“How do I look?”
They cheered and whooped in response.
Sunset came before he knew it, and a man named Varimor arrived from the deserted township, lugging a cart full of cider for everyone to drink. The conversation went on and on, peppered with irreverent and nasty jokes, until finally a rider came galloping across the distant field, coming from the direction of Karak’s Bridge.
“They’re here!” he shouted. “The soldiers—they’re actually here!”
“They damn well better be,” Patrick shouted before nervousness grabbed hold of those around him. “I didn’t spend half an hour getting dressed for nothing!”
The men smiled through clenched teeth, laughed amid grunts and frightened looks. Cups were carelessly tossed aside, replaced by the swords, daggers, axes, mauls, and shields Peytr Gemcroft had supplied them with as his parting gift. The moon rose full in the night sky, and the air was filled with the sounds of clanking metal and animalistic grunts as the ragtag defenders of Haven formed their first line of defense under Corton’s instruction.
Patrick hefted Winterbone, the massive sword feeling natural in his grip, and took his place at the front of the vanguard. Adrenaline rushed through him, making his heart race and his toes twitch, but he did not feel scared. If anything, he felt expectant, as if this were the natural next step in his life’s path. The thud of marching footsteps hit his ears, followed by the repetitious shouts of what sounded like thousands of voices, and on the horizon, coming across Karak’s Bridge, there was a flurry of movement. Row after row of men stormed over the bridge, marching in rhythm, twelve bannermen leading the way. In their hands waved the sigil of the Lion, the flags held high enough for all to see. A single voice called out above the rest, ordering the approaching army to stop. Patrick looked at them, then at his comrades, and for a moment he felt paralyzing fear. They were horribly outnumbered. Whereas the approaching army had what looked to be two thousand men, if not more, they were but three hundred. They would be overrun in seconds. Deacon must have realized this as well, for Patrick caught sight of the man slowly inching away from the line of defense, heading for the trees. “Figures,” Patrick whispered, and returned his attention to his impending doom.
The next call came, and he watched as a row of archers stepped away from the rest. They raised their bows to the sky, waiting, and Patrick realized that there would be no discussion; there would be no demands to drop their weapons and surrender to the eastern god. The temple still stood, and that meant annihilation. Still, he wondered, given the vigor with which the army marched into the delta, if there would have been mercy even if they had torn it down. He squinted and stared, past the army, past the bridge, and into the lands beyond.
Barely visible in the intense moonlight, surrounded by three other riders, was a being larger than life, standing with its hands on its hips. Even though his companions were mounted on horses, this great man towered over them. And Patrick caught sight of the man’s eyes, which looked like swirling stars of fire and brimstone.
Karak was here. There would be no mercy.
Another shout from the opposing force, and the archers drew back their strings. Patrick braced himself, holding Winterbone out to the side with both hands as Corton had taught him, his fear dwindling down to nothing.
“Steady!” he heard Corton scream. “Don’t do a fucking thing before my orders!”
Two more riders came galloping over the bridge.
“Release! Release!” the riders shouted back to the gathered force, and all at once, a hundred arrows climbed high into the blackened sky.
The assault on Haven had begun.
Clovis sat atop his horse beside his god, on the eastern side of the bridge, watching his army spread out beneath the solemn near-daylight of the full moon. The pain in his side from the wound Soleh had given him lingered like an impure thought. Far off to his right loomed the Temple of the Flesh, the monstrosity that had been necessary to set these events in motion.
