88. 2
He drew a sharp breath, steadied himself, then threw his shoulder back and hurled the spear into a Bloodmarked’s neck. The beast staggered but swung its obsidian claws and carved open two Dracur?n who fought on foot. The spear still jutting from its neck, the Bloodmarked rammed its claws through the gut of a Vaelen elf, slicing open the steel plate as though it were nothing. The creature pulled the elf close and ripped open her throat with a savage bite, then threw her into the legs of a charging horse. It clapped its hands together with a roar and sent a pillar of black fire swarming over a score of gold-armoured elves. It would have killed more if Atara hadn’t sliced its legs out from under it, then twisted and took its head with a single clean swing as it fell.
Dann appeared astride Drunir, drawing an arrow from the quiver at his hip and loosing into an Urak’s eye.
“We need to push through!” he roared, fear and panic in his voice. “The Uraks are inside!”
Erik glanced at the twenty-foot-high palisade wall that ringed the city of Salme. The western section had collapsed almost completely, flames billowing into the dark sky overhead while rain fell the other way. Several other breaches had been smashed into the wooden fortifications, one of the towers consumed in a blazing inferno.
Hold on, brother. Please, hold on. Erik drew his sword and pointed towards the city. “Tarmon!”
“Go!” The man swung his blade from the back of his black beast, carving through a loose arm. “Take the cavalry and the mages! We’ll hold the line!”
“Vaeril, clear a path to the city!” Erik looked to the elf, who was carving apart Uraks from the back of his Angan mount, wielding that star-pommelled sword, elves in the black of Vaelen surging around him.
Vaeril nodded and shouted, “Imbahír, evalien un Aravell! Imbahír til haydria!”
Forward, elves of Aravell! Forward to honour!
Within seconds, Vaeril was charging towards the gates, white stags moving with him, mages bearing the silver star, the golden stag, and the green tree all answering his call. Even Thuriv?r himself urged his Angan forwards and joined the charge.
Uraks were torn asunder by the air itself, consumed by fire that poured from elven hands, ripped apart by streaks of lightning, and crushed within their own armour. It was like a charge from the Age of War, that blade – ünviril – coruscating in the crimson moonlight as Vaeril raised it above his head and roared another rallying cry.
“Vandasera,” Erik whispered to himself. The word meant many things to him now. At that moment it was an acknowledgement of family found. It felt good to have so many souls he was willing to die for and so many who would do the same for him. Erik snapped his reins. “Cavalry! To the city! With me!”
Dann fell in beside Erik. Drunir was far smaller than Shadow, but the horse hadn’t a drop of fear in its heart as it charged, trusting Dann to take down any beast that came close enough to touch it. Two arrows skittered off Dann’s pauldron and breastplate in quick succession, but he didn’t even notice, his white cloak flapping behind him. Ahead, Vaeril and the mages had sliced a bloody path through the swell of Urak bodies all the way to the second trench. Even those beasts couldn’t stand in the way of the sheer destruction wrought by a contingent of elven mages. Erik had been around the Spark all his life. Known its power, seen it, feared it… but not in his wildest dreams had he ever truly comprehended the scale of wanton death and destruction that power would bring in war.
For a second, just a fleeting moment, Erik felt pity for the Uraks. That pity died as he watched a Bloodmarked rip open a horse from breast to rump with one swipe of its massive claws. The air seemed to shimmer, and then the horse burst into flames, the Bloodmarked igniting the creature with its Blood Magic.
“Yah!” he roared, snapping his reins again and again, urging Shadow onwards.
The first trench was so full of Urak corpses that Erik could barely see the tips of the wooden spikes poking through chests and limbs. It was as though there was no trench at all, just an overspilt grave.
The Dvalin Angan cleared the mound of corpses in a single leap, continuing their charge towards the gates, white fur striking against the blood-soaked corpses and blazing infernos. The Uraks were climbing the walls now, charging through the gates, swarming over the city like kerathlin.
