She pointed to a group of riders on the outskirts of the battle, fending off a group of Aldronians. “He’s slowly moving to the edge of the battle with some of the rebels. There’s a ravine just beyond the hill. He’ll flee and take the sword with him,” she explained.
Lucius nodded, then walked over to his horse and mounted. He looked over at Avani, who also mounted a chestnut stallion that Orwin had provided. She gave Lucius a quick nod, then took off with other Numan riders toward the main battle.
A pang of guilt struck him as he realized he hadn’t said goodbye. She could be killed in this fight.
“She’ll be fine,” Violet said reassuringly. The apothecary stood next to Orwin, who looked just as anxious about Avani’s departure as he did. “Go and bring that sword back with you.”
Lucius poked Penna with his knees and the horse took off at a gallop. Gripping his sword tight, he cleared several yards before enemy arrows flew in his direction. Luckily, they were far less frequent than before now that the rebels were surrounded. He fought off an enemy rider trying to swipe at him from his left. A high cut to the rebel’s neck made quick work of him.
He continued on a winding track on the edge of the battle where the fighting was fierce.
Glancing to the north, he saw Brandewulf finally pull away from the battle. The Wolf of Allesmeade disentangled himself from a band of swordsmen by slashing at them swiftly with the Requiem Sword and clubbing the others with his mace. His brute strength and ferocity made the hairs on Lucius’ nape stand on edge. Still, he pursued the man as he galloped away toward the descending terrain.
On the crest of the hill, Lucius looked below to see the narrow ravine where a frozen stream wound south into the dense southern forests of Joppa. Brandewulf would easily slip away if he entered the woods. Eventually, he’d reach the coast and sail back to Allesmeade.
Penna’s hooves clattered on the icy rocks as they descended into the ravine. The horse’s body shook uncontrollably with each step downward. Lucius patted her neck to calm the anxious horse. Meanwhile, Brandewulf finally reached the frozen stream and put more distance between them.
At the bottom of the ravine, Lucius kicked his heels onto Penna’s sides, and she darted in pursuit.
“Come on, girl! Don’t let him get away from us,” Lucius said.
Penna snorted in disapproval, and Lucius felt the animal’s speed increase. They were just over fifty yards from their quarry. Brandewulf, sensing or hearing someone approaching, glanced over his shoulder. Even from this distance, Lucius saw the surprised look on the man’s face. He bent over and yelled at his steed to go faster. But Lucius was gaining on him, and the forest was still a half-mile away. He bent down low on the saddle, steering Penna through the winding ravine.
Then Brandewulf wheeled his horse around in a fluid turn to face his enemy. Lucius, shocked at the unexpected turn, did not slow Penna’s gallop at first. A blade flashed in Brandewulf’s hand, and as the distance closed between them, he swung it in a wide arc. Instinctively, Lucius ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated, but the tip of the blade sliced his forehead. Blood streamed down his face and he lost his balance on the saddle. He tried to steady himself with the reins, but the speed of the gallop caused him to tumble to the hard ice below. Penna continued her run sans rider, slowing down a few yards away.
Picking himself up off the ground, Lucius wiped the blood from his face on a sleeve. He guessed the cut was superficial and not deep.
“Well, you’re a foolish git,” Brandewulf said, a quick laugh escaping his mouth. “Don’t you know who I am?”
Lucius faced the man, who looked down at him from the saddle. “I know who you are. You’re a traitor to the crown, and you’ll hang for what you’ve done.”
Brandewulf laughed again. “And are you the one who Silas sent to stop me? He’s really overestimated your abilities, boy.”
“Are we going to talk all day? Or do you plan to fight me?” Lucius challenged.
Brandewulf’s eyes narrowed. “I have all the advantage here. Your horse is gone and I’m twice your size. Why would I waste my time with a whelp like you? You’re lucky I’m feeling a bit merciful. Go back to your little battle. A reckoning for Aldron will soon be on its way courtesy of the Draknoir. So enjoy your victory over the elves while it lasts.”
“Allesmeade is finished too, Brandewulf. King Silas will stamp out your pitiful insurrection and you’ll be left with nothing to rule over.”
