Chapter 34 #2
All around her, not just the two soldiers she faced, but those fighting dhemons and fae, dropped their weapons.
Their faces went slack as they looked at her, heady desire burning in their eyes.
Within the radius of her power, vampires fell as those who fought beside her pushed against the sudden rush of need to see the truth.
Difficult though it was for those without bondhearts now shielding their minds, they grappled with their own thoughts just long enough to seize the opportunity to put an end to their foes.
Yet the two soldiers she had in her direct line of sight were not dispatched by the fae around her.
Instead, she swung her sword and cut into the neck of the first. Blood gushed from the struck artery, dousing her blade and the vampire nearest him—the vampire who frowned at her sudden violence and somehow shucked off the thrall she had placed upon him.
Ariadne heaved her sword back, the suction of the Caersan soldier’s neck making it more difficult than she had hoped. But not soon enough. She was not quick enough to free the blade and block the vampire’s attack.
Fueled by a sudden surge of anger, the Caersan man swung hard and fast at Ariadne. The blade, however, never connected with her. Instead, a massive arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her to the side, placing the great dhemon’s body between her and the attacking soldier.
Whelan’s scream of agony punched Ariadne in the gut, emptying her lungs of air as he collapsed to the mud at her feet.
The world slowed, the din of battle fading from her ears as his arm slipped from her waist. His free hand dropping his greatsword to catch himself was no use, for his elbow buckled, and he slid through the slick, frozen soil.
Pain ricocheted through Ariadne’s back in unison with the blade that was now buried somewhere between Whelan’s vertebrae.
A great rush in her belly told her Oria had already taken flight with Almandine close behind, both pushing through the falling snow to hone in on their location through pain alone.
“Whelan!” Madan’s mental scream had Ariadne swaying on her feet.
His fear and panic rippled through her as Almandine struggled to block out the sudden surge of emotions from everyone connected through their respective vinculums. But it was Madan’s voice that continued to cut through all else. “No, no—”
Ariadne held back the urge to vomit. This could not be happening.
Not now. Not ever. Her mind threatened to disconnect from the present as it had the moment Ehrun grabbed her wrist in the western mountains—as it had when that knife’s blade disappeared into Kall’s chest and put a permanent end to the man that had become one of her best friends.
The soldier heaved back his sword, pivoted to angle the blade above Whelan’s exposed neck, and swung down hard. Ariadne twisted, driving her own sword into the path of the Caersan’s to shove it away with all her strength.
Not again. She would not let herself break too soon—not as long as she could stand between her friend and certain death. The time to struggle internally was not in the middle of a battle. Not while she could still help him.
“Oria!” Ariadne cried as she stepped over Whelan to push the soldier back again. “Get him out of here!”
Screams of terror rose up from the battle, and a strange relief ran through her veins as the great green dragon’s presence became known to those who had never before seen Anthoria. Who would have thought that the distress of others would cause Ariadne a beat of solace as she killed her own people?
Back and forth she went with the soldier, wanting nothing more than to drop her sword and make her final attack far more personal.
Doing so, however, meant putting herself in a position that could too easily end up like the crushing pile that happened in Monsumbra.
The memory of it stayed her actions, and she continued to fight the Caersan with her sword.
Until Anthoria landed behind her with a roar.
Ariadne felt the dragon’s intentions without needing to be told. Lunging out of the way, she twisted back to watch as Oria snapped up the offending soldier in her jaws and crushed him between her massive, sharp teeth.
“We’re still alive,” the dragon reassured everyone as though even she needed the consolation just as much. Then she scooped Whelan up with a foreclaw, her eyes swiveling to Ariadne. “Be safe, Yvhaltrinja.”
Then, in a gust of wind, the dragon lifted into the sky with the broken and unconscious dhemon in tow.
Ariadne did not stand to watch them leave for long.
All too soon, another soldier rushed in her direction and hesitated when he recognized her face.
The anguish of uncertainty and the sudden realization that she was very much now alone rushed through Ariadne, stealing from her any sense of calm.
Before the soldier could decide whether or not to lift his sword against her, she shoved her own blade through his stupid, gaping mouth.
