated in his ears. It was all he could hear. All was peaceful.
Slowly, he opened his eyes again, feeling the warmth of something nearby. He saw the gleaming, armored boots of a valiant warrior before him. His eyes went up the legs to the white linen sash that adorned round, feminine hips. He turned fully upward, looking straight into the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were blue like the sky; her hair was golden and flowing. Her face was perfect; flawless and smooth, yet stern and noble. In her hands, she held ornate blades that shone with the light of Valhalla.
As he gazed at her beauty, the Valkyrie sheathed her swords, and then extended her hand out toward him. As Ulrich reached up, he saw the light behind her brighten, and cast rays around her form. Her hair began to blow in a divine wind, and a smile spread across her lips.
Ulrich grasped her hand. It was soft yet firm. He stared at it in wonder as it softly surrounded his own hand. Then he noticed shadows moving behind her, breaking up the rays of light that shone around her like flame. There were men there; warriors. He saw his father among them; his grandfather; even his great grandfather. Their faces bore expressions of pride and glee. His heart sank, overburdened with the heavy emotions that swelled within him.
“It is time, Ulrich,” the Valkyrie spoke. “Your fathers have been waiting.”
He looked up into her eyes again as a smile spread across his face. His soul felt at peace; welcomed and filled with pride. Then, all went black.
Ulrich’s body fell, lifeless, to the ground among his kinsmen. Their cries of glory sounded as they honored his death.
Then, the gates of Valhalla were opened.
Ceor grieved for a moment as Ulrich departed this world. Though he would miss his best friend, he knew that the noble Jarl would be welcomed into Valhalla. That gave him strength, and fueled his morale. With a rumbling war cry, he burst forward. Jindala were splattered into oblivion with his powerful swings as he rampaged through them. He was an animal; a destroyer obliterating everything in his path.
And his efforts did not go unnoticed.
Cannuck had made his way through the chaos to stand at his side. The two of them fought together, cleaving a wide path through the terrified and confused Jindala. Ceor heard the High Jarl’s shouts of glory, and felt the splashing of the blood of his enemies as it misted through the air. It was a good feeling.
“When this is over,” Cannuck shouted. “I shall name you Jarl of your tribe.”
Ceor chopped off a Jindala head, stomping it into the sand with his heavy boots. “That will be for the warriors to decide,” he replied. “Cerdic wants the helm! And Wrothgaar is next in line.”
“Wrothgaar will not fight your son!” Cannuck reminded him. “He would not kill the son of his father’s best friend.”
Ceor nodded, gritting his teeth as he unleashed a powerful chop that split a swordsman in two. He wiped the blood and brains from his face and clapped Cannuck on the shoulder. “That’s a good thing,” he said. “But not good for the tribe.”
“Your men will follow you. They will not follow Cerdic.”
Cannuck was right. Cerdic, though strong, was not quite ready for leadership. But, as their traditions stated, the helm would go to whoever could take it. Honestly, he would rather see Wrothgaar lead the tribe. But Eamon was Wrothgaar’s king now. His future belonged to the people of Eirenoch.
“We shall see,” Ceor said, finally.
Eamon found Wrothgaar and the rest of the knights all banded together and still among the living. He breathed a sigh of relief, comforted by the fact that not his entire dream had come true. Still, the fear remained, and the loathing he now felt at having to break Ulrich’s death to Wrothgaar gave him pause. He knew the Northman would not react, but would mask his pain. It was their way. He briefly thought of not telling him, feeling that such news would affect his ability to fight with a clear head. But then, perhaps the news would drive him on to even greater ferocity.
Either way, Wrothgaar needed to know.
He pushed forward, backhanding a Jindala and thrusting the Serpent’s Tongue into his gut. As the man spun to the ground, Wrothgaar turned to face him.
“Why are you still here?” Wrothgaar shouted.
“The Dragon has not yet completed his task,” Eamon replied.
Wrothgaar chuckled out loud, returning to the battle. Eamon pushed his way next to him.
“Wrothgaar,�
�� he said, hesitantly. “Ulrich has fallen.”
The Northman said nothing, but Eamon could see his brow furrow. He fought on, oblivious to the news it seemed, though his attacks became more fierce and barbaric. A Jindala swordsman lunged at Eamon, but Wrothgaar spun and flattened him to the ground. He then bounded toward Eamon, his face still bearing the stoic look it always bore.