“We shall see about that. Now get out of my way before I drive this sword through your neck.”
Lucius unsheathed his sword and unhooked the shield from his back, standing defiantly. “Come and try, you coward. Or is your reputation as a warrior as much a farce as your loyalty?”
Brandewulf’s face swelled with anger. He dismounted his horse, gripping the Requiem Sword in his right hand and grabbing the heavy mace in his left.
“I’m going to enjoy smearing your face on this ice.”
The threat made Lucius tremble slightly, but he hid any signs of weakness. He didn’t want to give Brandewulf the satisfaction.
For a moment, they stood staring at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. The cold air began to numb Lucius’ fingers as he gripped his sword and buckler. A thin smile formed on Brandewulf’s face—intimidation and mockery combined in a single expression.
He moved in like a tiger, quick and unrelenting. Lucius blocked the first strike with his buckler, feeling the full weight of the mace blow on his injured shoulder. The next blow came with little warning—a swipe of the sword to his chest. Lucius parried it, then followed with a riposte. Brandewulf flicked it aside with little effort. Then he kicked Lucius in the stomach, causing him to double over on the ice.
Brandewulf sweeped the Requiem Sword down for a killing move. Lucius sidestepped it, feeling the motion of the blade just an inch from his face.
Inwardly, he panicked as another round of strikes came. Did he really believe he could beat this brutal fighter of Allesmeade? The man was a force unto himself. Lucius had barely completed his training as a member of the Drachengarde, whereas Brandewulf was a hardened veteran in combat.
Then he saw an opportunity come unexpectedly. When Brandewulf swung his blade overhead, he saw a slight dip in the man’s stance. Barely noticeable, but it was there.
Lucius blocked the move with his sword, then pushed away. Both of their stances slipped for a moment before they caught their balance.
The ice.
Their footing was slipping on the slick surface of the stream. He could use that to his advantage. Brandewulf was a bigger man, and threw his weight into every attack to dominate his opponent. Lucius, on the other hand, could move quicker with his lighter frame and force the duke to make larger movements that caught him off-balance.
He threw a feint at Brandewulf, waiting for the counter. The parry came followed by a wide vertical cut aimed at Lucius’ chest. He parried slower than usual, opening himself for Brandewulf’s mace. But he hopped backward to dodge the powerful stroke rather than blocking it with the buckler. Although he risked injury, the move was worth the result of seeing Brandewulf teeter on the ice momentarily. The gap in the defense allowed Lucius to thrust the sword into the man’s arm.
Brandewulf cried in pain, twisting his injured arm away and leaving a trail of blood on the ice. He clenched his teeth and swore at Lucius.
Anger fueling his opponent, Lucius dodged three attacks before blocking the fourth with his buckler. He tried unsuccessfully to replicate his previous feint, but Brandewulf was keen to the strategy now. The duke didn’t overextend himself; instead he kept closing the distance between them before making a move.
Blood began to drip down Lucius’ forehead again as the cut reopened from the exertion of the fight. He wouldn’t last long if he couldn’t find another opening in Brandewulf’s impeccable swordsmanship.
Then it came.
Brandewulf, too busy swinging his weapons to mind his surroundings, stepped on a p
ool of his own blood. The slick surface of the ice, combined with the wet blood, threw him off-balance again after he swung at Lucius.
There was little time for Lucius to lose. He swung downward with his sword and severed Brandewulf’s right hand just above the wrist.
A bloodcurdling scream escaped the wounded man and he fell on the ground, dropping his weapon and clutching the severed stump.
Lucius kept the tip of his sword near the man’s neck, but his agony signaled the contest was over. He kicked the mace away from Brandewulf’s reach, then turned to the sword on the ice near the severed hand.
The Requiem Sword gleamed despite the gray overcast sky above. He wondered if the sword could sense the Ellyllei was near since it seem to shine brighter at his feet.
Lucius dropped his claymore and picked up the enchanted blade.