The pain that rippled through Azriel as Whelan collapsed knocked the breath from him.
Freezing mid-battle was nothing short of a death sentence, yet he did so as he felt with all too much clarity the sensation of a blade burying into his back.
The Caersan soldier before him took the opportunity to swing his sword up toward Azriel’s face as his eyes widened in shock.
No.
Not Whelan, too.
Before the strike could take off his head, Azriel lurched back.
The blade grazed the crook of his horns, vibrating through his skull as it glanced over the annuli.
He snarled in response, Razer cutting off the physical connection to Oria and Whelan to relieve them both of the other dhemon’s agony, and launched himself at the soldier.
Like so many others, the vampire didn’t expect him to close the distance so suddenly and failed to defend against him as he tore into the soldier’s throat.
“Madan—”
Azriel ignored the blood dripping from his mouth and turned through the frenzy in search of his brother.
Gods, his brother. Madan’s emotional desperation clambered through the vinculum even as he physically remained rooted in the battle, for when Azriel finally caught sight of him, Madan still exchanged blows with another Caersan.
“We’re still alive.” Oria’s reassurance was not enough to temper the panic steadily rising from Madan.
“Brutis,” Azriel said. “Come get him.”
But to his surprise, Madan pushed back. “No.”
Engaging with another vampire, Azriel pushed the Caersan’s blade away before slamming his horns into the man’s stomach.
The soldier doubled over from the force of the air being stolen from his body.
Azriel didn’t hesitate. He brought his blade down on the back of the man’s neck and didn’t care to watch as the severed head fell into the mud.
Instead, he worked his way back toward his brother. Madan had moved considerably farther than him in the fray, pushing soldiers back despite his missing arm. Only when Azriel was almost at his back did he say, “Go see Whelan.”
“Whelan wouldn’t allow it,” Madan grit back, though tears cut through the streaks of mud and blood that caked the vampire’s face, unmasked by the falling snow.
As much as Azriel hated to admit when Madan was correct, he knew deep in his gut that if his brother arrived at the medic tent in the middle of battle, Whelan would hold it over him forever.
Victory tonight was too important for anyone still able-bodied enough to fight to leave.
They needed to take the Hub above all else.
“Fine.” He grabbed a soldier’s arm as it raised to strike, held it in place, and shoved his sword through the man’s armor hard and fast. Against another Caersan, the steel was strong enough to hold.
Put to the test with dhemon strength, however, the forged exoskeleton was punctured and crushed as easily as any other insect.
Without another word on the matter of Whelan—they were sure to learn of his well-being soon enough—Azriel turned his attention elsewhere.
Phulan would take care of him, and Oria would do anything to not let her bondheart die, even if it meant stubbornly clinging to his life force until her own sputtered out alongside it.
The same would have been said about Bindhe and Kall had the wound not been immediately fatal.
That this one did not kill Whelan outright told Azriel there would be hope.
After all, if Ariadne could survive a salted blade to the gut, Whelan would, too.
“It’s time,” Azriel said to Razer.
The two words were all his bondheart needed to hear.
No other thoughts were exchanged before the dragon lifted into the air, following a similar path to Anthoria and Almandine had taken just minutes before.
More followed—the large winged beasts collected from Ehrun’s army and his friends alongside the smaller, more precise hatchlings that were determined to make their mark in the battle.
“Keep your distance from the walls,” Brutis cautioned the flying cavalry. “They will be looking for any opportunity to shoot you down.”
Echoes of confirmation flooded through the vinculums, and the high-pitched shrieks of the small dragons announced their arrival before the great shadows of death roared down from the sky.
Screams of pure terror from Caersan soldiers orchestrated a stunning melody in Azriel’s ears, unlike anything he’d heard before.
All across the battlefield, crimson-clad vampires turned from their enemies and ran.
With how far back from the Hub the main fray was, their instinct to flee at the sight of such powerful beasts worked against them.
The dragons used their frenzied escape to swoop in and raze them to the ground.
Bursts of dragonfire lit up the snowfall, punctuating the scene with flames capable of melting metal.