“Release! Release!”
Arrows flew into the air. Karak remained motionless while Clovis allowed himself a nervous smile, hoping beyond hope that his Whisperer would reveal the next part of the plan to him when the time was right.
“Hold!” shouted Corton as the arrows rose high in the air, passing beneath the moon and casting a litany of ominous shadows on the ground. “Hold, I said!”
Patrick did as he was told, his body rigid, his arms growing sore from Winterbone’s weight. He glanced to his left and saw that Moira was beside him, decked out in her boiled leather and light chainmail, holding aloft a slender cutlass. Her hair cascaded from the back of her helmet like a silver waterfall. She winked at him, and he chuckled.
“Ready for this?” she asked, having to shout to be heard over the din.
“Ready,” he shouted back.
“Shields up!” came Corton’s voice, and the clamor and clang of steel was deafening. Patrick knelt down. Moira and the two shield-bearers on either side of him lifted their enormous curved buffers, forming a dome of protection over them. A second later the arrows struck, clanking off metal, thudding into wood. A few shrieks of pain came as arrows found purchase in human flesh, but thankfully there seemed to be few injuries. The barrage lasted only a few seconds, and then Corton was back at it.
“Up, now!” he screamed. “Up, and charge until they fire again!”
A battle cry rose up from all those around him, three hundred bellowing as one, and Patrick joined in. He shouted until his throat ran dry, shambling to his feet, running as fast as he could while weighted down by the fifty pounds of armor on his back and the forty pounds of sharpened steel in his hands. But he soldiered on nonetheless, guided forward by Moira, who was shoving her shoulder into him. He gazed ahead with narrowed eyes, watching the column of enemy soldiers draw ever closer.
“Stay in formation!” shouted Corton from behind, his voice sounding small beneath the clanging of armor.
Patrick watched as the archers lifted their bows once more, aiming lower this time, and another volley released. He kept pushing his feet to move, his legs sore, his back barking in agony, until he heard the command to hunker down yet again. He skidded to a stop, falling on his side in the process. The shieldmen were slower this time around, clumsy in the handling of their much too large shields. They failed to get close enough together, and as the arrows rained down, Patrick heard Moira shriek. He shifted abruptly to the left, found her lying there, and covered her body with his own. Again the arrows pummeled the shields, bringing still more screams from those gathered around him. Two arrows passed through the gap between the shields, one clanging off his right pauldron, the other skimming past his side, where there was no protection. He felt an instant of burning pain, but then it was gone-though now there was a warm sort of wetness dribbling onto his stomach.
“You’re all right?” he asked Moira.
She nodded in reply.
The shields were lifted and the charge began anew. This time Patrick didn’t struggle; his legs moved with a mind of their own, and his arms swung forward and back, easily holding Winterbone aloft. It was as if the bolt that had pierced his side had severed his ability to feel pain.
He didn’t need Corton’s next bellowed command to know that this was it. No more volleys would come their way, as they had gotten too close for a rain of arrows to be practical. Instead the archers spread out, making way for the men with pikes who stood behind them. The pikemen stepped forward and knelt down, holding their spears out at an upward angle, waiting for the charging force to collide with their sharpened tips. Meanwhile, the archers began picking off the approaching force, one by one, using measured shots.
One man fell. Then another. The shield bearer who had stood to Patrick’s right collapsed, grabbing his abdomen and screaming in pain. From his peripheral vision he saw one of his sparring partners-Big Chuck, they called him-take a shaft in the face. The man collapsed right then and there, falling backward, hands at his sides.
As Patrick worked his way toward the awaiting pikemen, arrows missing him by mere inches, he could only hope his end would be that quick.
He drew ever closer to the awaiting army, so close that he could begin to make out their features. Some appeared angry, barking back at the loud, quickly approaching mass, but they were in the minority. Others appeared exhausted, as if the act of holding their weapons aloft took more energy than they could afford to expel. But mostly he saw wide eyes and clenched teeth, shaking hands gripping swords they weren’t prepared to handle, archers who winced at every yelp and shout, sending their arrows flying wildly, looking like they wanted to be anywhere but right there, right then.
They were frightened. Terrified. Patrick grinned and forced his uneven legs to move faster. For the first time, despite the opponent’s much greater numbers, he truly believed the haggard residents of Haven could win.
He crashed into the first line, twisting to the side and avoiding the outstretched pikes. His armored shoulder struck a man in the jaw, shattering it, splashing blood and spittle across his back. Patrick braced his legs, swung Winterbone up in an upward-arcing circle, and then brought it down diagonally the way Corton had taught him. The two soldiers in front of him held up their swords to parry the blow, but it was too fast, too powerful. Both their blades shattered on contact, and Winterbone continued on its sloping trek, severing one man’s head from his spine and cutting through the thin leather armor worn by a second man. Winterbone took off the man’s arm before getting lodged midway through his midsection. Blood erupted in a thick sheet, drenching Patrick’s face and shoulders. He planted a boot in the dead man’s abdomen and kicked, freeing his blade.
The rest of his team followed his lead, barreling into the line of defenders, hacking and slicing, jabbing and thrusting. The pikemen fell, as did a good number of the archers, and those standing behind them moved forward. Patrick pushed on, his people killing and dying alongside him. He felt something strike his back and turned ever so slightly. Moira was leaning against him, using his bulk for balance as she whipped about, her sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Men fell at her feet like flies, throats slit, all with a simple flick of her wrist. He marveled at her speed even as he fought through the danger before him. For every one swing he completed, she achieved five or more. She was like a dervish of ruin, dodging every strike that came her way.
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.