Chapter 37 #2
Steel meets steel, like a sharp cry over the noise of the river. Gethin rushes forward, meeting a strike head-on while Brioc takes the one beside him. Their swords whistle through the air before they crash against the enemy’s like rounds of thunder.
Rebels surge forward, colliding with the line, and all at once, the world becomes nothing more than a blur of steel, blood, and fury. I stumble back toward the wagon, uncertain what to do, the dagger slipping across my damp palm.
This thing is fucking useless to me. I sheath it and reach for the nearest enemy. If I can just get my hands on someone’s neck…but everyone is moving too quickly, spinning wildly as swords and battle axes collide.
Someone shouts behind me, and the sound cuts off halfway through.
I turn without thinking, only to find the blacksmith dead on the ground with an arrow in his head. A sick feeling curdles in my gut.
Arianell is further back near the wagon, dragging someone with a sword embedded in her chest out of the way before she gets trampled. Her lips tremble as she ducks low behind the wheel. She shouldn’t be here, but there isn’t anywhere else she can go.
Meurig rushes past me, sword held high.
Two come at him at once. He blocks the first strike, plunges his sword into the second’s gut, and spins into the space between them like he’s done it a hundred times. Then a third Rhyfelwr comes in from the side with both sword and dagger in hand.
Meurig turns to meet him. He doesn’t spot the second blade until it’s already sinking into his neck. A spray of blood arcs through the air, and his body goes slack.
The Rhyfelwr yanks out the blade. Meurig drops.
For a moment, I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
My mind refuses to make sense of it. A terrible river of red pours from Meurig’s neck while the fighting still flows around him.
But he can’t be dead. Tonight, he’ll be grinning by the fire, toasting to another successful day on the road.
He’ll point up at the firebird, like he always does, and say how beautiful she is.
My mind stumbles. I lose track of where I am, and the terrible din of combat fades. Images come unbidden to my mind: wings flaring, fire roaring, blood painting the ground. I’ve been in a battle like this before. Ages ago…
Then Brioc’s furious roar shudders me back into the present. He’s moving toward Meurig’s body, his face as red as the blood that covers the ground, grief shaking his great shoulders. But another Rhyfelwr rushes in and forces him back into the fight.
Meurig doesn’t get back up.
A dangerous heat floods through my body.
With a furious roar, I rush into the maelstrom, duck beneath the whistling arc of a sword, and seize the throat of the man who killed Meurig.
“Marwolaeth,” I hiss, digging my fingers into his skin.
His eyes roll back into his head, and all the life winks out of him in a single, blinding moment. I don’t even feel the sting of magic and barely feel the crumbling of my mind. My anger devours it all, like a beast kept caged for far too long.
Wings flare against a gray sky.
I shake my head. Now is not the time for memories. But when the shadow of wings floats across the ground again, I realize the wings are in the here and now, not from some dark corner of my mind.
My heart lifts. The firebird is here.
Plumes of fire race across the ground behind the Order.
Enemy warriors scatter away from the heat, dropping back just enough for Brioc to drive his sword into another man’s chest. I catch sight of Osian through the smoke.
He stares up at the firebird, his eyes wide, as if transfixed.
Then he turns and runs straight for the wagon.
“The harp!” I scream at anyone who will listen. But the clash of steel is far too loud. Every other sound is drowned out by the inferno blazing through the woods.
Osian reaches the wagon and yanks at the restraints. They snap in his hands like brittle twigs. Then tears the harp free and leaps down, moving with the preternatural speed and strength only a Rhyfelwr can possess.
A Rhyfelwr strengthened by their Swynwraig.
But how? I’m his Rhyfelwr, and I tore out my talisman.
They replaced me.
I throw myself toward the wagon, desperate to stop him. Someone grabs me around the waist and wrenches me backward. I scream and thrash against his grip.
I twist hard, driving my heel down and forcing my weight sideways.
My boot slams onto his, and his grip loosens just enough.
I wrench free and stumble forward, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Across the river, Taliesin kneels, shuddering as he watches the battle, his skin veined deep blue and his eyes as black as night.
The Rhyfelwr reaches for me again, anger twisting his features. I drive my knee hard into his groin. He doubles over with a guttural roar of pain.
Then the firebird unleashes another river of flame behind him. Shouts erupt nearby. The Rhyfelwr falters, then turns, retreating toward the hills. The others follow only a heartbeat later.
And through the smoke, Osian runs with the harp cradled against his chest.
He never once looks back.