Erik cast one last look over his shoulder to where Tarmon and the bulk of the army fought like beasts against the Urak horde. He drew a sharp breath, turned back to the city, and roared, “Forward!”
Shadow surged forwards and leapt over the twitching mound of bodies that filled the trench. The horse’s front hooves slapped into the sodden ground, rain pouring down around him. His back hooves landed with a crunch, shattering the bones of a long-dead beast.
The world grew still in that moment before Shadow’s next stride. The fires blazed from within the city now, and the walls were all but abandoned. Past the second trench, Uraks flooded through the gates.
The tiniest sliver of his heart felt the cold touch of fear. But that fear was not for himself. Erik was born to fight this war. He was born to wield a sword and stand where others would not. His father had built that kind of courage into him, forged it. The battlefield was his home. It was the only place he truly felt comfortable. No, the fear in his heart was for Dahlen. He could not lose his brother. He could lose anything in the world, but not Dahlen. He would not.
Beside him, Drunir charged forwards and cleared the trench, followed by Lyrei and Atara astride two massive Dvalin Angan.
“Forward!”
A Bloodmarked smashed through the shield wall that lined the gates, men and women hurtling through the air. One man landed beside Dahlen, his shield arm twisting and snapping against the ground, bone bursting through flesh. His scream sent a shiver through Dahlen. Another man landed on his head, the light vanishing in his eyes with the crack of his neck.
Dahlen leapt towards the break in the lines as Uraks flooded through. His Silver Wolves moved with him, Thannon and Camwyn tight at his side. Nimara, Yoring, Almer, and a clutch of Salme’s defenders charged at his right. They’d separated from Erdhardt and the others somewhere in the thick of the fighting, but Dahlen could hear the behemoth of a man roaring over the sounds of death.
The Bloodmarked swung at Dahlen’s head, and he dropped to the ground, sliding in the mud on his knees. He drove his left blade into the beast’s thigh, then yanked it free and plunged his right into the opposite leg. The creature howled and swung down with its black claws. Dahlen threw himself back, losing his grip on the blade lodged in the beast’s leg.
He slapped into the mud, and the Bloodmarked loomed over him, only for a double-bladed axe to whirl through the air and slice into the side of the creature’s skull. The Bloodmarked stumbled, dazed and blinking wildly, steam rising as the rain hammered down and sizzled on its skin. The axe blade was lodged deep into the bone, the haft jutting upwards towards the rooves of the buildings that lined the street – and yet, the Bloodmarked didn’t drop. The runes in its skin glowed furiously, red light spilling through the rainfall.
Nimara hurtled towards it. She rammed her foot down onto the pommel of Dahlen’s sword lodged in its leg. The beast’s knee twisted inwards, and it collapsed to the ground. As it fell, Nimara pulled a short, bearded axe from the loop on her belt and hacked it down into the Bloodmarked’s neck.
The beast lashed out with its black claws, but Nimara was too quick. She ducked the strike, grabbed her second short axe from her left hip, and swung the blade upwards into the creature’s chin. The steel cleaved the bone and burst through the Bloodmarked’s mouth and up into its skull. It went limp and collapsed into the mud.
Nimara planted a foot on its head, then heaved her short axe free from its neck. She flipped the weapon in the air, shifting it into the correct orientation, then turned and launched it into a charging Urak’s skull. The beast dropped dead instantly in a splash of mud.
As Yoring, Almer, and the others flowed around her and Dahlen, Nimara yanked Dahlen’s blade free of the dead Bloodmarked’s leg and tossed it to him.
Dahlen snatched the sword from the air as he rose, deflecting the swipe of a black steel blade and driving his second sword deep into the guts of the weapon’s wielder.
