A gigantic bird slammed into Clint, driving him into the air and flinging him fifteen feet backwards. The creature was larger than any he’d ever seen before, and his eyes widened as the fierce predator launched itself forward and landed on the Horseman, talons striking repeatedly as its wings spread high to keep its balance. He felt like an ant watching a falcon retrieve its midday meal.
He rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, eyes riveted on the carnage before him. There was a sharp whistle from his left and his head jerked in that direction. Kylee had finally gotten back to her feet as well and was ordering the large bird to cease its attack. Blood curling screams could be heard from under the shrike as it pumped its wings once and lifted back into the air. Eyeing the sky briefly, he watched the large creature circle overhead, ready to pounce again if called upon.
He approached Clint warily, swords held ready should the man jump to his feet and defend himself once more. Kylee was less reserved as she stepped closer, eyes throwing daggers at their enemy. Whistling at the ranger, he gently lobbed Purity in her direction and she deftly caught it with her right hand. Standing over the former-aide, Kylee on the opposite side, they both glared at the man that had caused so much ruin in their lives. Her family and his had suffered at this man’s hands and it was only fitting that they were both there in his final moments.
Clint’s face had been ruined, one eye on his cheek, the other blind and bloodied. One cheek was torn open, teeth showing through a ragged mound of flesh, and he felt his stomach turn a bit at the sight. The anguish issuing forth would have been unbearable had it been someone else. This one time though—it didn’t bother him so much.
“I’ll kill you for this,” he thought he heard the man say through his mangled lips. It was hard to make out, the damage was extensive.
“Should have left your helm on, you bloody idiot,” he snarked, grinning widely.
“You will never hurt another soul again,” Kylee managed, as she brought Purity up and drove it into Clint’s heart. The sword’s magic flared as it swiftly penetrated the hardened steel and sank into flesh.
Blood bubbled from the man’s lips as he coughed violently, his blind eye bulging, a howl erupting from the skewered man as his life began slipping away. Tristan lifted his foot and drove his heel into the bloodied face with all the strength he could muster. Bones cracked and flesh tore free; revealing the bloody skull beneath. He brought up his foot one last time and kicked down as hard as he could, stomping straight through bone and utterly destroying the man’s head.
Disgusted, but his sense of vengeance sated, he reached down and drew Purity from the dead man’s chest. Wiping it absent-mindedly across the bastard’s cloak, he glanced at Kylee and saw something that made his heart stop.
She was crying. Wiping a hand across her face, she looked down at the man that had destroyed her life, the focus of her rage, her entire reason for being with them in the first place, and he saw deep satisfaction light up her features. For the first time since they’d met, she was truly at peace.
Albino eyes flickered towards him and he had to smile. “So, did you fail to mention you made a new friend?” he asked lightly, glancing at the sky above. As if they were having a beer in a tavern, not standing over the corpse of their enemy on the edge of two armies battle for the future of their known world. In truth, he shouldn’t have been surprised when the bird answered her call, he had seen a statue of her with one in that vision of the future he’d been given.
Her eyes widened, surprised at his humor, then she broke into a laugh. “A gift from Erik,” she replied, when she caught her breath.
“Ah,” he managed, trying to wipe his boot clean as well. What the hell right? Not like that cloak would ever be used for anything but fuel for a fire. “I’ve gotten more than my share of those myself. Decided against being a knight then?”
The ranger’s eyes danced as her grin grew wider. “Who the hell wants to wear that heavy shit? I’d have to walk everywhere.”
He chuckled as he shook his head and got to his feet. She surprised him again as she jumped across the corpse and embraced him fully, gripping him tighter than he’d ever been in his life. “Thank you,” she said after a long pause, the rocking of their bodies in the storm like a flagpole in the wind.
“I am a man of my word,” he managed to croak, as she hugged him fiercely, his neck feeling a bit squished. “Might need to let up for a moment. Can’t breathe.”
She laughed and pulled back, eyeing him closely. “You are truly my brother, and from now until the day I die, we are as blood.”
Brother.
Sister.
Wife.
Shit.
Willow.
II
The minotaur was flustered. He had tried to drain Kore the instant their weapons met, and his magic had failed; resistance made possible by Merlin earlier that morning. The mage must have seen this moment in his dreams and had taken steps to level the playing field.
Kore was appreciative of the mage’s intercession on his behalf, otherwise he’d be dead like Xutag; a hollow corpse of withered flesh.
They had been circling each other, landing occasional blows, but neither making progress in taking the other down. Both armies had come to a grinding halt and had formed a circle around the two adversaries, obviously waiting for the outcome to continue the battle forced upon them. The goblins were looking nervous, having seen what the Horseman could do to the enemy and frantic that the minotaur had not yet dispatched the traitorous orc.
The lance came straight for his head and he reached up, grabbed it, and gave it a good pull, but not enough to break it free. The platemail on his greaves protected his hands from the yanking back of the weapon as the minotaur responded with a pull of his own. The oversized beast growled at him and advanced closer, wanting to end this battle and move on to his feast.
