“Watch out!”
He raised his eyes and saw the fellow standing by the big destrier, looking like a man defeated, but he only saw him for a second before a score of the undead converged on him and pulled him from his horse.
***
The rider split the man’s head open with an arcing blow of his sword, the blade glowing red as though thirsty for the blood of its enemy. Therrador recognized the Mourning Sword that had belonged to the king’s Shaman-only someone who’d been present when the Shaman died could possibly have it.
Hope that had all but disappeared prickled through Therrador’s stomach and chest.
The bearer of the king’s blood. The ghost was right. There’s hope yet.
A tired smile broke across his face, but the rider sat there, looking at the corpse he’d just created.
What is he doing?
Therrador stumbled forward a step. Dozens of undead soldiers had noticed the rider and were finding their way toward him as thought they had been commanded, but the rider didn’t look up.
“Watch out!”
The rider raised his head at Therrador’s warning, but too late. Dead hands grasped him, pulled him out of the saddle and down to the ground. A second later, they overwhelmed his horse. Therrador watched, breathless, hope fleeing with the soldier’s fall.
This cannot be.
He whirled around and returned to Sir Alton’s horse, cut through the reins with his dagger. The general’s body slumped to the ground as Therrador retrieved his sword and forced his fatigued muscles to pull him into the saddle.
“Sorry, my friend.”
He tossed his dagger aside and grabbed the saddle’s pommel, then dug his heels into the horse’s side with as much force as remained in his exhausted legs. The destrier sprang forward, leaping over Sir Alton’s corpse and past the Kanosee soldier who’d almost brought Therrador his end. He charged toward the downed rider, ignoring the protest of his exhausted muscles, the numb pain of gripping the saddle with his wounded hand.
The big horse closed the distance quickly, each stride eating yards of blood soaked ground, carrying Therrador to the bearer's aid. His heart thumped hard in his chest at the thought of losing him, but he forgot his worry as he saw fire spring to life amongst the undead soldiers.
***
Khirro slashed at the hands grabbing at him, but they were too close for him to use the sword effectively. He sliced a shallow cut on one man’s arm, but not enough to stop him and his fellows from pulling him out of the saddle.
He tumbled through a labyrinth of arms and weapons, felt blades rub his armor, until he hit the ground with a jarring thud that clacked his teeth together and doubled his vision. Hands grabbed his arms, wrenching his shoulders in their joints and tearing the Mourning Sword from his grip. Khirro thrashed, trying to free himself. A blade penetrated his armor, jabbing into his side and cutting his flesh; he felt the blood flow from the wound and yelled out in pain. A vision of fire flashed through his mind and he yelled again, but this time it came out a roar.
The flames flickered to life, covering his hands first, turning them to burning paws. The fire climbed his arms, spread across his chest, engulfed his face until a veil of flames licked the world in front of his vision.
Khirro flipped over off his back and swiped at the closest man, leaving four deep wounds across his face and setting his hair alight. The undead came at him from all sides, but Khirro slashed and bit, tearing out throats and ripping off limbs. He felt like a spectator watching the carnage he created, horrified by what he was capable of while being thankful for it.
Swords and axes found him, but rebounded from the flames without effect. The few living men among his attackers screamed and tried to flee, but he caught them, closed his huge, powerful jaws on their heads, cracking them open like nuts at a feast. He trampled them and tore them, rent their flesh and bit off their faces.
Then he was on top of the last man, pinning him to the ground with his flaming paws. The man’s plate armor protected him from the flames, but smoke rose from the long, braided beard trailing from his chin. The soldier’s mouth moved as he spoke, but fire roared in Khirro’s ears, deafening him to the world outside the flames. The tyger’s mouth opened in a snarl that roared smoky breath into the man’s face. He cringed.
Behind the flames, Khirro suddenly recognized the man: the braided beard, the gleaming plate, the insignia on his epaulets.
Therrador.
The tyger raised its flaming paw.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Therrador leaped off his horse, the sight of the bearer revitalizing his energy, giving him strength in the face of exhaustion. Giving him hope.
He slashed the first soldier he came upon in the back of the leg, toppling him, and the king saw the familiar blank look in his glazed eyes. Therrador inserted the tip of his sword through the man’s skull, pinning him to the ground, then removed the blade with a grunt and a twist.
When he looked up at the throng of men who’d fallen upon the rider, he saw more clearly the source of fire: a burning tyger slashed its way through the men.
What evil magic is this?
Therrador watched with fascinated horror. The beast moved with the speed of lightning and killed without hesitation, but it wasn’t these qualities that held the king enthralled-he would expect these of a great cat, burning or not. No, the man inside the flames drew his gaze.
Mud smeared his face, dirt and blood covered his undistinguished leather armor. Whenever the tyger’s paw swung, the man’s hand followed. Whenever the tyger’s mouth opened, the man’s did, too. They seemed to be one, working in unison, a part of the same being, yet the warrior’s expression looked like it belonged on someone caught in the grip of fear and dismay, not a soldier slaughtering his enemy. He might have thought the soldier would control the beast, but might it be the other way around?
A Kanosee soldier yelled and charged Therrador, drawing his attention away from the flaming tyger and the man inside. The king caught the haft of his attacker’s axe with his blade, turning the blow aside, but the soldier pushed forward, slamming his chest against Therrador’s before he could strike his own blow.
The king stumbled back and might have kept his balance but for the ill placed corpse at his heels. His feet tangled with the man’s arm and he fell to the ground with a clang of armor and a grunt.
His adversary slammed his foot down on Therrador’s wrist, pinning his sword arm to the ground before the king righted himself. Therrador struggled to free it, clawed at the man’s leg uselessly with his thumbless right hand, as the Kanosee raised the axe, two-handed, over his head and grinned mercilessly. The king refused to look away from his killer’s eyes.
I’m so sorry, Graymon.
Fire flashed before the enemy struck his killing blow. A flaming paw drew four deep gouges across the side of the man’s head, pulling one eye from its socket and shredding his cheek. Blood splashed on Therrador’s face and chest.
The Kanosee soldier’s remaining eye widened in shock and terror, his mouth opened to scream, but the tyger rode him to the muddy turf, mauling him before he made a sound. Therrador propped himself on his elbows, watching the carnage, and inhaled a deep, relieved breath of winter air tinged with fire and blood. He’d spent most of his adult life close to killing and death, but this was the first time he’d seen a beast such as this in battle, let alone be saved by it.