“You’ve really got to look after those better.” Nimara planted her foot on the dead Bloodmarked’s skull and dragged her battle-axe free. As she did, another Bloodmarked charged through the swell of bodies at the gates and slammed its hands together. Men and Uraks alike were thrown into the air as a wave of concussive force erupted from the creature’s hand, igniting the air in a wreath of flames. Dahlen swung his blades up and sheathed them with a practiced efficiency, then threw all his weight forwards and tackled Nimara to the ground.
The pair fell backwards over a mutilated corpse and hit the ground with a slap, the mud sucking at the dwarf’s armour. He spread himself over Nimara as piercing screams sounded behind them and the ground shook.
Once the heat from the fire faded, he rolled off her and onto his back. The ground where they had stood was cracked, shattered, and burning, and upon it lay the corpses of both sides. He could tell by the armour that three of his Silver Wolves had been caught in the blast, alongside a score of others.
He threw himself to his feet and lunged forwards, pulling his swords from their scabbards and taking two Uraks’ heads from their shoulders in quick succession. He twisted to avoid the thrust of a black spear, then drove his blade through the face of the wielder, splitting grey skin, blood pouring. He jammed an elbow into the creature’s chest, turned, and pulled the blade free.
He looked about at the chaos that slowly consumed everything. The Uraks were no longer flooding through the gate alone. They surged through breaches in the broken palisade and leapt from the ramparts. All about, the men and women of Salme did everything they could to hold back the tide, but they would soon be overrun. Looking into the distance, he could see the same was true of the western and eastern walls.
They needed to pull back to the first boundaries. That had been his plan from the beginning. A staged retreat towards the central square. Before his brother had arrived with the army, there had been no chance of victory. Dahlen had known that. But he had planned to take as many Uraks with him from this world as he could.
“Fall back to the first boundary!” He grabbed the mud-smeared horn that hung around his neck and blew four sharp bursts. “We cannot hold them here! To the first boundary!”
Dahlen sheathed a blade and snatched up a round Valtaran shield from a man who wouldn’t need it anymore. He turned to face the rush. “Silver Wolves. With me!”
Barely two heartbeats had passed by the time Thannon pressed hard against Dahlen’s side, the other former Kingsguard doing the same.
Nimara fell in to Dahlen’s left, a shield clutched in one hand, a bearded axe in the other, her massive battle-axe slung across her back. Others joined: Yoring, Almer, and the dwarves of Durakdur, along with Kara Thain, Lanan Halfhand, and – to Dahlen’s surprise – the Alamant, Oaken Polik.
They fell back slow and steady, holding tight while the rest of the defenders about the gates retreated into the main thoroughfare that ran through the city. As they moved, Lanan called out, “The walls!”
Dahlen lifted his gaze to see Erdhardt Hammersmith charging across the blazing walls. The man swung his hammer at anything that moved, crushing Urak skulls as they climbed over ladders, smashing knees and jaws with monstrous backswings. The beasts were so caught off guard by the audacity that by the time any of them turned to face him head-on, he was leaping from the ramparts.
“He has a fucking death wish.” Dahlen watched as Erdhardt was swallowed by the swell of Urak bodies.
“Don’t do it.” Nimara glared at him from behind her shield as an Urak axe smashed into the rim. “Don’t fucking do it.”
“He’s going to do it.” Almer swung his right hand over his shield and slapped his axe into an Urak’s chest, pulling it free as the beast flopped to the ground.
Dahlen looked down into Nimara’s eyes. “I have to.” He drew a sharp breath, rolled his shoulders back, and heaved forwards. His shield crashed into a charging Urak, knocking it off balance. He drove his blade into the beast’s groin, twisted, then yanked it free and opened the Urak’s throat. “Fall back!” he roared as he charged forwards.
He couldn’t leave Erdhardt to die, even though part of him believed the man couldn’t be killed. Dahlen had never seen someone throw themselves into the heart of battle as wantonly as Erdhardt Fellhammer, with little thought of self-preservation. And yet, somehow, the gods refused to allow him to die.
