The soldier easily parried the clumsy strike, kicking Patrick away in the process. Patrick hit the ground and rolled, falling directly on Winterbone. The sharp blade sliced through his armored left shoulder and cut deep into the flesh beneath. Patrick let out a cry of fury and pain and rolled back over, clutching at his gushing wound. The same soldier then yelled something Patrick couldn’t hear.
As Patrick got to his feet, an ear-splitting roar sounded. From above the castle wall leapt two lions, a male and a female, far too huge to be normal. They soared over his head and landed amid the chaos, their jaws snapping and claws swiping. Men were shredded from both sides. One of the Wardens, Sabael, lost his head in an instant.
“You have lost, blasphemer!” someone called out. Patrick turned back around to see that the soldier who had thwarted his attack had lifted the visor of his great helm. Scars ran down half his face, and one of his eyes was milky white. The scarred man took a step forward, pointing a mailed finger in Patrick’s direction.
“You will fall next,” he said.
Patrick took a defensive posture, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, waiting for the man to attack. Behind him, swords clashed, and he heard a youthful voice-either Tristan or Joffrey-screaming his name. He ignored it.
But the helmed soldier didn’t rush him. Jacob Eveningstar didn’t hurl a ball of shadow in his direction. Instead, from out of the portcullis swarmed fifteen elves, moving effortlessly around Jacob and the guarding soldiers, forming a secondary layer of protection for the First Man. Their copper skin glistened in the sunlight, and their pointed ears twitched. The elf in the center stepped forward. He was a massive beast of a thing, square headed and thick shouldered. His armor was black and rutted, like scales. From behind his back he drew a pair of gleaming swords just as black as his armor. The elf leaned forward and scowled at Patrick, clanging his swords together in front of him, causing sparks to shower to the cobbles.
Patrick heard rapid footfalls approaching from behind and threw an elbow, cracking the jaw of a rushing soldier, then stood sideways and faced the giant elf.
Perhaps this is the one to prove me mortal?
“Who cares?” he growled. The ageless Patrick DuTaureau charged.
CHAPTER 47
Eldrich Vaelor, the puppet king of Veldaren, stood atop the roof of the tallest public dwelling in the city, gray eyes staring across the narrow alleyways toward the Castle of the Lion. Moira followed his gaze. It was bedlam down there, thousands of combatants, nearly all of Veldaren and Ashhur’s entire armies, mashed into a tiny space. Even as far away as they were, it sounded as if the war were raging right below them.
Moira moved to the edge of the roof, squinting. Her blood was pumping in anticipation, and despite her injuries, which were not yet fully healed, she wanted to dive in down there, where she was most needed. And she knew she would get that opportunity. Though the king had claimed his rebellion was only traversing the city to observe the clash between the brother gods, she knew that the people’s need to make a difference would override his hesitation. Eldrich might not be the same man she had known as a child, a spoiled braggart afraid of his own shadow, but he wasn’t the strength behind the rebellion.
No, that strength was drawn from the one Moira had come here to save. Laurel Lawrence, that brilliant, beautiful, and fearless young thing, was the true power behind the forgotten throne.
As if on cue, the woman stepped toward the ledge beside Moira. Laurel was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting breeches covered by a mannish frock, but there was no denying her beauty or the potency of her will. Moira was intensely attracted to her, and even awed by her. From what Moira had learned, this woman had ventured out each day into a city that wanted her dead, determined not to stop until she had saved all the people she could. This was not a woman who would allow her king to stand idly by.
Laurel turned her haunting hazel eyes to King Eldrich. “We must fight.”
Behind them, those from the rebellion who had gathered on the roof cheered.
Eldrich furrowed his brow. “We will lose.”
“We may,” said Gull, running a whetstone along his saber.
“Either way, it will be exciting,” added Tabar.
The king frowned at these two men he barely knew, before turning around and facing the fifty or so gathered on the rooftop. The rest of the rebellion congregated on the empty streets below.
“Do you all wish to join the fight?” he asked, voice raised.
A raucous shout of approval answered him.
“Even if you fight for yet another god?” the puppet king asked. “Karak or Ashhur, it matters not. Whichever wins, we will still be in chains, only of a different kind.”
“We don’t fight for any gods,” said Laurel proudly. “We’ll fight for ourselves.”
“Besides,” scowled Danco, “Ashhur was swallowed by a wave of soldiers. For all we know, he’s gone for good.”
That statement drew another riotous cheer, even louder than the first. Moira lifted her sword above her head and joined them, grinning.
Eldrich appeared glum but seemed to gather himself as he shushed the crowd. “And so the choice has been made,” he said. “Any who wish to join the battle can do so of their own free will, but we will force none. It will be the people’s choice whether they sprint to their deaths.” Moira was surprised by the strength behind his voice, but that still didn’t stop her from scoffing at the man giving everyone permission to do as they chose. The man was a puppet king. He held no real power.
Another cheer began.
Laurel hushed them. “Listen, all of you. We’re behind the castle, so let’s keep it that way. When those who want this fight are collected, we’ll circle around the wall to the west, since our view of what is happening on the other side is blocked. Karak hasn’t made himself known yet, but he still might be nearby. Try to stay out of sight until you’re within fighting range. We don’t want anyone becoming lion meat.” She gave King Eldrich a smirk. “Then, my Liege, you will have the straight-on assault you wanted.”
Moira laughed, this time not bothering to hide her amusement.
“Now go, everyone,” said Laurel, “and if I never see you again, know that you were well met.”
Those on the roof began hopping down the stairwell, heading for street level. Laurel gave Pulo Jenatt, the curly-haired former captain of the Guard, a hug before he limped after the others. Moira noted the look of jealousy on King Eldrich’s face, before going to join her Movers.
“Moira, wait,” said Laurel, stilling her.
Moira turned to see Laurel arguing with the young girl with the dark, wavy hair and deep blue eyes, who was constantly at Laurel’s side. Moira walked up to them, listening to the songs of battle the people heading down the stairs sang and longing to be with them.
“What?” she asked.
Laurel’s stare was intense. “Moira, how hurt are you?”
“A bit.” She rolled her shoulders. “Still smarting, but once the blood starts flowing, it should fade away.”
“Good.” Laurel gestured to her young companion. “Lyana is adamant that she be allowed to fight. She is a girl of age now, eighteen and her own woman. However, I must ask. . can you protect her?”
“I can do my best, I suppose.”
“That’s all I can ask.” Laurel then looked deep into Lyana’s eyes. “You stay safe. Stick by Moira’s side like sap. I will see you again, do you understand? You are important, one of only two members of the First Families remaining in this horrid city. Your survival will serve as an example to the rest.”
“I’ll try, Laurel.”
“You best.”
Moira watched the conversation, the sounds of battle melting away as she gaped. She nearly slapped herself upside the head. That was why the girl looked familiar. Lyana. Lyana Mori. Rachida’s niece and last surviving family member. Though Moira hadn’t seen the girl since she was in the cradle, the resemblance to the house matriarch couldn’t be denied.