The sensation he felt when his hands touched it was similar to the moment he put on the gauntlet in Neroterra. Except this wasn’t a dark item that brought dread upon him. Instead he felt at peace, and a renewed strength coursed through his body. He wasn’t completely sure what it meant, but he liked the feeling.
He heard horse hooves tracking through the snow above the ravine. Looking up, Lucius saw a band of Aldronians descending. The battle must have been won.
“I know you,” Brandewulf said between ragged breaths. “You’re that Ellyllei, aren’t you?”
Lucius looked down at the fallen man and nodded.
Brandewulf laughed, but stopped abruptly from the pain he experienced. “You’ll never stop Memnon. Azuleah is doomed, boy. I was your best hope at saving Aldron. It’s better to unite with an evil power than be destroyed by it,” he said.
“At the cost of your soul?” Lucius prompted, but Brandewulf said nothing. The man contented himself to glower at his enemy rather than respond. “Now that the Requiem Sword is where it belongs, Memnon’s plans will meet the same end as you, Brandewulf: crippled and defeated.”
*
Silas swung his sword hard and cut through a line of defenders around the trebuchets. The Royal Guard had cleared a swath of Allesmeade’s infantry in their attack, leaving the siege engines unmanned and no longer a threat to Aldron.
The next part of his plan was to face Gryn. Several yards from him, the governor was fighting hard against a contingent of the Royal Guard. Once Silas freed himself from a skirmish of attackers on either side of his horse, he whirled around toward Gryn’s position.
He glanced toward Rainier and saw the general giving commands to the archers. A volley flew against the last vestige of Allesmeade’s cavalry force. All that remained of mounted attackers on the battlefield was on Gryn’s side.
Nudging his horse to a canter, Silas cut through enemies on his left and right as he made a path to Gryn. From afar, the governor spotted his approach. Quickly dispatching a pair of Aldronian men-at-arms, the corrupt politician of Tarshish smiled ruefully.
“So you’ve finally come to face me, your Majesty?” he yelled while blocking a strike from a Royal Guardsman. He swiped low and cut the man’s leg, then stabbed him with lethal efficiency. “Come then, King. Let us have words.”
Silas scowled, then let out a fierce battle cry, rearing back on the saddle for a wide swing. Gryn parried the strike, then swung around for a cut at the neck. Shifting to the left on the saddle, Silas avoided the fatal strike, but quickly lost his footing on the stirrups.
Noticing the king’s struggle to regain his balance, Gryn swiped low and cut across Silas’ knee. The pain forced him to stoop forward on Arabella, giving Gryn another opening for a thrust at his chest. Aware that his life would end in the next moment, Silas shifted and allowed himself to fall to the ground.
The fall rattled him momentarily, and he struggled to catch his breath. He forced himself to stand and avoid being trampled by the oncoming horses.
Before Gryn could have another chance at him, one of his knights stepped in to face the governor.
“Must you really send others to do your dirty work, Silas?” Gryn asked as he killed the knight with a rapid attack.
Gryn steered his horse around and slashed downward at him. Silas dodged and parried, but knew he was fighting a losing battle against a mounted rider. Backing away from another swipe by Gryn, Silas’ foot caught a depression in the snow and he tumbled backward.
A malicious smile creeped over Gryn’s face.
Silas labored to get to his feet, but then he stopped when Gryn’s expression changed from triumph to shock. A volley of arrows flew through the field around them, piercing Tarshish’s cavalry.
When he glanced at Gryn again, the governor sat on his black steed with half a dozen arrows stuck in his chest. The look of horror on his face was something Silas would not soon forget.
In his final breath, he managed to say the words, “Aldron will fall.”
Gryn’s eyes rolled up and he slumped backward, falling off the saddle onto the snow. Dead.
Royal Guardsmen surrounded the king, making sure he was alive.
“I’m fine! Rally our forces and make our final stand,” he ordered them.
The death of Felix Gryn quickly became apparent among the enemy’s remaining forces. Their attacks became less and less effective. Morale declined considerably, and a wave of deserters began fleeing the battle.
An hour after the governor’s death, Aldron commanded the field with the short-lived rebellion stamped out for good.
