The Forever Knight

35

The legion of Akyre didn’t bolt out into the battlefield but moved like a deliberate hand, slowly spreading out its gray fingers. First came the infantry, hundreds strong, marching out onto the battlefield and trampling the dead beneath their boots. Behind them rode the cavalry, trotting in a freakish parade, their lances and pikes poised for a charge that never came. Like a machine they came, their feet and hooves beating out a dreadful music. In the distance of the Sklar Valley, Diriel still stood upon his chariot, anticipating his victory. He was firing his best bolt at us now, the biggest weapon in his quiver, and I saw my men wilt a little at the sight of it.

How long had we fought? I’d lost all sense of time. The mercenaries were bloodied and exhausted, and the Zurans had already taken surprising losses, their numbers too small to overcome Diriel’s throngs of slaves. They had started with ninety horsemen, and from what I could tell they’d lost a third of them so far. Even as the legion approached, one more of Chuluun’s men passed me on the field, being dragged by a boot caught in his stirrup. I thought almost nothing of the sight until I realized the dead man was Nalinbaatar.

But Chuluun spared no time to mourn his brother. He was steely eyed upon his steed, the very picture of Bogati pride. With his bloody scimitar he pointed at the legion, rallying his men and being the first to charge. As though shamed by Chuluun’s bravado, Kiryk cried out to his Drinmen.

“For Drin!”

A soldier blew a trumpet, and suddenly Kiryk and his Dragons were racing into the legion’s lances. Lenhart and Sulimer followed, their swords cocked back to strike. Jaracz stayed just behind them, leading their footmen who sang out as they charged, beating their chests like wild men and cutting through the swamp of conscripts. The defenders from Isowon poured out after them, and suddenly both sides had emptied their armies onto the field. I glanced at the berm where Cern waited with Venger. I watched as the prisoners we’d taken struggled with their choices. I heard a voice in my head urging me to kill everything that moved. I even said a prayer to Cricket. Then I snapped down my bronze visor and stormed into the fray.

I found my first legionnaire, the closest one to me, surrounded by his dead-eyed brothers and armed with a spear. He raised his weapon, threw it, struck me. . and I kept on riding, right into him, pushing the Sword of Angels straight through his head. His skull exploded at the impact, and when I turned three more heads were bobbing around me. I struck them all-one, two, three-and could not believe the ease with which they shattered. A glamour was upon me, not from heaven but from hell. I plowed my willing war horse through them, cutting of their heads like fruits.

“Blood for Malator!” I bellowed. “And bloody vengeance for his host!”

I could have flayed them, I realized. I didn’t even need my sword. My strength was everything Malator had promised me, and I released myself to it, to all the rage that had built within me, and I made that sword sing! I forgot the world around me, forgot my men and duties. I even forgot good Sariyah fighting right beside me. To me the world was a smear of crimson. I feasted on the legion, hacking them down, spilling their entrails and squashing their brains so that the dark magic animating them was snuffed. My horse slowed beneath me, and I realized his hooves were buried in body parts and smothered with gore.

“Around!” I shouted, spurring the beast free. The tide of legionnaires kept coming, relentless, but their endless numbers only fed my fury. Their weapons smashed and dented me, their lifeless fingers clawed my armor, and I cut them all away from me, sending their heads spiraling from their shoulders.

“Wrestler!” I cried. “I’m coming for you!”

There was no way he could hear me. I could barely hear myself over the clash. Soldiers speak of ground-shaking battles, and the ground shook today. The air shook too, not just with screams but with death rattles. I had lost everyone in the chaos; I was completely surrounded in a noose of soulless fighters. If Sariyah was still with me, he was somewhere in the melee dueling for his life. Someone called out that the horsemen were upon us.

Finally, I felt something. Not quite pain, but something nonetheless. A single pale-faced legionnaire had homed on me, knocking against my horse with his own armored beast and smashing his pike into my ribs. I should have fallen, but I didn’t. My armor split and blood sprayed from my side, but the blow that should have been mortal merely panged me. I grabbed the pike, yanked it from its wielder, and spun the blunt end through his eye, sawing it back and forth to wrench the brains from the hole I’d made. Yet the man-thing didn’t die. It grabbed up its sword, swiping at me even as I held it at bay with its own impaled weapon.

“Die, jackal!” I screamed. “Die and be in hell!”

I released the pike, swung my own sword, and sliced down from head to heart, watching in detachment as his body opened and fell from his horse. I was like Crezil in Anton’s hall, I thought. Merciless. Insatiable for blood. And nothing in the human arsenal could stop me.

* * *

I fought like this through the afternoon, the tide of bodies swelling around me, carrying my horse and me across the battlefield as I slayed them one by one. Sometimes I caught glimpses of Marilius, sometimes of Chuluun, and I knew that on the north side of the field Kiryk’s Drinmen held their line. I should have been exhausted. I should have been dead! But the fire Malator had lit in me knew no end, and though my armor was battered and cracked the Sword of Angels kept its magical edge, undulled and unsated by the scores it slaughtered.