Brown armor and red fur charged his way, the minotaur’s head down, horns out. Kore let his weapon hang on a hook on his belt as he reached up with his massive hands and caught the horns intending to impale him. Gripping them as tightly as he could, he gave his arms a massive twist, trying to break the beast’s neck. In anger, Famine yanked his head backward, the lance whacking Kore in the shoulder in the process.
He held on with everything he had, unwilling to give it up. They had been fighting for what felt like hours and though he was well-muscled and used to combat, he was beginning to fatigue; he had to end it now. Digging his feet into the ground, muscles bulging, he leaned forward and drove the Horseman backwards with every ounce of strength he possessed. The minotaur slid a foot back before digging in himself and the two were standing there, locked, unable to move.
Famine’s nostrils flared, the wet and matted fur around his eyes barely hiding the hate dwelling within. The beast snarled at him and tried to whack him with the lance once more. His shoulders were already starting to hurt from the strain of holding the beast back, and if he got hit a few more times, he might buckle; that would be the end of his life.
Thinking fast, he pulled the horns up, and then brought them straight down and back.
Unprepared for the sudden change in direction and with the minotaur’s legs trying to force his way forward, the Horseman pitched down and towards the earth. Every place the Horseman’s body touched, grass withered and died; the magic consuming the life force of the vegetation as well.
He whipped around and placed himself squarely over the beast’s back.
The minotaur tried to get up, the lance forgotten, hands digging into the dirt and forcing himself slowly back to his feet.
Kore shoved back harder, then gave them another twist as he howled at the storm raging above. Lightening arced across the sky as if in answer, the rain making his grip begin to shift, his feet sliding backward as the minotaur once again tried to regain his feet. Summoning the inner fury that had been driving him, the power of hate he had for his oppressors, he pulled on the long-curved horns, arching the Horseman’s back. He force
d another quick jerk of his arms, every bit of his body willing to give it all in order to see the job done.
There was a loud crack as something finally gave and his red eyes found those of his enemy’s staring back at him; void of life. After what seemed like an eternity, the Horseman was dead, and Kore found himself barely keeping his feet; completely drained and exhausted. Letting the horns go, the head fell to the ground with a loud thump, the beast’s right leg twitching in his final death throes.
Summoning whatever reserves of energy he had left, he howled in victory, grabbed up his axe, and turned on the army behind him. There was a lot of scrambling as the goblins tried to flee, the rebel orcs pushing forward once more with sounds of their commander’s victory. Screams filled the air as the creatures seemed fixed in place, unable to retreat, but unwilling to attack. His countrymen began hacking into them and his eyes turned south in the direction of fresh howls of anguish nearby. Someone was attacking the goblins from the rear and the two forces had them pinned.
Smiling at his good fortune, Kore leapt into battle once more and began cleaving the bewildered heads off the vile creatures before him.
III
Reyna was starting to wear down; hate could only fuel your movements for so long, and she was slowly starting to run out of gas. She had been fighting alongside the Knights of the Realm most of the morning, and they had numerous times tried to convince her to withdraw and catch a breath, but she had refused; bloodlust filling her soul.
Now, thirsty, body aching, she wished that she had paid more heed to their concerns and taken a break while she had the chance. Broken bodies lay at her feet; both of enemies and allies. Even though the former was more abundant, the numbers of the horde they fought never seemed to end.
Unlike the others, she had a perfect tally of what the Phoenix’s forces were made up of and the witch had literally emptied the Deadlands in this attempt to massacre the elves with one brutal stroke. That they hadn’t done so already stood as a testament to the skill of those around her, but she knew that it would only carry them so far. Soon they would tire, their numbers lessened, and they would eventually break under the strain of fighting so many. The trick was getting the enemy to rout, but she wasn’t sure it was something she could do on her own.
No, that would have to come from somewhere else. All she could do was fight, continue to do her part, and hope that the enemy would break before she did.
Commotion struck the enemy army and suddenly the combatants were distracted, as if unsure of where they should be. She took advantage of the situation and rallied the men around her to do the same. Pushing the hordes back, she fought for every foot, slicing the suddenly less exuberant force to pieces. Some of the enemy had begun to back off and she wondered if the rout had actually begun. Had she called it into being? Was there really a God up there listening?
Her eyes searched the enemy horde. Knowing from experience how they were organized and acted, she had learned to anticipate and push them in the right directions to get them to follow her orders. She should be able to discern what was going on by how they were currently reacting, but all she saw was chaos.
Standing on the fallen corpses of her enemies, the knights around her still pushing forward, she eyed the western horizon and was startled to see that a large majority of the forces arrayed against them had turned to face an unknown adversary on their flanks. Had the Horsemen of Alamar gotten around to their rear? Was the cavalry forcing them to split their focus? The entire enemy horde appeared to be in disarray. In fact, as she unfocused her eyes and took a better look, it appeared as if the enemy was fighting everywhere, as if friendly units were dispersed throughout the whole of the opposing army.
Was this the work of fae?
A large battleaxe appeared in her line of sight, just behind the enemy front, and her eyes narrowed, watching as the large weapon cleaved a couple of confused goblins into two. Lumbering into view was a very large orc adorned in platemail, red skin gleaming in the sun, his mismatched armor covered in the black gore of his enemies. She watched as he brought his axe over and across another pair of unsuspecting goblins.