CHAPTER 35
THE LONE MESSENGER
The royal banquet hall was vibrant and filled with cheer as Aldronians, both rich and poor, celebrated the successful campaign against Brandewulf and the Rubiwind rebels.
Lucius, excited for a reprieve from the last few days of fighting, sat at the head table with Silas at the center and Avani sitting across from him. To his immeasurable pleasure, his father Helmer sat to his right. The joy of seeing the elf sage he revered alive and well had brought him to tears. He was equally overjoyed to hear that Kiret, Athri, and many others had survived the razing of the Breninmaur and were now residing in Numa as refugees. To his surprise, he was even happy to see Quetulya attending the banquet. Although the Cyngorell leader had been his strongest detractor in the past, the highborn elf seemed less derisive toward him.
“You’ve done a great service to Aldron, Lucius,” Helmer said, taking a sip of wine from a glass on the table.
“How so, Father?” Lucius asked.
“You defeated Brandewulf, my son! That is a great feat—though not as great as your second chance at life. Yéwa truly favors you,” he said.
“I only acted as I needed to. You told me that I was the Ellyllei. I never fully believed it until I saw Yesu myself. So I made sure to get this back where it needed to be,” Lucius said, tapping the scabbard on his hip where the Requiem Sword was sheathed.
Helmer nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. It well serve us well that Brandewulf will be sent to the Sangre Isles and imprisoned for the rest of his mortal life. Whatever possessed that man to turn on his own kind will continually puzzle me. Just as Balavan and Eshan did to their own kin.”
“The allure of power corrupts even the elves,” Avani interjected, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“I meant no disrespect, my lady,” Helmer replied, bowing slightly.
“None was taken, Lord Helmer. My brothers were traitors. And though I mourn Eshan’s death, Balavan will now understand the cost of his treachery in the cell my father has placed him,” she said grimly. Her dour expression faded, and she smiled suddenly. “But let us not dwell on the ill deeds of the few. Tonight is a celebration of victory over evil.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Lucius said, grinning. He raised his cup, along with Avani and Helmer, for a toast. “To Aldron and Numa,” he said.
“To Aldron and Numa!” they repeated, clinking their glasses together.
*
From the head table, Silas watched as the feasting and laughter among his subjects continued well into the evening hours. The celeb
ration was a pleasant diversion from the dark cloud which still hung over his head: the eventual conflict with Memnon and the dragons.
He shrugged away the worries of that uphill campaign for another day, but still his mind was ill at ease.
A few tables from him, he caught glimpses of Violet, who sat with a delegation of nobles that included Weifar. The man, unkempt as ever, told some joke that had Violet and the other guests at the table roaring with laughter. She looked absolutely stunning in a light gown with her curly red hair tied up, allowing for loose curls to hang around the sides. Part of Silas wanted to be there, next to her and enjoying the frivolous discussion, but he still felt a sting of betrayal from her decision to leave his father to go with Avani to Numa.
He never gave her a direct order to stay by her father’s side and tend to him; there were a handful of physicians who did that. But he had hoped, rather unfairly, that she would stay. Perhaps it would have been a sign of loyalty, or love, if she had. Her decision to leave somehow invalidated an unspoken trust between them.
He sighed and tried to enjoy his goblet of mead, but the merriment of Violet’s table just made him more miserable.
He turned to one of the footmen hovering near the head table and told him to call for everyone to quiet the room.
“His royal Highness demands your attention. Please be silent!” the footman said, addressing the hundreds of guests around him.
When the mass of people had settled down and all eyes were on him, Silas stood up from his chair. “I regret to inform you all that I must take my leave of this joyous feast and settle in for the night. Please continue the merrymaking as long as you please, but do keep it down so your king gets a good night’s rest,” he said, forcing a smile. The remark elicited laughter from the crowd.
“Long live the king!” a guest in the far back shouted, and the room repeated the blessing loudly.
Silas bowed, then walked away from the table as the feast continued. He reached the adjacent hallway of the banquet hall when he noticed a footman moving close to his right.
Gauntlet of Iniquity (The Azuleah Trilogy Book 2) Page 35