Dahlen smashed his shield rim into an Urak jaw, then carved open the beast’s belly with a single swing, innards steaming as they spilled onto the sodden earth. The massive creatures couldn’t move as nimbly in the thick mud, and he took advantage of that. He swung and carved through an extended arm, then took a spear to the shield.
Nimara appeared at his side, blood trailing in the wake of her axe. She moved as though she always knew what would happen next, smooth and fluid, each step carefully chosen, each turn and twist of the body taken with meticulous care. From the very first moment he had seen her fight, he’d known that the gold and silver rings worked into her hair had been well earned. She was one of the most ferocious warriors he’d ever known.
She hacked and slashed through Urak limbs with a fury, and as her eyes met Dahlen’s, he thought he could see a vibrant yellow tinge to her irises.
An Urak swung a wicked black hammer straight into the dwarf’s shield, and Dahlen’s heart skipped. But Nimara took the blow head-on, barely flinching when Dahlen himself would have been knocked to his arse. She twisted, dropped her lead shoulder, and opened the Urak’s face with her axe. As she pulled it free, she turned to Dahlen. And in that moment, he saw that her irises had in fact taken on a hue of yellow, though her pupils had grown, leaving only the thinnest ring of colour. Her body shook, a fury in her voice. “Get him!”
To Dahlen’s right, a circle had opened around Erdhardt, several bodies piled at his feet. The Uraks could have killed him then and there if they’d piled in, but instead they seemed to take some kind of sport in it, each stepping forwards one by one to see who could kill the giant with the black hammer. But Erdhardt moved like a demon, ducking below strikes, then crushing jaws and skulls in single blows.
In that moment, Erdhardt sidestepped the thrust of a spear from the edge of the circle, then brought the meat-grinder end of his hammer down onto the Urak’s elbow before driving the spiked end into the creature’s skull with a monstrous backswing. The heat of battle was one thing, but there was no man Dahlen knew who could go toe to toe with Uraks in that way without the Spark. His father, maybe, but Aeson lacked Erdhardt’s raw strength.
Dahlen charged at the circle. He needed to give Erdhardt a way out. Yoring and Camwyn charged with him, along with three men of Salme. But before they’d reached the man, a thunderous roar erupted from the gates, and a column of cavalry crashed into the Urak mass. Streaks of lightning surged from a rider’s hands, fire pluming. Elves rode on the backs of massive white stags, while others sat astride horses barded in the colours of Loria. The riders tore through the Urak ranks with abandon, the Spark wreaking utter havoc and devastation.
With the Uraks taken off guard, Dahlen charged forwards, carving a path to Erdhardt. When he grabbed the man’s arm, Erdhardt spun on his heels, stopping with his hammer levelled in the air, his eyes wide with a murderous fury. The man’s chest heaved, sweat and rain streaming down his face.
“We need to go!” Dahlen roared, tugging at Erdhardt’s arm, but moving him was like trying to move a boulder. “Erdhardt. We need to go!”
“Lord Captain!” Camwyn surged past Dahlen and smashed her shoulder into the chest of a Bloodmarked that was only seconds away from ripping its claws through Erdhardt and Dahlen both.
The beast stumbled back half a step, its feet sliding in the mud, then drove its clawed hand into Camwyn’s back. The obsidian claws burst out from the woman’s steel breastplate, blood flowing in rivers.
“Camwyn!” Dahlen made to charge but hands grabbed him and pulled him back.
Nimara was at his side, her face and armour smeared with blood as though she’d bathed in it, those eyes still a vibrant yellow, her pupils wide as the moon. Nimara didn’t speak, but she dragged Dahlen back, her grip like iron.
The Bloodmarked lifted Camwyn into the air by its claws, her body convulsing, and then it unleashed a guttural roar and flames burst outwards from its hand, consuming Camwyn entirely, her screams resounding in Dahlen’s head.
In that brief moment, two others that had charged with him were hacked to pieces by Urak steel, chunks of flesh slapping into the forming puddles in the mud.