Deacon was a good choice, he thought. His pride wavered, however, when he saw how well the people of Haven had armed themselves. Bringing his looking glass to his eye, he gazed across the expanse and saw two hundred, perhaps three hundred men, clad in polished armor and brandishing weapons. They presented no flags, bowed before no monuments, and showed no loyalty to any but one another. A short but hulking figure stood at their center, holding aloft a giant sword Clovis recognized. The man looked like a demon, with his hunched gait and warped body. It was Patrick DuTaureau, Clovis was sure of it. He knew Deacon had done what he’d asked, for the man was nothing if not reliable, but Isabel’s boy was still there, ready to fight, which could be a problem. DuTaureau was an unknown, and Deacon had told him that the man inspired confidence in the forces of Haven. He’d thought to murder the man in his bed, yet the Whisperer had advised against it. His unknown accomplice had never steered him wrong yet, so he’d let the matter drop. Lowering the looking glass, Clovis reached inside his shirt, wincing as his rough stitches pulled taut, and lifted out his pendant. It shone purple under the light of the moon, but there were no swirls of deep shadow to be seen within the crystal, no sign whatsoever that his Whisperer was ready to give him more guidance.
Two horses circled in front of him. Mounted upon them were Avila and Joseph, the children he was proudest of, ready to carry out any order he decreed.
“What is your command, Highest, our Lord Commander?” Avila asked, bowing low in her saddle, her silver hair like satin in the moonlight.
Clovis paused, then looked up at Karak. The deity stood motionless, his shimmering golden eyes fixed on the temple and the small number of men ready to die for it.
“They are not afraid,” Karak said, his voice like thunder that rumbled along the countryside.
“Then we shall give them reason to be,” said Clovis, trying to sound confident.
Karak gave him a nod.
Clovis turned to Joseph and Avila.
“Let loose the arrows,” he said.
On hearing his words, his two most precious children kicked their steeds into motion. They rumbled over the wide bridge toward the rows of soldiers. Clovis heard Joseph’s voice ring out, unnaturally loud.
“Release! Release!”
Arrows flew into the air. Karak remained motionless while Clovis allowed himself a nervous smile, hoping beyond hope that his Whisperer would reveal the next part of the plan to him when the time was right.
“Hold!” shouted Corton as the arrows rose high in the air, passing beneath the moon and casting a litany of ominous shadows on the ground. “Hold, I said!”
Patrick did as he was told, his body rigid, his arms growing sore from Winterbone’s weight. He glanced to his left and saw that Moira was beside him, decked out in her boiled leather and light chainmail, holding aloft a slender cutlass. Her hair cascaded from the back of her helmet like a silver waterfall. She winked at him, and he chuckled.
“Ready for this?” she asked, having to shout to be heard over the din.
“Ready,” he shouted back.
“Shields up!” came Corton’s voice, and the clamor and clang of steel was deafening. Patrick knelt down. Moira and the two shield-bearers on either side of him lifted their enormous curved buffers, forming a dome of protection over them. A second later the arrows struck, clanking off metal, thudding into wood. A few shrieks of pain came as arrows found purchase in human flesh, but thankfully there seemed to be few injuries. The barrage lasted only a few seconds, and then Corton was back at it.
“Up, now!” he screamed. “Up, and charge until they fire again!”
A battle cry rose up from all those around him, three hundred bellowing as one, and Patrick joined in. He shouted until his throat ran dry, shambling to his feet, running as fast as he could while weighted down by the fifty pounds of armor on his back and the forty pounds of sharpened steel in his hands. But he soldiered on nonetheless, guided forward by Moira, who was shoving her shoulder into him. He gazed ahead with narr
owed eyes, watching the column of enemy soldiers draw ever closer.
“Stay in formation!” shouted Corton from behind, his voice sounding small beneath the clanging of armor.
Patrick watched as the archers lifted their bows once more, aiming lower this time, and another volley released. He kept pushing his feet to move, his legs sore, his back barking in agony, until he heard the command to hunker down yet again. He skidded to a stop, falling on his side in the process. The shieldmen were slower this time around, clumsy in the handling of their much too large shields. They failed to get close enough together, and as the arrows rained down, Patrick heard Moira shriek. He shifted abruptly to the left, found her lying there, and covered her body with his own. Again the arrows pummeled the shields, bringing still more screams from those gathered around him. Two arrows passed through the gap between the shields, one clanging off his right pauldron, the other skimming past his side, where there was no protection. He felt an instant of burning pain, but then it was gone—though now there was a warm sort of wetness dribbling onto his stomach.
