Dawn of Swords (69 page)

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 strength 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.

“Stay back!” Moira shouted at him. Her voice was shaky, and as she pointed her sword at him, her arm began to tremble. She was
terrified of him. Patrick struggled to his feet, saw Winterbone lying in the grass a few feet away, and made a dive for it. Joseph simultaneously leapt into action, and before Patrick could lay a hand on the hilt, a fist connected with the top of his head. The blow brought stars to his vision, but Patrick’s head was harder than most. He heard bones snap, and he watched as Joseph pulled back his hand and stared at his mangled fingers, a look of shock and agony painted across his elegant features.

Patrick swung a backhand, catching Joseph flat in the mouth. The chainmail glove he wore shattered the man’s front teeth, sending him flying backward at an awkward angle. Then Patrick reached down, grabbed Winterbone—the sword was so heavy that he could barely lift it in his exhaustion—and swung wildly. The tip caught Joseph in the midsection as it flashed by, in the gap just below his breastplate. His stomach opened like the maw of some hideous ocean fish, spilling forth his innards. Joseph’s eyes bulged from their sockets. He reached down, grabbing at his intestines as if he could stuff them back into his belly. Consciousness fleeing him, he fell with a
thud
, his broken face landing hard against the ground.

Patrick dropped Winterbone to his side and panted, the strength sapped out of him.

“NO!”

Patrick turned at the sound of the shrieking voice and saw a woman galloping toward him. Moira still stood there, sword outstretched, eyes locked on her dead brother. She never saw the approaching rider, and the mace connected with the back of her helm with a
thunk
. Moira collapsed as if she’d been hit by a charging boar, smashing down face first. The horse ran on by, missing him by mere feet. From Patrick’s fleeting glance, the woman could have been Moira’s twin if not for the right half of her face, which was a twisted mess. It looked as if she had been tenderized by a meat hammer, an image that would have made him chuckle if he had been any less terrified.

The woman steered her horse around, her silver hair flying out behind her like the hem of the goddess’s dress. Her face was twisted in rage, her mouth opened in a constant, primal cry. She kicked the horse and it charged, heading right for him. Patrick tried to stand one last time but couldn’t. He couldn’t even get Winterbone off the ground. He fell back on his ass, and then closed his eyes. He’d accept his fate with dignity and begged Ashhur that it wouldn’t be painful or long.

It never happened.

He heard a
clunk
, and opened his eyes. The woman’s mace was no longer in her hand, and she sat atop her horse, spinning in all directions, searching for something. A dark object flashed seemingly out of nowhere, colliding with her and knocking her from her steed. The woman hit the ground and rolled to avoid further injury. The shadow, meanwhile, landed a few feet away. Patrick looked upon his savior—a slender female figure dressed in tight black leather, her body bent in such a way that the twin blades held in her hands were pointed directly at her opponent. Patrick gulped down a breath, looking on in shock as Rachida flashed her eyes in his direction.

“Are you hurt?” she shouted, keeping most of her focus on the white-haired woman with the mangled face, who had risen to her feet and drawn her sword.

“More than I’d prefer,” Patrick said.

“Doesn’t matter. Get up. Sound the retreat. I’ll handle this one.”

Without waiting for his response or explaining her sudden presence, Rachida charged. Her twin shortswords crashed with the woman’s saber, and the two women began a dance that would have been quite beautiful if life hadn’t been on the line. Parry and thrust, hop and dodge, swing and retreat. Patrick was mesmerized.

“Go!”
Rachida shouted, sensing his delay.

Patrick followed her command, pushing his feet beneath him and rising shakily from the ground. He looked out at the battle that raged around him and was amazed to see just how far it had
spread in all directions. He began to run at a limping trot, dragging Winterbone behind him because he didn’t even have the energy to sheathe it on his back.

“Retreat!” he yelled, his voice hoarse and weak. “Come on now, re—”

He stopped short, standing alone in the middle of the grass. There…in the sky…

Patrick fell to his knees, his eyes wide with horror while his mouth shrieked,
“No, no, no, no, NO!”

The battle was going quite well. Better than Clovis had expected as a matter of fact. He chuckled at his own foolishness for thinking that the DuTaureau boy might spur the enemy on to greatness. No matter how charismatic a leader might be, numbers always mattered more, and Karak’s two thousand trained soldiers would crush three hundred ruffians every time.

Peering through his looking glass, he could see that perhaps fifty or sixty of the Haven traitors were left, and though they battled diligently, killing hundreds, they would soon be finished. He leaned back in his saddle, another wave of pain knifing his side. Then he glanced at Karak, who seemed disinterested in the events down below, and smiled. Perhaps he didn’t need the help of his Whisperer after all.

As if in answer to that thought, he felt a gentle vibration against his chest. He leaned forward with a start, grimacing with pain, and stared at the pendant. There it was, swirling with mist blacker than night. He clutched it tight in his palm, closed his eyes, and listened.

And the Whisperer spoke.

Clovis’s eyes snapped open. He felt a moment of intense guilt, thinking of the instructions he’d given Deacon, but he stubbornly shoved his weakness aside.

“My Divinity,” he said, “it is time to end this.”

Karak stirred like a statue coming to life.

“It is,” his god said. “They will soon be crushed. When they are, we will move inland and set the town ablaze. No one who resides in the crook of the rivers shall live.”

“Yes, we will crush their bodies, but do you not think it best to crush their spirits as well?”

Karak’s glowing eyes turned to him.

Clovis pointed to his right. “The temple. It is the source of their mutiny, the insult they spit in your face. Let us send a message to any who might survive or flee to Ashhur’s Paradise. This blasphemy will never be allowed ever again.”

Karak inhaled deeply, then let the breath out.

“You are right,” he said. “A message must be given.”

“However, you must know—”

“Do not think me a fool, Lord Commander. I see more than you do.”

The deity raised a single hand, pointing two fingers at the heavens. His mouth began to utter words of magic, strange and powerful phrases Clovis had never heard before. Karak’s voice grew louder, more insistent, and then, with a final, demanding bellow, he clenched his giant fist and sent it crashing down onto his opposite palm.

Clovis’s eyes lifted, and he stared up in disbelief as a giant ball of flaming rock lit up the night sky, screaming in toward the township of Haven as if from the very heavens.

C
HAPTER

36

T
he sounds of battle could be heard from a mile away. The clanking steel, the bloodcurdling screams, the thudding of horse’s hooves—all of it. It was the first time Roland had ever heard such a thing, and it chilled him to the bone. He wanted to turn around, to flee in the direction he’d come from. And when he reached Paradise, he’d snatch Mary Ulmer from her tent and tell her how much he thought of her, how beautiful she was to him—everything he feared he would never have the chance to say again, for no matter how strong the impulse, he would not turn around. He would not abandon Jacob.