Then something loomed in his restricted vision. He straightened his sword and bent his elbow and shouted his own country’s war cry, the roar of the great bear. Suddenly, there was a great crash. Horses screamed and went down, men cried in shock and pain. Sendarus could hear metal rending metal, and the softer whack of flesh and bone being butchered. He kept on going. Having obviously missed his target he reined in, wheeled, and charged in again, but in the confusing melee ahead he could not make out who was a knight and who was a Chett. He took off his helmet and hurled it away angrily. A Chett rode past, lance held overhand, and Sendarus went after him. The Chett must have heard his horse despite all the din because he turned just in time for Sendarus’ sword to drive through his chest instead of his back. Sendarus twisted it free as the Chett fell off his horse, already dead. He kicked his mount further into the fray, pushing aside the riderless mare. In front of him, two Chetts were getting the better of one of the poorer knights— who could afford only a sleeveless mail hauberk—and both his arms were bleeding profusely. Sendarus hacked into one, dropping him almost immediately, but was too late to save the knight, who was struggling to pull out the lance that had been driven through his neck. The surviving Chett reached for his sword, but was not able to unsheath it before Sendarus cut off his head. The dying knight had disappeared by then, his horse panicking and taking him away from the battle.
Sendarus found himself in the clear, and it was obvious to him that the knights were winning this battle easily. They outnumbered the Chetts by at least three to one, had better body armor, and all wore helmets. The Chetts were fighting desperately, though, and most desperate and dangerous of all was their leader, Kumul Alarn. He swung his sword as easily as an average man could swing a twig, slicing off limbs and heads with terrifying ease. Galen and three other knights were already moving around behind him, but Kumul seemed to physically pull the stallion around with him. His sword rose and fell, cutting through the helmet and the skull of the luckless knight underneath. The knight fell back, his blood fountaining over his comrades, taking Kumul’s sword with him. Kumul swore, punched another knight in the face and took his sword, but as he raised it high to strike down on another enemy, Galen saw his opportunity and struck, sending the point of his own sword deep into the armpit of the giant. Kumul let out a terrible bellow and for an instant seemed to freeze in place. Another knight sent a slashing blow into Kumul’s back, the blade sinking deep. Galen and the knight drew out their swords at the same time and Kumul visibly slumped over the front of his stallion, then slipped sideways to the ground. A great wail went up from the Chetts and the sound of it chilled every knight who heard it.
Jenrosa had led the banner of exhausted lancers to the rear of the Chett line, the whole time looking around desperately for Korigan, but the queen was nowhere to be seen. She thought of Lynan and headed toward the center. She could see him there, surrounded by Ager and Gudon, looking out over the battle. She called out to him but he did not hear, and rode closer. She opened her mouth to try again, but another sound cut across her, a sound of such pain and sorrow and anger that she knew immediately, instinctively, what it heralded. She added her own voice to the cry, and heard other Chetts do the same.
Then she heard Lynan’s scream, and it was as if a real grass wolf had taken human form. Before anyone could stop him he charged forward, straight for the enemy’s center.
The Chett lancers had fought with more courage and tenacity than Sendarus had ever encountered before in an enemy, but they were all dead now, lying in bloody heaps on the ground with their leader. He sighed with relief, because now he knew the Chetts were going to lose the battle.
He ordered one of the knights to tie Kumul’s corpse to his horse so he could parade him in front of the enemy, letting them know that nothing—and no one—could defeat the army of Queen Areava Rosetheme of Grenda Lear. When it was done, he rode off toward the center, an escort of knights on either side. When he saw the single Chett rider coming straight for him, he thought it must be some madman. Two of the knights spurred forward to kill the Chett before he reached their general, someone they had learned to respect and admire despite his Amanite blood.
Sendarus watched the madman closely, amazed and horrified by the fanaticism the Chetts had shown throughout the battle. He noticed that he seemed to have no face. Sendarus squinted and saw that indeed there was a face, but it was so pale it might almost have been nothing but a skull, the white bone shining in the sun.
He watched as the two knights lowered their lances and charged. The Chett waited until the knights were only paces from him, then swerved to his right. The knight on his left had too much momentum to change course and rode past, but the other had only to change slightly his grip on his lance to redirect it. Sendarus saw the lance go through the Chett’s body, and at the same time saw the Chett’s sword cleanly take off the knight’s head. The Chett slowed, the end of the lance wobbling in the air in front of him.
“He doesn’t know he’s dead yet,” one of his remaining escort joked.
By now the other knight had wheeled and was charging back. The Chett looked over his shoulder and then down at the lance impaling him. As Sendarus watched, the Chett grasped the lance with his free hand and slowly pulled it out of his body, then twisted in his saddle and hurled it toward the charging knight. The lance struck the knight in the eye, propelling him off the back of his horse.
“Fuck,” another of the escort said.
The Chett turned back to Sendarus and his escort, kicked his mare into a gallop and whirled his sword in the air above his head. And behind him, just coming over the rise, was the rest of the Chett army.
Sendarus’ heart froze with fear.
“Her shoulders are coming through!” the midwife called excitedly.
Trion was wiping Areava’s face and throat. “Your daughter is almost here, your Majesty ...” He stopped because he could feel something warm near his arm. He turned and saw that the Key of the Scepter was pulsing with light.
“Your Majesty ... ?”
Knights kept on getting in Lynan’s way. He sliced through necks with his sword, punched faces with his free hand, even used his teeth when he could. He felt lances pierce him, but there was no pain. He felt swords fall on him, but they could not break his bones. One by one he got rid of the annoying, armored flies, and went straight for the man who still held his ground, the man whom Lynan in his fury did not recognize, the man with Kumul’s body tied to his saddle by a length of rope, the man with the Key of the Sword hanging over his heart. He said nothing, casually brushed away the man’s sword, and thrust his own weapon deep into the man’s throat.
Areava screamed suddenly in terror and pain, her back arching off the bed.
Trion, taken by surprise, jumped back.
The midwife tried desperately to keep her hands on the baby still half in, half out of the queen. Before her eyes, a wound opened in the baby’s throat and spouted blood all over her. The midwife fainted.
Lynan pulled the sword out and thrust again, this time into the man’s heart. The man fell forward over Lynan’s arm and keeled sideways, still hanging in the saddle. Lynan put his other hand on the pommel of his sword and drove it in farther; he saw the point emerge out the man’s back, then threw him off his horse.