“He is with our fathers now,” Wrothgaar said, “as I wish to be someday.”
Eamon nodded. “It was a good death.”
Wrothgaar clapped him on the shoulder, turning back to the battle. Eamon took note of the positions of his other knights, seeing them all accounted for, and moved up to join them. Each of them was stationary for the most part, guarding their own zone against passing attackers. The only exception was Brianna, who weaved in and out among them unseen, using the chaos to her advantage.
Suddenly, the ground shook violently, sending many warriors sprawling to the ground. Eamon stumbled, struggling to catch his balance. As he recovered, a massive, towering form appeared in the midst of the enemies in the distance. The figure appeared to leap from the sand, throwing dozens of Jindala warriors into the air as it burst through.
Eamon heard Wrothgaar laugh wildly as the dust cleared. The other Northmen in the area shouted their battle cries in response to the stranger’s appearance. The giant roared with a ferocity that echoed across the battlefield like thunder. It raised its massive hammer into the air as the surrounded Jindala fled in horror. Then its attacks began. Eamon rushed forward, intrigued by the appearance of the new ally. The massive creature, bluish in color, and heavily muscled, crushed the Jindala as it swept its weapon from side to side, and smashing them into the ground with powerful chops.
Eamon grinned as he realized what he was seeing.
Kronos had come.
Chapter Twenty One
The Enkhatar rose from the black mist, impossibly tall and as dark as night. Their spiked armor formed around them from the fog itself, and their fierce, red eyes burned with all the fury of Hell. Farouk gripped his sword in fear, silently chanting to himself as the dark knights took shape. He could hear the others around him prepare; Khalid’s blades flitted from side to side, Torak drawing his own blade and lighting it with the power of the sun. Tenegal remained quiet and still, his striking, cold eyes glaring straight at Sulemain with the rage of any demon that Farouk had seen.
The Enkhatar made no move to attack; they simply stood as sentinels of death, the very darkness around them becoming almost tangible. Only Sulemain made any movement; slowly raising his gauntleted hand to point directly at Torak.
“You,” Sulemain hissed; his voice slow and hoarse. “Betrayer.”
Torak was silent. Farouk gazed at him from the corner of his eye, seeing the shaman chanting to himself. The druid turned his eye back to the Enkhatar, raising his own blade in defiance.
“It is you who are the betrayer, Sulemain,” he said. “Once the Prophet of Imbra, now a mere servant of the shadows.”
Sulemain hissed, cocking his horned head to the side; the fire in his eyes glowing brighter.
“You’re going to make him angry,” Khalid whispered.
“So be it,” Farouk said.
Torak’s staff suddenly burst into life, blasting a wave of sunlight that dispersed the black fog and staggered the Enkhatar back several feet. Farouk released his own spell, firing a bolt of energy at Sulemain. The Enkhatar lord was further pushed back, but recovered immediately, brushing off the magic as if it were nothing. The Enkhatar charged, shaking the ground as they bounded forward. Tenegal released three arrows into one of the lesser Enkhatar, striking it in the chest and causing it to shriek in pain and fury.
Khalid spun into the air, dodging the sweeping mace that Sulemain wielded. The heavy weapon smashed into the ground, shattering the exposed bedrock. Khalid countered with a backslash to the back of Sulemain’s knee. His scimitar sparked against the dark armor, but did little damage. He dodged another smashing blow, spinning to the side as Tenegal’s arrows streaked into Sulemain’s breastplate. The Enkhatar lord bellowed a cry of rage, turning his attention to the Alvar captain.
Farouk charged, releasing a concussion wave at the lesser Enkhatar that faced him. The wave knocked the creature back again, and the druid followed up with a thrust of his sword. The blade barely scratched the black plate, but skidded along its surface to bury itself in the underlying chain. The creature howled, retaliating with a backhand swing. Farouk blasted its arm with a bolt of lightning, and Torak, having waited for the right moment, released a blast of sunlight into the creature’s dark, hidden face.
Sulemain reared back in pain, releasing a horrifying wail that echoed through the temple grounds. He began swinging blindly, smashing his giant mace into the ground around him. The other Enkhatar rushed to his side, hissing in anger at the combatants as they surrounded him. Tenegal rushed at the nearest one, dodging its mace and leaping into the air to strike at the creature’s helmet. His blade sparked and shimmered as it met the dark steel, cleaving a wide gash that spewed black smoke. The Alvar captain stepped back, watching as the Enkhatar grabbed its head and staggered away.