“You’re all right?” he asked Moira.
She nodded in reply.
The shields were lifted and the charge began anew. This time Patrick didn’t struggle; his legs moved with a mind of their own, and his arms swung forward and back, easily holding Winterbone aloft. It was as if the bolt that had pierced his side had severed his ability to feel pain.
He didn’t need Corton’s next bellowed command to know that this was it. No more volleys would come their way, as they had gotten too close for a rain of arrows to be practical. Instead the archers spread out, making way for the men with pikes who stood behind them. The pikemen stepped forward and knelt down, holding their spears out at an upward angle, waiting for the charging force to collide with their sharpened tips. Meanwhile, the archers began picking off the approaching force, one by one, using measured shots.
One man fell. Then another. The shield bearer who had stood to Patrick’s right collapsed, grabbing his abdomen and screaming in pain. From his peripheral vision he saw one of his sparring partners—Big Chuck, they called him—take a shaft in the face. The man collapsed right then and there, falling backward, hands at his sides.
As Patrick worked his way toward the awaiting pikemen, arrows missing him by mere inches, he could only hope his end would be that quick.
He drew ever closer to the awaiting army, so close that he could begin to make out their features. Some appeared angry, barking back at the loud, quickly approaching mass, but they were in the minority. Others appeared exhausted, as if the act of holding their weapons aloft took more energy than they could afford to expel. But mostly he saw wide eyes and clenched teeth, shaking hands gripping swords they weren’t prepared to handle, archers who winced at every yelp and shout, sending their arrows flying wildly, looking like they wanted to be anywhere but right there, right then.
They were frightened. Terrified. Patrick grinned and forced his uneven legs to move faster. For the first time, despite the opponent’s much greater numbers, he truly believed the haggard residents of Haven could win.
He crashed into the first line, twisting to the side and avoiding the outstretched pikes. His armored shoulder struck a man in the jaw, shattering it, splashing blood and spittle across his back. Patrick braced his legs, swung Winterbone up in an upward-arcing circle, and then brought it down diagonally the way Corton had taught him. The two soldiers in front of him held up their swords to parry the blow, but it was too fast, too powerful. Both their blades shattered on contact, and Winterbone continued on its sloping trek, severing one man’s head from his spine and cutting through the thin leather armor worn by a second man. Winterbone took off the man’s arm before getting lodged midway through his midsection. Blood erupted in a thick sheet, drenching Patrick’s face and shoulders. He planted a boot in the dead man’s abdomen and kicked, freeing his blade.
The rest of his team followed his lead, barreling into the line of defenders, hacking and slicing, jabbing and thrusting. The pikemen fell, as did a good number of the archers, and those standing behind them moved forward. Patrick pushed on, his people killing and dying alongside him. He felt something strike his back and turned ever so slightly. Moira was leaning against him, using his bulk for balance as she whipped about, her sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Men fell at her feet like flies, throats slit, all with a simple flick of her wrist. He marveled at her speed even as he fought through the danger before him. For every one swing he completed, she achieved five or more. She was like a dervish of ruin, dodging every strike that came her way.
Patrick batted aside a thrust from a tall soldier with hair so black it shone blue in the moonlight, then rammed Winterbone’s pommel into his nose. Cartilage snapped, gushing blood down the soldier’s face, and Patrick took that opportunity to lope back, and then plunge forward, piercing the man’s heart with the tip of his sword. That man fell away, replaced by another and another. Patrick cut each of them down, though not without cost to himself. His armor was dented, his chainmail torn away, and his arms were starting to tire. Everywhere he hurt, numerous gashes covering the unarmored portions of his body. The blood of the enemy mixed with his own, turning his entire body into a glistening red monstrosity. His vision began to waver and he stumbled, which caused Moira to cry out in surprise from behind him.
But still he would not stop, could not stop.
