by David Estes
Hearing the name of the stalwart knight was like spying a pink hope flower refusing to be torn up by its roots in the midst of a blizzard. Elation poured through Annise. Once more, she raised her palm in the air. “Spread the word!” she cried to all within earshot. “Help is on the way! Now—”
The word march never left her lips, because at that same moment a cry rang out from the back of the multitude. It wasn’t excitement or enthusiasm, but something darker.
A scream laced with fear.
The rear scouts had not returned. No. They would never return.
The Horde was upon them.
“Run!” Annise shouted.
Tarin
It had taken Tarin near on two days to close the distance between he and his prey. By the end of day one, however, he realized it wasn’t the barbarians that he trailed. No, it was humans. Soldiers, based on the way their silver armor gleamed in the sunlight.
The fact didn’t slow him, however. If anything, this knowledge made him run even faster, pushing his heart and lungs to their limits, even to the extremes provided by the monster’s efforts, working in tandem to strengthen his muscles, bones and organs.
Now, Tarin was within a stone’s throw of the marching soldiers, but none had noticed him, their eyes trained ever forward. Which meant the Horde was already past them, somewhere between he and Annise. Or Tarin hoped they were still between them, and not upon them.
He wouldn’t allow himself to think they were too late.
Not wanting to frighten them, Tarin hailed the small army with a shout. Several heads turned, and Tarin could see the initial moment of fear as they took in the lumbering beast of a man giving chase. Though he no longer hid his face from his companions, none save Annise and a select few others had seen him garbed in anything but armor.
However, the moment passed as they realized who he was. “The Armored Knight!” someone cried. “He has returned! He is alive!”
The news spread like wildfire across the army as it slowly ground to a halt. Tarin wanted to scream at them to keep moving, to not slow their pursuit on his behalf, but the need for information superseded all else.
A familiar short, stout form shoved and barged her way through the soldiers, cursing under her breath. Lady Zelda finally emerged, clutching an apple in one hand and a short blade in the other. “By the frozen gods,” she said, and Tarin smiled the first real smile in days. “Where the frozen hell is your armor?”
“I removed it,” Tarin said.
“I can see that. And your men?”
Tarin could only shake his head. “How are you here?” he asked, by which he meant, ‘Where is the Horde?’
Zelda seemed to immediately understand his true question, a grim frown drawing tugging her expression downward. “We were in position to defend the castle of Walburg, but the Horde passed south of us without a fight.”
Oh no. He didn’t let his concern show on his face, not when being watched by so many soldiers. “How far back are we?”
Another soldier emerged from the crowd. An old friend of his. Sir Jonathan. “Three leagues, perhaps more,” he said. “The barbarians move as if chased by a monster of the Hinterlands.”
“That’s because they are,” Tarin said with gritty determination. “Me.” Us, the monster corrected. They are chased by us. Tarin ignored his constant companion, meeting the eyes of each and every soldier he could as he scanned the lines. “Now linger no longer, for our quarry will not stop to rest on this day.”
With that, Tarin broke into a run, the soldiers parting before him, allowing him to pass. Only when he’d reached the front did he hear them fall into step behind him, their boots crashing against the brittle ground as they ran.
Annise. I’m coming. No…we’re coming.
Yes. Yes, we are, the monster echoed.
Christoff
When Sir Christoff Metz first saw the scouts ride into Darrin on their exhausted horses, he felt a surge of something in his chest. Not excitement, because that was an emotion he had very little experience with, but duty. Honor. Loyalty. These were the precepts he abided by, the things he stood for with every waking breath.
With the love of his life, Mona Sheary, standing close by his side, these mantras were amplified further, for how could he be worthy of her without them?
And despite the gravity of the situation—the remaining refugees fleeing for Darrin, hunted by the Horde—he was prepared. Since arriving in Darrin more than two weeks earlier with his own flock of refugees numbering more than five thousand, he’d organized the city with the utmost attention to detail and precision. Supplies had been inventoried, rations calculated based on conservative numbers and accounting for the thousands of additional refugees that were arriving each day, sleeping quarters had been assigned and duties doled out.
Next, he’d organized the army stationed within the castle walls, as well as his own all-women army. In total, they numbered two thousand souls. They were in desperate need of new armor and weapons, but what they had could be used in a pinch. Still, he gathered any and all people with smith experience and requisitioned what he believed would be needed. The fires of the forges had been burning ever since.
In short, the city was operating as efficiently as possible. Prepared. Ready for whatever was to come. Daily, he put his men and women through their paces, ensuring they were in battle form. He inspected their armor and weapons each morning, and any who didn’t maintain their gear in top nick were sent to polish and sharpen. Mona had given him a hard time for this level of treatment, but Christoff refused to back down. If anything, maintaining routine and standards was more important during such times—not less.
Over the ensuing days, Christoff had barely managed to stifle his urge to ride out to locate the remaining refugees. In the end, however, common sense had prevailed. He didn’t know which direction they would be coming from, and extending his supply line would put his own soldiers at risk. So he’d waited, not so patiently, calmed only by Mona’s tenderness in the times when they were alone before sleep.