Farouk blasted it with another bolt of lightning. This time, the Enkhatar was thrown to the ground, and Tenegal’s blade went to work once more. He spun toward the fallen creature, thrusting his sword downward as he landed. The Enkhatar rolled out of the way, but the Alvar pulled his sword from the ground and slashed. An explosion of dark energy deafened them as the creature’s right hand was severed.
“Keep at him!” Farouk shouted, turning his attention back to Sulemain. Torak stood at his side, and Khalid had taken on the remaining lesser Enkhatar. The druid tossed his staff aside and poised his blade. He focused, putting all of his magic within it. This would be a duel of blades, he knew. Tenegal had proven that.
“If we don’t survive,” Torak said, “I hope that I have earned your forgiveness.”
Farouk swished his blade from side to side, grinning as it whistled in the air. “You have come to redeem yourself,” he replied. “The Keeper has given you that chance, and you have taken it. You have my respect.”
Torak nodded, satisfied. Together, they charged.
Aeli and Allora followed the Alvar warriors through the dense forest. Ahead, the screaming and howling of the remaining wights led their way. The group had chased them for hundreds of yards, taking down a few here and there, but the undead creatures were oddly quick. If they were not destroyed before they reached the open plains, then they would scatter throughout the countryside and infect the population. Eirenoch would be in great danger.
Allora had disappeared briefly during the chase, but had returned with a grave look. She had told Aeli of what she had witnessed; Jhayla’s imminent death. Aeli’s sorrow was great. Jhayla had become a close friend since they had first met. She was one of the very few women that had accepted Aeli during her life. She had helped her to raise Jodocus, escorted her through the forest in times of danger, and had given Aeli her ear when it was needed.
She would miss her.
Ahead, the rangers and the Alvar were closing in on the horde. Aeli could hear the twangs of many bows, and see the fallen wights as she passed. Allora cast spells to ensure the undead were, indeed, dead. Her magic swirled about their bodies, burning them to cinders in an instant.
It seemed that they would never catch up to the fleeing wights. The edge of the forest was coming into view, and the first of the wretched beasts was breaking through to the plains. Aeli’s heart was pounding, her breath was quick, and her legs were beginning to tire. It seemed a pointless chase.
The rangers and Alvar warriors reached the tree line, pausing to draw back their bows once more. They released a desperate volley of arrows, hoping to take out as many of the horde as they could. Aeli and Allora finally reached them, stumbling to a stop, breathless.
“We will never stop them,” a ranger said. “They are too fast.”
“Don’t give
up!” Aeli shouted. “We must destroy them!”
Then, in the distance, the sound of a battle horn broke the tension. It was a familiar sound; one that widened the eyes of the rangers. The Alvar raced forward, running up a hill toward the crest. Aeli followed.
From the shallow valley below, the sound of many horses thundered across the plains, racing toward the escaping horde. There were a hundred horsemen, lances and swords poised, prepared to run down the advancing wights. At their head was a familiar figure; an old man in robes with his staff held high.
A light as bright as the sun erupted from the staff, lighting the valley with a bluish light that stopped the wights in their tracks. The horsemen crashed into them as they cowered, throwing their broken bodies into the air.
“Maedoc!” another ranger shouted. “He has brought the Mordumarc!”
Indeed, as Aeli looked, she recognized the black and steel armor of the newly-formed regiment. The white dove that emblazoned their breastplates was a welcome sight. Maedoc had brought them, leading them to battle in the absence of their commander, Brynn, and he had brought Lords Ferrin and Galen as well.
The three of them led the Mordumarc forward; Maedoc blasting the wights with magic while Ferrin and Galen cut them down with their blades. Lord Ferrin passed Aeli, nodding his respect as he beheaded a charging wight. The creature’s head bounced by her, and was crushed under the hooves of the nobleman’s horse.
As if the Mordumarc were not enough, seven dragons, six with riders, descended upon the rest of the horde. They spewed their flames, dropping their riders to join the melee.
The Alvar and rangers blended in with the chaos, dodging the charging horses and destroying those undead that were not run down. Aeli and Allora continued burning their corpses with magic to ensure they did not rise again.
Eclipsing the Darkness (The Dragon Chronicles Book 5) Page 18