Something snarled as it blurred past, caught in the thick of the press. Nyori took a startled step back. The creature was a twisted blend of beast and man, a dark-furred sinewy creature with a head that looked like a monstrous jackal. But that wasn't what stunned her. She had seen too much to be shocked by a vargulf springing from legend.
It was the familiarity that shocked her. The vargulf had the remains of a headdress on its head, and though the thick hair was tangled and coarse, there were still the remnants of gold-tipped locks that flung about. The tattered remains of clothing were familiar as well.
Nyori's hand drifted to her open mouth. "Rhanu?" It's not possible. Merciful Divia, please don't let that be him.
The vargulf was lost to view, swallowed by the thick stream of soldiers entering the palace. A flurry of wolves followed it, streaming among the men like gray and white ghosts.
Leilavin's eyes widened when she looked around. She had to shout above the din of battle. "They are coming."
"Who?"
Leilavin did not answer. She pulled Nyori along, and once again they ran. Dashing through the enormous gash in the wall, they stumbled outside and ran the opposite direction of the soldiers. The ground was wreathed in flame, scorched and broken. Bodies lay everywhere, bleeding into the muddy ground. The scent of smoke and blood was nearly overwhelming.
The entire wall behind them exploded outward; flinging more bodies through the air and crushing the soldiers outside under heaps of collapsed rubble. The impact pounded Nyori and Leilavin to the battered earth. Once the rumbling finally died, Nyori slowly raised her head. The cries of the wounded rang in her ears. Leilavin lay beside her, looking equally dazed. They stared at the emerging band that trampled over the bodies of the dead as they spread out in a long line facing the shocked remnants of the human army.
At their fore was perhaps the most beautiful woman Nyori had ever laid eyes upon. She was decked out in gleaming silver armor, her head covered by an eagle-engraved helmet, where her violet eyes glowed brightly. Unlike the other akhkharu, those with her did not shun the sunlight.
Of course. The sun does not affect the Co'nane.
The armored woman raised a gleaming sword. "Rally to me!"
"That is Serona Belleson, Alaric's consort," Leilavin said. "Alaric cannot be far."
The front lines outside the palace ran to meet the Co'nane, led by the remains of the Ulfhenar. Serona held out her open hand, followed by the line of her soldiers. From where Nyori lay, they looked pitifully thin against the rushing mob of warriors consumed by the warmoor, as it was called in Norland. The battle rage.
But then the warriors slowed. They struggled forward as though through a sea of jelly. The air shimmered electric-blue in front of the open palms of the Co'nane, causing a high-pitched whine. Nyori knew that they were focusing Transference and Tropos. Not as a means of moving an object, but as a weapon.
As one, the Co'nane closed their fists. There was no sound. But the front lines were flung backwards as though struck by a line of battering rams. The unseen force crushed them; their weapons splintered, their shields shattered. Bodies were broken as easily. The air filled with the sounds of snapping bones and men's screams.
"Step forward!" Serona shouted. The line advanced. They raised their arms again, and once more the air flashed. The army tried to reform ranks, no easy task when the front lines tried their best to push away from the devastating blast to come. Nyori's eyes blurred, anticipating the slaughter to come.
The sweet sound of a war horn echoed upon the air.
Another answered, then another. Nyori slowly stood, seeking the source. A horseman appeared on the western hilltop, decked in a blue surcoat and gleaming armor. He was followed by his banner man, who waved the Golden Lion. The Imperial Guard of Kaerleon topped the hill on one side and on the other, the Conquering Legions of Epanos. Nyori stared open-mouthed as Queen Salliana joined the first rider atop the hill. She was decked in gleaming armor, her raven hair fluttering in the wind.
The Kaerleon commander pointed his sword, and the army spurred forward with a thunderous roar. The Co'nane turned to their new foes, gathering their focus. Before they struck, General Archambault directed his archers to fire into their unprotected side. As the Co'nane were struck, the new army rammed into their ranks. Serona tried to compensate, but her forces were also attacked by the renewed effort of the Reaver's army from behind.
Leilavin dashed past Nyori, leaping up atop a mounted Co'nane soldier. She stabbed him in the neck and shoved him from the saddle. As she fought to control the startled gelding, Nyori saw several of the Co'nane officers fall back to shield Serona.
"Milady, we cannot defeat all of them," her lieutenant said. "We must fall back!"
Serona looked at the scene, and Nyori saw the fear in her eyes. For a moment it seemed she looked directly at Nyori, but she quickly turned away. She and her escort cut through the mass toward the inner courtyard.
"Come on, Mistress." Leilavin gestured. Nyori ran and swung up behind her on the saddle.
"They have lost, and retreat is their only option," Leilavin said. "She will lead us to Alaric. You may yet have a chance to reclaim Eymunder." She wheeled the horse around, and they galloped hard on Serona's trail.
Chapter 69: Alaric
Alaric and the Reaver fought relatively undisturbed, for not even the fiercest combatants wished to get between them. Mothros had scored several slashes, leaving smoking gashes in the Reaver's armor. Alaric pressed the advantage and danced to the blade's humming song, floating from one attack to the next in a flurry of deadly strikes. As the Reaver strove to deflect the barrage, Alaric pivoted and kicked it through into a heavy wall. The bricks toppled, collapsing on the Reaver.
Alaric leaped in after his foe. Billowing smoke enshrouded the courtyard. Ancient statues of heroes long past watched impassively. Alaric felt light as air. He knew Mothros was killing him, but he planned to live long enough to destroy the Reaver first.
"Do you hide from me, servant of Leilavin?" His eyes searched into the smoke that drifted like bodiless spirits. "Do you look upon the glow of Mothros and see the end of your days?" He whirled, slicing through a stone statue. It slowly slid in two pieces to burst against the ground.
The blur of motion came from the opposite side. Alaric nimbly rolled to avoid the whistling blade. He leaped with his sword upraised, but the Reaver doggedly attacked, using all its great strength with every blow. The black sword seemed everywhere, and Alaric grimaced as he fought to avoid it. Statues were powdered to dust as the blades struggled for dominance. The air seared with every clash.
Alaric realized he had made a misjudgment. The Reaver was drawing strength from emotion; rage and hatred that could only be human. That made it different from the previous Reavers. Stronger. As it hammered its blows, Alaric could only try to deflect the powerful strikes. He stumbled to the ground with a curse. The Reaver's eyes flashed as it swung the great blade.
Alaric rolled away at the last second. The Reaver's blade grazed his cheek and severed silver strands of hair with a sound like harp strings breaking. The sword plunged in the ground almost to the hilt.
Before the Reaver could yank its sword free, Alaric rose and plunged Mothros into its side. No sound escaped the dark specter, but it grabbed Alaric's wrist to stop the blade from sinking deeper. Alaric swung his gauntleted fist and struck the Reaver with all his strength.
The Reaver tore through an orchard and crushed the outside wall in an explosion of bricks. Pink and white blossoms rained as it slowly rose. It staggered and clutched its side, looking almost puzzled at the inky liquid that spurted.