After ending the life of yet another soul, he saw a breach in the defenses. He threw back his arms, looked at the sky, and bellowed so loud, he was sure even Celestia could hear him from her secluded, heavenly star. His compatriots had thinned substantially on either side of him—perhaps half now lay on the ground, bleeding into the damp, swampy grass—but the rest continued to fight, every shred of their will hurled into their efforts. He spotted even Corton among them, the old man taking on two soldiers at the same time, his gray hair whipping around his helmless head. Seeing his bravery and prowess gave Patrick new strength.
“Behind me!” he shouted to his people, and they complied, disengaging from their opponents and falling in line as he charged like the bull Corton told him he was, deep into the third line of resistance. The enemy soldiers fell back, looking like they wanted no part in what was to come. Patrick held Winterbone out before him like a lance and drove into them, impaling two men at once, hurtling ever deeper into the line while his cohorts fanned out wide, striking out at those who attempted to overwhelm him. Man after man fell to the ground beneath their fury.
The sound of thundering hooves reached his ears, and Patrick glanced up to see a pair on horseback charging into the melee, weapons drawn. One was a man with a sword that looked like Winterbone’s smaller twin, the other a woman with an evil-looking mace. They shared a similar appearance, each with silvery-white hair and a porcelain face. They galloped in, looking like phantoms, and when Moira flashed beside him, bending to one knee to fend off a wild swing with her dagger while gutting another opponent with her sword, Patrick knew exactly who the riders were. Twenty more riders appeared behind them, surging over the bridge in an equestrian tide.
“Horses!” he heard Corton shout. “Horses! Everyone get—”
The command ended there, mid-word. Patrick dared a glance. Corton was kneeling on the ground out in the open, hands hanging limp, half his face a bloody pulp, his left eye hanging by a slender tendon down to the middle of his blood-washed cheek. Patrick screamed as the male rider galloped by, swinging low with his great sword, severing the old man’s head in an instant. Corton’s body collapsed, his life’s fluid spurting into the air as he fell.
The sight of Corton’s death broke something inside Patrick. He turned away from the main battle and ran headlong at the soldiers on horseback. One struck him in the back with an ax, which stunned him but did not pierce his platemail. He hacked at the legs of one of the passing horses, and the beast tumbled down, sending its rider careening through the air. He shoved his shoulder into another horse, his strengt
h immense in his rage, and the thing fell over, crushing the rider beneath its weight.
At last Patrick found him, Moira’s brother, Joseph, with his short-chopped white hair. He was facing away from Patrick, hacking at someone on the other side of his horse. Patrick took the opening, and leapt into the air, hoping to tackle the man and wrest him from his saddle. But even with his battle-fueled strength, his short legs couldn’t lift him high enough, and he crashed face first into the side of the horse, which bucked on contact. Patrick jarred his neck, sending a spasm of numbness through his spine, and he clutched madly for something, anything, to break his fall. He ended up snagging the top of the man’s greave. The metal dug into his fingers, but he held on tightly. A cry of pain followed. Patrick tumbled to the ground, yanking Moira’s brother down with him. He landed hard on his back.
While he lay there, the wind knocked out of him, everything grew muddled. The sounds of crashing swords and dying humans were like the honking of migrating geese in autumn. His vision blurred, shapes merging with one another until all he saw were brief flashes of light against a bluish-grey backdrop. His stomach hitched and he rolled to the side, trying in vain to keep his wits about him.
Hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back, and everything started to come back into focus.
“Patrick, get up!” a woman’s voice said, so close that her wet breath slapped his ear. “Come on, man, stand!”
He glanced over his shoulder, but his vision was partially obscured by his crooked helm. He tore it off and looked up at Moira, whose expression was one of pure, unadulterated terror as she gazed behind him.
Turning, he saw Joseph rise from the ground, holding his side, where blood trickled from beneath his armor. Grime streaked his silver, spiky hair. The man glanced at his hand, saw the blood on it, and then fixed his eyes on Patrick. If a look were capable of killing a man, this one would have done it.
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