Something hard caught him underneath the chin. The force of the blow was enough to snap his head back and make him bite his tongue. Ahaesarus stumbled, barely keeping hold of his sword, and collapsed to his knees. Hands were on him in an instant, yanking him backward by the arms.
“No!” he shouted, struggling against his captors.
“Stop fighting!” shouted a familiar voice.
When Ahaesarus craned his neck, he saw that Mennon and Grendel were the ones lugging him away from the battle. He heard screams and looked down again. More and more soldiers poured through the hole in the wall like ants from a mound, at least three hundred of them. Any who stood in their way, Warden and human alike, were slaughtered. And in the midst of it all Judarius stood tall, swinging a massive club of stone, pummeling those unlucky enough to stand within reach.
“We mustn’t stop fighting!” screamed Ahaesarus. He jerked his arm free of Mennon’s grasp and then tried to shove Grendel away as well. “It is our duty to protect our wards!”
“We cannot do that if we are dead,” Grendel snapped back at him. “We must reach higher ground and make our stand there. There is no other-”
His words were cut short by a burst of bright flashes that soared overhead. Fireballs and the crackle of lightning connected with the oncoming horde, charring a few soldiers, felling others, forcing them back. He glanced behind him and saw Turock’s apprentices, both those who had helped build the wall and those who had returned with him from Drake, approaching in a line. They continued to hurl magic at the enemy, looks of determination on their faces.
The pounding of hooves came next, and Ahaesarus spun around. At the base of the hill leading to Manse DuTaureau, the mindlessly fleeing citizens of Mordeina suddenly parted, creating a wide path. Down that path galloped a great many men on horses, led by a snarling demon with red hair. It took him a moment to recognize him as Patrick DuTaureau, decked out in ill-fitting armor and wielding a gigantic sword. One of those who followed him was Judarius’s brother, Azariah. A small group of others bore blackened armor similar to the soldiers who were invading their sanctuary.
“Who are they?” he heard Grendel ask.
“The survivors from Lerder, and some of those who traveled with Ashhur,” Mennon answered. “The ones who made camp on the other side of the hill. It appears to be…all of them. And the newcomers. The Karak deserters.”
“What do you say we rejoin the fight, my brother?” Ahaesarus asked. The fireballs and lightning from the spellcasters continued to flash overhead as he put his body in motion, charging back toward the conflict without waiting for an answer.
There were so many of them, flooding through the wall like some acidic liquid.
Patrick rode at the head of his own personal phalanx-two hundred and seventy-three brave men and women who had made the journey down the Gods’ Road and through the forests of Paradise, losing all they ever had to reach the safety of Mordeina. Only now that safety was badly threatened. The Wardens were outnumbered, and Patrick’s friends and neighbors were ill prepared to fight for their lives. And now there was a breach in the wall, and the soldiers were coming.
It was Haven all over again, and Patrick knew deep down that this was the end for him. He had seen the staggering numbers Karak had brought with him from Neldar. Fifteen thousand trained soldiers against barely four hundred courageous yet unskilled defenders. Not the best odds, he thought with a scowl.
“Come, with me!” he shouted, Winterbone held high above his head as his mare hurtled toward the gap in the wall. The thousands who were fleeing barely gave him a second look, focusing instead on finding whatever shelter they could in a land of elongated flatlands and sparse forests. “Do not be cowards! Fight for your lives!”
It seemed none were listening, but then he saw flashes of light to his left. Swiveling around, he caught sight of a gaggle of bearded men he had never seen before, who were marching down the hill toward the conflict, their hands raised as if performing some strange dance. Fire and lightning leapt from their fingers, bombarding the attacking soldiers. Magic. Spellcasters. Turock.
At least someone else was willing to listen.
His excitement growing, Patrick leaned forward in his saddle and drove his mare at a faster clip. He held Winterbone out to the side now, facing forward like a lance. The three captains on horseback were charging toward him, detonations sounding behind them.
“Azariah!” he shouted.
The Warden’s white steed galloped alongside him, and Azariah’s green eyes met his. Patrick could tell that the shortest Warden was terrified.
“Lead the others onto the hill with the magic users!” he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “Their soldiers are on foot, which gives you the advantage.”
“And what of you?” asked the Warden, though it was hard to hear him over the pounding of hooves and the roar of fire.
He jutted his chin ahead. “I’ll take out their leaders.”
Azariah nodded and then veered off to the left, climbing the hill that bordered the manse. Patrick heard the Warden shout, and then watched as his poorly trained crew followed him. The last one to look his way was young Tristan, once again dressed in the armor he had worn for most of their acquaintance. The youngster blew him a kiss before riding off, following closely behind Preston and his six brothers-in-arms. Good-bye, brave warrior. Let us die well.
Patrick took a deep breath, leaned forward once again, and focused on the three captains. They were so close now that he could see the whites of their eyes through the great helms they wore.
When the three captains were mere feet away, the closest two widened the gap between them, raising their swords to chop at him from either side. Instead of trying to engage them, Patrick took a chance; he grabbed Winterbone with both hands, uttered a profanity-laced prayer to Ashhur, and rolled out of the saddle to the right, toward two of the captains. He held his sword’s hilt tight to his midsection, the blade extending from him like it grew from his belly, and maneuvered his body in midair. A pair of blades passed over his head, and then his sword found purchase in the abdomen of the closest captain’s horse. Flesh tore open, and blood and a mound of intestines fell on Patrick’s face. Momentarily blinded, he struck the ground on his left side, losing the air in his lungs, but he rotated swiftly, trying to avoid the dying horse’s hooves while blindly slashing Winterbone at the second beast. He felt another strong jarring pull, and then the sword ripped free of its quarry. He whipped off his gore-splattered half helm to see that he’d clipped the back of the second horse’s leg. The animal careened to the ground and rolled, crushing its rider beneath it.
Patrick got to his feet as quick as he could and thrust the tip of his sword through the eye slit of the first rider, whose leg was wedged beneath his now dead horse. He then wheeled around at the sound of charging hooves, ducking as another sword sailed over his head. The blade glanced off his hump, which was thankfully layered with chainmail, though the impact struck fresh agony down his spine.
Once more he swiveled, watching as the last remaining captain circled him. He stood his ground, elbow cocked by his ear, holding Winterbone at a slight downward angle as Corton had taught him. He did not move until the captain swung his blade. Then he dipped and drove upward, allowing his enemy’s sword to skim past his ear while the tip of his own blade found a gap in the soldier’s platemail. Once the man was impaled on his sword, he shifted his weight and flung the captain from his saddle. Winterbone’s bloody tip slid out of the man’s armor, sending him hurtling through the air. He landed on his face with a sickening crunch as his body flopped in the other direction. The body offered a couple of final shudders, and then fell still.