Nimara yanked Dahlen backwards, then moved past him and swung her axe upwards, cleaving through the skull of a lunging Urak.
With the battle raging around him, his mind lost itself in Camwyn’s scream, in the blood and the death and the horror of it all. And for an instant, he was frozen, his heart galloping, his blood like ice in his veins.
No. Not now. No. Dahlen drew a sharp breath and steadied himself. And as he did, a group of riders atop massive black mounts crashed through the Uraks before him, the white stags at their side.
One of the riders in blood-splattered steel with a white dragon emblazoned on his breastplate opened an Urak’s neck. Dahlen held his breath, spotting the triangular pommels of the man’s swords. “Erik?”
Erik smiled beneath his helm. “It’s good to see you, brother. I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m going to need you to run.”
As Erik spoke, the other riders fell in around him. The Uraks and Bloodmarked pushed forwards, but the elven mages ripped them apart, shards of earth and broken metal swirling in the air, slicing through anything that moved. Even then, mages fell from their mounts, black spears and arrows punching through their armour and flesh.
Nimara pulled on Dahlen once more, and they charged back towards the thoroughfare. Erdhardt appeared at their side, blood streaming from a wound in his side and a gash sliced along his left cheek. Bits of torn grey flesh clung to the face of his hammer.
They rushed down the street, buildings closing around them. Archers stood on the rooves, ready for what was to come. Ahead, a deep trench had been dug, a wooden bridge drawn across it, while many of the side streets had been lined with spiked blockades.
Dahlen glanced over his shoulder to see Erik and the cavalry moving towards the mouth of the street, hacking their way through any Uraks that dared come close. A black spear turned in the air, only inches from an elven mage’s head, and lodged itself in the wall of the building behind. Three more spears flew, and each of them were turned away by something unseen, but the fourth found home and sank into the mage’s chest, knocking him limp on his mount’s back. Without wasting a moment, the white stag bucked its rider to the ground and charged down the thoroughfare. Erik and the others followed, arcs of purple lightning crashing into the sides of the buildings as they ran.
For a brief moment, Dahlen caught sight of a Fade standing amidst the Urak bodies, its light-drinking eyes fixed on him. The creature stood still as a statue, just staring. With an eerie rigidity, it lifted its hand and clenched its fingers into a fist. A scream rang out, and Dahlen watched as a score of the riders’ breastplates dented and bent as though being struck by hammers, the white dragon collapsing inwards. Shrieks pierced the night as the metal split skin and cracked bone, the sounds cutting short as bodies fell from saddles, limp and lifeless, horses charging on without them.
Dahlen snapped his head back around and bounded across the makeshift bridge.
Lanan, Kara Thain, and the rest of the Silver Wolves waited on the other side, along with hundreds of men and women who had fallen back from the gates. They all stood ready with shields, spears, and swords, giving space for those who crossed.
Once over, Nimara dropped her shield, grabbed Dahlen by the sides of his head, and kissed him, her lips tasting of iron. The yellow had gone from her eyes, leaving them bloodshot, dark circles beneath. She drew in ragged breaths, rain carving paths in the blood on her cheeks. “Stop being a hero,” she said through gritted teeth. “And start being a leader. Every soul here looks to you. You are their heart. That makes your life worth more, whether you like it or not. If they see you fall, they will break.”
“What was that back there? Your eyes? That strength…”
“A gift of my people. Later.” She hefted her shield back into place, then stared at him once more. “Stop being a hero.”
As Erik and the riders approached the trench in the street, the archers above rained death on the Uraks giving chase. Many of the beasts took several arrows before falling, but they did fall. He spotted Tharn Pimm among the archers, nocking and loosing in rapid succession. Streaks of purple lightning smashed into the buildings, tearing chunks from stone and igniting those of wood, screams echoing.
The riderless horses were the first to reach the trench. The first of the animals skidded to a halt as it approached the spikes, stopping just long enough to take an Urak spear to the neck and stagger into the open pit. The horse squealed and kicked for barely a second before going limp, wooden stakes jutting through its body.