Her heart literally stopped in her chest.
The orcs were rebelling? What the fuck was going on? They made up more than fifty percent of the enemy forces and if they turned on their masters, the horde stood very little chance of surviving.
The knights leapt at the remaining goblins trying to get at their new opponent and when the corpses laid at the feet of elves and orcs, the two parties stared at one another as if gauging what to do next. Stunned, she watched in fascination as the orcs turned and began chasing down the vermin that were fleeing in multiple directions, suddenly unsure of where they needed to be or who they were supposed to be fighting.
A knight stepped before her and turned to the others behind her. “The orcs are with us! Let’s not let them steal all our glory!” Then he waved his sword and led the charge of roaring knights after the fleeing enemy.
She couldn’t help it, she stood there and laughed, her head shaking as tears formed at the corners of her eyes. “I’d hate to be the one leading that army right now. She is going to be royally pissed off.”
IV
Excalibur burned white as it sliced open his enemies and left corpses in his wake; the three magic users covering his flank as more of them piled on. His limbs were growing exhausted, his frame barely able to keep up, but the sword seemed to have a mind of its own as it found mark after mark; his body twisting and moving as if driven by some unseen force.
He didn’t know how long he had been fighting, or how many had fallen, only that no matter what, there seemed to be no end to the battle raging around him. Infantry units had begun to push in on either side, heartened by their king’s performance, and strengthened by fresh soldiers from the rear. Archers intermittently picked off the enemy as sword and axe met in combat.
Almost the entirety of the forces he was fighting were comprised of goblins and gnolls, the werewolf looking monstrosities having a longer reach and harder to dispatch than their shorter comrades. An even shorter dog looking creature lurched at him and he punched it squarely in-between the eyes with his left gauntlet, then finished it off with his sword.
By the Gods he hated kobolds. Wretches stank up to high heaven and the battlefield already reeked of death and decay. The sun was rising overhead and soon the corpses would begin to smell worse as they cooked in the sun. The storm had begun to part and the first rays of light were fighting to get through to them, as if a sign that things were beginning to change in their favor.
His men surged forward and for a brief second, allowing him to relax and catch his breath. Something was causing chaos amongst the ranks of the opposing army and he watched with disbelief as some of the enemy simply turned and ran from the oncoming elves.
The magicians, well past exhaustion, simply hovered by his side, hands on their knees, looking like a gust of wind from the storm raging around them could simply push them over with a single gust.
“My Lord, I should check in with my druids, see how they are faring,” Revan finally managed, and he looked at his magister with a grim smile. The elf had arrived in the nick of time and he couldn’t begrudge the man for wanting to return to his duties; he had done enough.
Looking at the bloodied, barely standing druid; he nodded his approval. “Take a moment to rest while doing so. Do not openly engage in combat again until you are ready.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” the blue-haired elf replied as he bowed, leaned heavily on his staff, and moved away.
Serix was sitting on a corpse pile and images of them rising and dragging him under came to mind. He had to force down the chill snaking up his spine. The necromancer looked wiped and barely awake. He was probably done fighting today as well.
“Maybe it’s best we get him back behind the walls,” he told Merlin, who had come to stand by his side, eyes searching the battlefield for who knew what.
The mage didn’t eve
n bother to glance at the younger man, simply nodding that he’d heard. Looking to the sky, his eyes searched the heavens and seconds later a Pegasus struck ground to their rear. Working together, they were able to get the necromancer up into the saddle and strapped in. The man’s eyes looked glazed over, as if not really seeing what was going on around him and with a pat on the horse’s rear, the wings lifted and sent the both of them back towards the towering wall behind them.
Now, alone amongst the surge of men swirling around them, the two old friends took a long breath, letting the afternoon sun stroke their skin and prepare them for what came next.
“Can you see what’s going on out there?” he asked the mage.
Merlin’s eyes met his and he thought he saw a smile lifting at the corner of the man’s lips. “Hope has arrived.”
Chapter 29
Sacrifice
I
There was nothing that Willow could do to intervene between Amysta and her daughter; no way she would be fast enough to prevent them from coming at one another. Her heart filled with sorrow at the thought of what might happen; especially upon looking at the dead dwarf by her feet.
The Queen of the Elves had her weapon drawn and was preparing to lunge at the waiting Horseman that used to be her daughter, when a loud growl erupted from behind; giving the three women a slight pause as they jerked to a semi-halt.
Green fire lanced forth and struck Pestilence in the chest, driving the young girl back a couple of steps—eyes wide. Pouncing between her and the queen was an orange tabby, which suddenly began to shimmer and shift. Exploding into view was a large orange cougar, maul wide, claws reaching as it pounced on the stunned Horseman.
Amysta stepped forward immediately as if to protect her daughter from the newcomer, but quickly brought herself to a halt, remember that just moments ago, it would have been her flinging herself at the girl in Trek’s place.
Shirl darted into view and hovered over Willow’s shoulder, eyes intently watching the fierce battle being fought, and she understood where the magical interruption had come from.
The New Age Saga Box Set Page 90