Finally I broke away from the mass of Akyrens, driving my horse to a tiny patch of blood-soaked sand in the center of the battle. I spied the berm where, amazingly, Cern still waited with Venger. They were alone on the dune, protected now only the by the conscripts we had rescued from the field. These men had at least gotten to their feet, raising their weapons once again as if to hold the horde from Isowon. I looked for Marilius, so he could lead the conscripts into the fight. Sariyah was far from me now, his axe rising and falling on the heads of his attackers. The spell of bloodlust released me for a moment, clearing my mind enough to really see the battlefield. So astonished was I by the sight, that I nearly dropped my sword.

The mass of men who had faced each other just hours earlier had dwindled, both sides diminished to a third of their numbers. Corpses covered every grain of sand. A thunderhead of buzzards blocked the sky above, the smell of death drawing them for miles. The ground sucked at the hooves of my mount, saturated with blood, and hundreds of bruised and severed heads littered the earth, laying in their own gore or kicked along like playthings by battling horses. Limbs were everywhere. Prayers rose to heaven. I looked back and saw the path I’d cut and could not believe the carnage I’d made.

I couldn’t say how many legionnaires were left. Hundreds, certainly. But the conscripts who’d stayed to fight for Diriel were mostly dead, lifeless on the field or crawling over the bodies of men and dogs and horses. My own men were among them, heaped atop them with their own screams and missing limbs. The Bogati had all but disappeared, and I could not find Chuluun in the chaos. The mercenaries had fared only slightly better, and only because their numbers had been so many more. Now they fought in little pockets, exhaustedly swinging at the throats of the legionnaires, desperate to remove their heads. I swung my horse north toward the Drinmen, spotted Kiryk in the tumult and realized he was all alone. Neither Sulimer nor Lenhart nor Jaracz were beside him, just a handful of Silver Dragons.

I made the bloody calculations and realized we were losing.

“Marilius!” I shouted, throwing myself once more into the battle. I needed to reach him, to find him and rally him, but a wall of soldiers blocked my way. I cut at them, stabbing and trampling into the heart of the fray, calling out to the mercenaries to help me find Marilius. At last I found him, still alive, still atop his wounded horse. A band of mercenaries fought alongside him, encircled by legionnaires. I watched, amazed, as Marilius hacked at them, his helmet knocked from his head, his face scarlet. He looked nothing like the youngster who’d brought me to Isowon. That fellow was gone, replaced by a berserker.

“Here, devils!” I cried, luring the legionnaires to me. They turned at once, sighting me and raising their weapons, some on foot, others on horses so damaged now they could barely stand. Marilius and his gang pressed with new vigor, fighting their way out of the noose as he we swatted a path to each other.

“Lukien, get to the front!” cried Marilius as our steeds met. “Get to Diriel before they push us back!”

“We can use the conscripts,” I shouted. “Get to them. Get them out here to fight.”

“Them?” Marilius glanced over his shoulder toward the rear of our broken ranks. “They can’t fight, Lukien.”

“They’re ready,” I swore. “Rally them! Tell them we can win!”

“Lukien, you can win! Fight your way to Diriel and kill him. We’ll ride with you!”

“Go!” I ordered. Killing Diriel wasn’t my plan. “Bring them into the fight. Drag them out there if you have to!”

“He won’t have to,” cried one of the mercs. “Look!”

Together we turned toward the sand dunes. A wave of men came pouring onto the field, ragged, exhausted, but holding high their weapons and shrieking like madmen. The charge of the conscripts fed our army’s spirit. The mercs cheered when they saw them, and the Drinmen picked up the cry. The men of Isowon joined their brothers, and suddenly we were moving again, pushing hard against the Akyren wall, exploiting every tiny crack.

“Malator, where’s Sariyah?” I asked. I searched the field, but in the madness saw no sign of him. “I have to get to him. I have to protect him.”

Suddenly Malator burst into my mind. Lukien! Diriel!

Suddenly the cue I’d waited for all day had come. At once I whipped my horse around, sitting up high and riding out to see. And there was Diriel’s chariot, turning at last from the battlefield.

A thrill shot through me. Now I needed speed.

“Marilius, take the front!” I shouted.

Marilius looked stunned to see me riding the wrong way. “What? Where are you going?”

“Trust me, remember? You’re in command now. Don’t give them an inch! Push until your heart bursts. Push and push until they’re dead!”

“Damn it, Lukien, you can’t leave us! Tell me where you’re going!”

“To save Anton,” I shouted. “To kill Diriel!”

I heard his curses follow me as I raced toward the berm, where my swift-footed Venger waited.