Erik and others followed, some bounding the gap, others charging over the bridge. Once the last of them was across, the defenders hauled the bridge back and formed a line of shields from building to building.
Erik swung his leg over the horse and dismounted. He pulled his helmet from his head, eyes searching for Dahlen.
Dahlen ran to his brother and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him into an iron grip.
“You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?” Erik returned Dahlen’s embrace, his voice muffled through Dahlen’s shoulder.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Dahlen said, pulling away and looking over his brother. “The new armour could do with a bit of a polish.”
“It was clean before I marched halfway across Illyanara to save your hide.”
“Can you even move in that thing?”
“I’d still knock you on your arse.”
Dahlen lifted his gaze and stared into Erik’s eyes. He had almost forgotten how long it had been since he’d seen his brother’s face. Over the course of their lives, they’d rarely spent even a night apart, and now a year had passed since last they’d laid eyes on each other. Even just the thought seemed incomprehensible. “I’ve missed you, brother.”
He could hear his father’s voice in his mind from when Erik had barely seen fourteen summers. “If anything ever happens to me, boys, all you have is each other. Remember that. You are blood. No matter what happens, you protect each other. No matter what.”
Erik clasped Dahlen’s cheek with his free hand. “I’m just happy we got here in time.”
A figure approached from Dahlen’s left, dropping from the back of a strangely coloured horse. “My parents, have you seen them? Are they all right?”
“Dann? Dann Pimm?” Dahlen pulled away from Erik to see the man who stood before them in blood-marred plate as fine as Erik’s was the same man Dahlen had shared wine with in Belduar before it had fallen. The same smartmouthed, quick-witted man who had seemed barely more than a boy only a year ago.
“No kiss?” Dann gave a half-smile and grasped Dahlen’s forearm. “Tharn and Ylinda Pimm, are they all right?”
“Your father?—”
“Dann!” Tharn Pimm came charging out of one of the buildings that had been barred from the inside. He pushed through the throng of people and mounts who held back behind the front line and crashed into Dann with the weight of a bull. His hands trembled as he grabbed at Dann’s head, voice shaking. “My boy. Ah gods, my boy.”
Dann didn’t say a word, which was probably the first time Dahlen had seen that happen. He just wrapped his arms around his father and held him close.
The sight made Dahlen think of his own father. Aeson had never been the type to show physical affection. At least not often. But Dahlen still loved him dearly. They argued and they fought and they bashed heads, but the time apart had shown him that mattered little. His father may not have been like Tharn Pimm, but he had given everything to Erik and Dahlen. And Dahlen was proud to say he was Aeson Virandr’s son.
Dahlen looked to Erik, who talked to an elf clad all in black plate with a silver star enamelled on the breastplate. She sat on the back of one of the enormous white stags, two other riders close at her side, also in black and silver steel bearing the same star sigil.
A fourth elf, garbed in the same armour as Erik, sat astride another stag to Erik’s right, his helmet in the crook of his arm, his golden hair tied with string. A star-pommeled sword rose up from his hip – a glorious-looking weapon. It took a moment, but Dahlen realised he knew the elf: Vaeril Ilyin.
Had Dahlen missed so much in the past year that even a ranger of Aravell now wore Calen’s sigil on his breast?
“Lord Captain.” The rain ran red down Thannon’s helmet as it washed the blood from the steel. “We must continue?—”
A crash followed by screams cut Thannon short.
Dahlen whipped his head around to see chunks of stone and burning wood tumbling down into the trench and over the ten-deep line of spears and shields who held the Uraks at bay.
Through the dust and thick of bodies, two Fades stood at the front of the great beasts, still and patient as Salme’s defenders rushed to drag the injured from beneath the debris.
A moment later, Uraks charged and bounded over the trench, cutting down anything that moved.
“Hold!” Dahlen roared as he pushed his way through the ranks. “Hold!”