Finally, the news had arrived. Finally, all his preparations would be put to the test.
Now, as a portion of his army rode out—cavalry only, for swiftness was needed—Sir Christoff Metz spared no glance for the walls of the city behind him. For he knew his archers stood ready on its ramparts, his infantry patrolled the streets, and the good men and women within went about the duties they’d been assigned.
This knowledge, more than anything else, brought evenness to the ragged flow of the erratic world he lived in.
And he could breathe, any tightness remaining in his chest departing with each exhalation.
The first two leagues passed without incident. It was a lovely northern day—not too hot or cold, the sky littered with clouds that drifted along on a gentle breeze. Some might even refer to it as a “cheery day,” though Christoff was not fond of the expression. How could a day be “cheery”? The day was just the day, and the weather was created by a multitude of different variables, any of which could change in an instant…
His distracted thoughts about the weather vanished when they crested the next rise.
At first, he felt the warmth of satisfaction as he took in the hundreds—no, thousands—of refugees spread out before him, moving with haste into a long, broad valley between two hills, but the feeling soon morphed to icy dread when he recognized the fear-stricken expressions they wore, silent screams emanating from the black holes of their open mouths.
At that same moment, the first barbarian forms appeared over the hill behind them, loping along with threatening speed.
Christoff Metz only knew one way to act in a situation like this. With courage and honor. He didn’t hesitate to give the order that was already on his lips:
“Charge!”
Annise
Once, Annise would’ve collapsed in exhaustion from running so hard and for so long, but her body was prepared now, her heart strong, her lungs efficient. It wasn’t weariness
that slowed her pace.
I must protect them, she thought, pulling to a complete stop, her honor guard doing the same. As fearful refugees passed around her, she turned back to face the Horde that had been pursuing them across the northern hill lands. “Your Highness?” a voice said. “Why do we stop?” It was Fay, and Annise was glad to hear her voice. The blacksmith had been a good friend and a competent advisor when she needed one.
But her gaze didn’t waver from watching her enemy swarm over the hill. The refugees were at least two leagues from their destination—Darrin—and she knew they would not make it.
Someone had to fight to allow the others the chance to live. And it had to be her. She wouldn’t only be fighting for the innocents, her people, but also for those she’d lost: Archer, Zelda, Tarin.
Tarin.
“Thank you, Iron Fay,” Annise said. “For everything. Now go. Please. Lead my people to safety.”
“But Your Highness.”
“Go! That is a command!” Still she couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes.
“I will do this thing, and we will laugh about it later,” Fay said, her tone stolid. She truly is Iron Fay, Annise thought.
“Thank you,” Annise said. “And I hope you are right. Truly.”
When Fay was gone, Annise addressed her honor guard. The enemy was halfway down the hill and closing fast. The refugees were nearing the next hill, the fleetest of foot making their way up its flanks.
“Guards!” Annise bellowed, and her men snapped to attention. “If we die today, let it be a glorious death!”
Around her, they roared their approval and turned to face their enemy.
Somewhere behind her, a horn sounded, but Annise couldn’t turn to locate the source.
The enemy was already upon them.
She raised the Evenstar and began to swing…
Tarin
“You’re the slowest ice bear I’ve ever seen,” Sir Jonathan said, but Tarin could tell his friend’s taunt was full of false bravado, his voice breathy, his chest heaving.
They’d been running for what felt like hours, if not days, sneaking messy gulps from their water skins, half of which dribbled down their chins.
In truth, Tarin admired the knight for keeping up with him. The other soldiers had fallen behind, along with Zelda, whose short legs were no match for his own long strides. Sir Jonathan, however, had been determined to keep pace. Tarin also knew that without the support of the monster inside him, he would’ve faltered long ago.
But you have my support, and we will not falter until we’ve clamped our teeth around the necks of our prey.
It wasn’t exactly how Tarin would’ve put it, but he had to admit the thought of catching the Horde was alluring. They’d bruised and broken him, almost killed him. And now they sought to kill his soulmate, and he simply couldn’t abide it. No, he would break them. All of them, if necessary.
He cut to the left to avoid a particularly steep hill, threading through a gully between rises. It was thick with high grass and gnarled bushes, but he plowed through, ignoring the scrape of the sharp branches against his sides. Somewhere behind him, Sir Jonathan called out, but he soldiered on, sensing something he could not yet see.
He emerged from the gully just in time to catch the tail end of the Horde as they clambered over a hill and out of sight. The sight of them sent a surge of energy through his body and he redoubled—no, retripled—his speed, pushing himself into a sprint that should’ve been impossible for a man of his size.
Yesssss! the monster hissed, already sensing the violence that was to come.
Tarin almost stumbled when he hit the foot of the next hill, but regained his balance by shoving off the ground with a hand, his legs churning beneath him, fire surging up his throat as he heard the first sounds of battle somewhere beyond the rise, and his mind conjured images of barbarians falling upon refugees, killing at will, and Annise in the middle of it, her jaw tight and determined, her will unbreakable, though, he knew, her body was not.
