Chapter 15 Sariel #2
Faron was far less subtle. His shield leading, he flung his entire weight directly at the charging horse, which panicked at the sight and jumped, its hooves kicking wildly.
Faron ducked underneath and thrust his sword straight into the horse’s chest. The muscles of his arm bulged, and he cried out as he summoned all his strength.
Despite the incredible momentum, Faron halted their charge, froze them momentarily in the air, and then flung them backward.
The horse landed awkwardly, crushing the rider while bucking against the pain in its chest from the gaping wound Faron had delivered.
Riders raced past the brothers, but four pulled around, seeing the bloodshed and seeking vengeance.
Between the distraction and the killings, Sariel hoped it would be enough for Sir Tristan’s group to survive.
He kept still, letting the riders come to him.
He was not flashy like Faron. He did not barge into the thick of things, demanding all eyes turn his way.
For Sariel, every battle, every war he’d lived through, was fought the same. A slow, inexorable certainty.
Where Sariel stood, foes died.
The first rider neared, convinced his height and speed would be enough.
He wielded a heavy ax and swung it in a low arc for Sariel’s chest. Sariel blocked it with ease, the ax’s edge sharp but unable to break dragon bone.
A twist of the wrist, and Sariel retaliated, slicing through the man’s elbow.
Ax and arm went flying, spraying blood as the rider howled.
Barely moving, barely hinting at his awareness, Sariel curled low, a sword flashing overhead from a second rider.
Redemption lashed out, its reach unmatched. He carved a gash into the horse’s side, cracking its ribs before slicing into the rider’s groin and abdomen. The pained horse bucked and turned, tossing the dying man from the saddle.
Beside him, Faron absorbed a sword swing with his shield, his foe pulling back the reins so his horse remained near.
Another swing, again into the shield. He was trying to beat Faron down and rely on his height advantage.
It would never work. On the third try, Faron thrust his sword straight through the man’s elbow, twisted the blade, and then wrenched it sideways, splitting the entire arm in half when the weapon tore free from the rider’s fingers.
The rider screamed at the pain, and he kicked the sides of his horse to flee.
But Iris leaped upon him, joining the fray alongside her master.
The impact of her weight toppled the rider from his saddle, and once he was grounded, the coyote’s teeth tore into his face and throat.
Another rider, shocked at the sight, tried to stampede directly over Iris and trample her.
A furious Faron blocked the way, his shield smashing the horse’s skull in and his sword gutting the rider.
The horse’s momentum continued, and when it and Faron collided, it was the horse who staggered aside and collapsed.
Foes defeated, Sariel shook the blood from his blade and turned his attention to Sir Tristan’s group.
The riders had slammed into their center, but the hundred had walled up into a solid formation, able to react in time thanks to Sariel’s warning.
They also outnumbered their foes three to one.
Blood flowed on both sides, a far cry from the chaos the skirmishers were meant to inflict.
The arrival was also noticed by the other nearby squadrons, reinforcements from the rear center rushing to join in.
Sariel glanced to the front line and saw it holding strong.
Princess Isabelle strode the center of the battle, a golden beacon in the chaos, both her sword and cloak stained with blood.
As he watched, she slashed open one of the Argylle soldier’s throats, pushed him away with her shield, and then lifted her sword to the sky while shouting the name of her goddess.
Yes, the front line would hold just fine.
“No hesitation,” Faron said, joining Sariel’s side. A bit of blood covered his face and chest from his own victories over the riders. He nodded at the skirmishers, still attempting to wade deeper into the three-stacked lines of Sir Tristan’s group. “Deny them their retreat.”
They sprinted together, crossing the space in a flash.
Their foes were unprepared, their attention locked on the soldiers before them.
Sariel and Faron tore into the riders, cutting down their horses and impaling any who sought to flee.
Within seconds, it was over, the grass stained with blood and littered with corpses.
The reinforcements arrived only in time to see the conflict’s end.
Alex pushed to the front, his chainmail chipped at the breast and blood leaking over the left half of his face from a cut across his forehead. He gaped at the brothers.
“How?” he asked. Sariel flicked the blood from his sword, ensuring the trainer saw just how much covered his “oversized bit of bone.” Their eyes met. Sariel said nothing, only smiled faintly.
Faron whistled for Iris to join his side, then adjusted his shield on his arm.
“Call us to the front,” he said, also ignoring Alex’s question. “Let us show you what we can do.”
Sir Tristan joined them, his blade wet with blood. His expression was guarded and his mouth locked in a tight frown.
“Did you not hear their trumpets?” the knight asked. “There is no front.”
Sure enough, the Argylle commander had sounded the retreat. The back lines fled, trailing after the dwindled remainder of their knights. Those unable to escape flung down their weapons in surrender, Princess Isabelle’s soldiers already rounding them up.
Sariel rested Redemption across his shoulder and patted Faron’s back.
“Do not worry,” he said. “There is always another battle.”