Part 40 (2/2)

”Hadrian, we need to kill the Mordant.”

The master archer loosed an arrow, his motions smooth as silk, and then he turned piercing green eyes on the marshal. ”We need more arrows!”

”And more men, but we're not like to get either. Yet if we kill the Mordant, we may yet turn the tide of battle.”

The archer grunted, gesturing to the enemy. ”Which one is he?”

The marshal searched the teeming horde. ”See there to the left? That battle standard, black with forked tails that look like darkness on fire? It is the Darkflamme, the battle standard of the Mordant.”

”I see it.”

”And nearby, mounted on a black stallion, he wears the armor of a Skeleton King.”

Hadrian made the warding sign against evil. ”I see him, but he's beyond the reach of my bow.”

”And if you stood atop the outer wall?”

The archer gave the marshal a slow, measured look. Both men knew the risks. Hadrian nodded. ”With luck and a favorable wind, I might reach him from the outer wall.”

He heard acceptance in the other man's voice. Even the archers fought with the courage of knights. ”Then the Light be with you.”

The archer saluted and called for two of his men.

The marshal returned to the outer rampart, taking his place by the king.

”Ulrich holds them!” Pride filled the king's voice.

Below, the defenders still held the gap. Prince Ulrich fought in the center. Like a blond-haired hero of old, he roared in defiance, his blue sword cleaving a swath through the enemy. Bodies littered the gap, five black cloaks for every maroon, but the marshal knew it was only a matter of time.

The gates of the inner wall swung open and a troop of mounted knights surged toward the gap. Sunlight glinted on arms and armor, maroon cloaks streaming in the wind. Horns sounded the charge. The proud blare echoed between the two walls.

Led by Ulrich, the defenders melted away from the gap. The knights lowered their lances and charged. Hooves thundered forward, driving a maroon wedge deep into enemy lines. A cheer rose from the ramparts, a mixture of hope and defiance.

Lances couched, the knights attacked. Their charge trampled the dead and pounded into the living. Skewering the enemy, they opened a s.p.a.ce beyond the wall. Like a maroon arrow aimed at the heart of darkness, they formed a wedge riding deep into enemy ranks. Lances shattered and broke and the charge ground to a halt. Abandoning their lances, the knights drew their weapons, swords and maces, axes and morning stars. A horn sounded, a note of pure defiance. Sir Mallory led them to the left, leading his men toward the battle standard of the Mordant. The knights fought like heroes, hacking left and right, cutting a fearsome swath through the dark horde. But just as they neared the Darkflamme, the resistance stiffened and the enemy brought their numbers to bear. They swarmed the knights. Fifty to one the black surrounded the maroon. A mob of hands reached up. They pulled the knights from their saddles, trampling them into a b.l.o.o.d.y gore. Sir Mallory was the last to fall, just two spears lengths from the Mordant.

The knights disappeared under a tidal wave of black. Even the horses were pulled down and slaughtered in a terrible frenzy of bloodl.u.s.t.

The marshal stared in disbelief. Three hundred knights consumed by the horde, he saw no way to stop them.

Prince Ulrich rallied his men, setting a wall of s.h.i.+elds along the gap.

But the horde had gained a taste for blood. They fell on the defenders, hacking and slas.h.i.+ng, charging like berserkers.

”Sound the retreat!” The king gave the order. ”Open the gates for the prince!”

The marshal knew it was the defenders only chance, for they could not stand against the onslaught.

Locking s.h.i.+elds, the prince and his men slowly retreated. They held the line while others ran for the inner gate. Anchoring the defense, the prince held the center, his sapphire blue sword moving in a blur of death. Attackers lurched away from the blue sword, streaming left and right, bowing the line around the prince.

”Ulrich, get out of the there!” The king gripped the stone ramparts, staring down at the battle.

A troop of ogres surged the broken gate. Wielding ma.s.sive war-clubs studded with spikes, they hammered into the thin maroon line. The ferocity of the attack proved too much. The defenders broke, running for the inner gates.

”No!” The king's cry carried the weight of doom.

The marshal yelled, ”Archers, protect the retreat.”

Arrows streaked downward but they could not turn the tide.

The ogres surged forwarded, oblivious to the deadly rain.

The prince stood his ground, buying time for the others, dealing death with every swing of his sword. But the ogres surrounded him, attacking from every angle. The prince pivoted and whirled, a fearless frenzy of steel but he fought too many. The ogres closed for the kill. War clubs ambushed the prince, striking the back of his head. The prince crumpled under the onslaught, disappearing in a haze of blood.

”No!” The strangled cry came from the king.

As the marshal watched, one of the ogres hefted the prince's blue sword aloft in triumph. Hate rushed through him. ”Get him!” But the marshal did not need to give the order. A hundred arrows thunked into the ogre, dropping him where he stood. None of the others dared claim the blue sword.

But the inner courtyard was lost. Waves of black poured into the muddy yard, pounding against the inner gates.

Beside him, the king slumped to the rampart. Clutching his chest, his face turned ashen. ”My son. All my sons.”

Fearing for the king, the marshal grabbed a squire. ”Water, bring water for the king.”

The war drums beat a ferocious rhythm.

”My lord, look!”

The marshal stared down into the courtyard. The enemy lines had pulled back opening a corridor to the inner gates. A troop of ogres emerged, carrying a second ram.

A second ram! Sweat bled from the marshal. ”Stop that ram!”

Trumpets blared and arrows flew but the ogres did not stop. Muscles bulging, the monsters howled an unearthly scream, hurtling forward with the ram. Pa.s.sing through the outer gap, they ran like demons possessed. They churned through the muddy courtyard, trampling the dead and the wounded, bearing down on the inner gate. Arrows rained like a torrent but still they came.

”Stop them!” But the marshal's command was lost in a mighty roar.

A second thunderclap rocked the world.

The great wall shuddered and shook, like the las.h.i.+ng tail of a dying dragon. Struck deaf, the marshal fell hard, the stone rampart pounding the breath from his chest. All around him, men tumbled and fell and screamed. A cloud of soot rose from the gates, eclipsing the sun.

Choking on darkness, the marshal struggled to rise. He clawed his way to the rampart and peered over the edge. The cloud of dust thinned, revealing the grim truth. The gates were gone, a great hole rent in the middle of the wall. His heart sank. Raven Pa.s.s was lost.

”Sound the retreat!” He did not know who would hear, but he had a duty to the living, to the last of the Octagon.

A lone trumpeter sounded the call, a mournful tune.

Men scrambled along the ramparts seeking the stairwells down.

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