And then gravity released its hold and he galloped over the crest of the hill, his eyes taking in the situation in an instant of clarity:
The refugees were mounting the far hill, still clear of the Horde, which was streaming into the valley. Warhorses separated them from the barbarians, their flanks draped with blankets bearing the dark sigil of Darrin. Atop each horse was a soldier, and Tarin knew this was Sir Christoff Metz’s doing, and in that moment he vowed to give the knight another chance at friendship if they both survived this day.
That’s when Tarin realized that not all the refugees had exited the valley, the images he’d imagined before coming to life before his very eyes.
Oh shite.
Her Evenstar circling her head like a silver star, Queen Annise Gäric faced her enemy, flanked by only her honor guard.
Tarin roared and charged into battle. The roar was not only his.
No, the monster agreed. It is ours.
There was no wall left to tear down.
Annise
Annise could see the hunger in the barbarians’ eyes, the unspent violence in their powerful, loping strides. Some gripped bone-handled weapons, curving blades that had the crusted sheen of dried blood, while others were emptyhanded.
“Do not waver!” she shouted, sensing the tension in the men around her. “Hold the line! For the north! For the north! For the—”
The Horde crashed into them with the force of a wave made of thick bone and knotted muscle. Annise’s Evenstar connected with one of their skulls, which should’ve exploded from the impact. Instead, it caved in and the barbarian fell, colliding into another, going down in a tangle.
Most of her men were knocked aside, some taking barbarians with them, their swords piercing the pale, hairless flesh. Even as she tried to swing her Evenstar around once more, one of the barbarians swept in from the side, slashing its claws across her hand and forcing her fingers to open inadvertently. Her weapon flew from her hand, disappearing in the tangle of bodies that suddenly seemed all around her.
She kicked out, aiming her heel for her foe’s midsection. It was a female, nearly twice as large as its male counterparts, but despite its size it moved like the wind, avoiding the blow. It ducked its head like a battering ram and slammed into Annise’s chest, rocking her back.
Annise knew it was over, but that didn’t mean she would stop fighting. Even if she could take this one enemy with her to the grave, it would improve the chances for her people. So as she landed on her back, the wind departing her lungs in a burst, she dug her fingers into her attacker’s eyes. There was a squelching sound and the female screamed, recoiling sharply. One of her eyes dangled from its socket, dripping gore down her cheek.
The other eye locked on Annise, who was still on her back. C’mon! she thought furiously. If it was a street fight it wanted, she would oblige.
With a snarl, the barbarian charged.
Christoff
The valley was chaos, but at least most of the refugees were behind him and his cavalry. Annise and her honor guard were doing battle with the barbarians, holding their own until…
Annise had fallen, rammed by a large female. But then the strangest thing had happened. The barbarian had snapped back as if stung, clutching at her eye.
The moment of respite had not lasted, however, and the female was now charging Annise, leaping into the air…
Annise rolled, and her attacker landed beside her, flashing out with one clawed hand, raking it across her armored side. It skidded to a stop as Annise fought to her feet.
Christoff dug his heels into his steed’s flanks, directing the horse toward his queen. The barbarian was warier this time, prowling toward her, its hunched form shifting from side to side with each stride.
Annise’s eyes flicked to Christoff’s, and he saw the moment of recognition, but it swiftly passed as she refocused on her foe. And then she started to circle.
Clever woman, Christoff thought, closing in, the barbarian obliviou
s to his approach, even as Annise forced the enemy into position. The barbarian’s body tensed in preparation for another lunge, but it was too late, hammered aside as Christoff’s steed smashed into it from behind. There was a crunching sound and an awkward step or two as the horse’s hooves trampled the creature.
He skidded past Annise, whose teeth were gritted together, even as she turned away to locate her next foe. Christoff did the same, but frowned as he realized something strange:
Not all the barbarians had stopped when they met resistance. In fact, very few had. The remainder had raced onward, ignoring their attackers. Once more, they were pursuing the main body of refugees.
Christoff wheeled his horse around, shouted an order to his soldiers, and gave chase.
Tarin
Tarin bounded down the slope, feeling a thrill in his chest when Annise survived the encounter with the large female barbarian. He owed Christoff Metz a kiss, though he knew the odd knight would prefer a punch to the nose.
His relief was quickly washed away, however, when he saw what was happening. The cavalry had overshot the enemy, expecting a fight, while most of the Horde had slipped past, continuing as if simply dodging inanimate obstacles in their path.
The few barbarians that remained were intent on keeping the defenders busy so they wouldn’t be able to retreat. Sir Metz seemed to realize the same thing at the same moment, regathering his mounted soldiers and driving back toward the hill he’d only just descended.
Annise, however, had eyes only for the members of her honor guard, who were locked in battle with those few barbarians that had remained behind. She charged one, tackling it from behind, slamming her fists into its face. It was a male, but still twice again as large as Annise, and far stronger to boot, and it recovered, scything its elbow across her jaw. Her head snapped back, twisting viciously. Tarin was close enough now to see the blood and spit fly from her mouth, along with something small and white that flashed in the sunlight as it spun.
