Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (25 page)

Rowen stomach lurched. He chose his target and fired again, putting an arrow three hands deep in an Olg’s shoulder. The Olg paused to break off the exposed shaft and glance up. For one moment, their eyes met. Rowen had the awful impression that the Olg was memorizing his face. Then the Olg hefted his axe and hurtled forward. Rowen lost sight of him, but he could hear the sound of the beast’s axe rending wood.

Gods, they’re chopping their way inside!
He nocked another arrow, but by then, all the Olgrym still alive had pressed themselves to the stronghold’s walls and were tearing at the wood with their weapons. The floor quaked, and a few Wyldkin poured arrows through murder holes. Meanwhile, the dark-garbed Shal’tiar
quietly left the battlements and massed in the courtyard below, blades and black brigandines glinting in the torchlight.

Rowen remembered Briel’s orders, but the Sylv was nowhere to be seen.

The Wyldkin woman next to him said, “Safer here. Nothing down there but death.” She fired an arrow through a murder hole, directly into the face of an Olg just a few feet beneath her.

The beast howled and swung up at her, but she was just out of reach. The Wyldkin calmly fit another arrow and fired, then another.

Rowen paused, peering through the murder holes at a heap of slashed and twisted corpses, all bristling with arrows. The archers were inflicting heavy damage, but for every Olg the Wyldkin killed, two more seemed to take his place. Rowen felt their odds of victory diminishing. Still, the woman was right. As close as they were to the Olgrym, the battlements were still safer than the courtyard would be once the Olgrym forced their way inside. Then he remembered Silwren and Jalist. Before he realized what he was doing, he left the battlements and rushed down the steps.

The Shal’tiar
formed ranks with icy efficiency. Those in the front traded their longbows for swords and savagely curved polearms. A few seized ropes that Rowen had not even noticed before and pulled. To Rowen’s amazement, the ropes were fixed to a wooden platform that covered a pit on their side of the gates. The platform was quickly dragged out of the way. As he hurried toward Briel, Rowen glanced down into the pit and saw wooden spikes protruding in the darkness.

Meanwhile, archers took up position on the platforms above. They were fitting three arrows at a time to their bowstrings. He also spotted two frightful ballistae designed to fire a dozen light spears all at once. The ballistae had already been loaded and aimed directly at the gates.

Briel stood at the center of the Shal’tiar line, scowling at Rowen. “You’re supposed to be on the walls.”

“I like it better down here,” Rowen said, feigning bravado. As he spoke, though, he heard the dreadful sound of Olgrym axes chopping at the gates. “Let me get Silwren.”

Briel hesitated. “If you like. You’re a worthless archer, probably no better with a sword, anyway.”

The change of heart surprised him. Rowen wondered if that meant their odds were even worse than he thought, and Briel knew it. He decided to press his luck. “My sword?”

“Go, Human!” Briel snapped. “If you want a blade, I’m sure there will be plenty lying on the ground before long.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Axes and Flame

R
owen made his way through Que’ahl, back toward his lodgings. A mixture of guilt and relief filled him as he left the Shal’tiar to do what would surely be the worst fighting of the battle. He passed more Sylvan men and women rushing to reinforce the ailing gates, but they paid him no mind.

If Silwren can’t help, we have to get out of here
. The Sylvs did not seem to have even considered the option of retreat. But the Olgrym were clearly going to win the fight. Once they breached the walls, the stronghold would become a slaughterhouse.

He could not leave without Knightswrath. He ran in what he hoped was the direction of the barracks. He still had his bow, half wondering how he would respond if a Sylv tried to stop him, but the rear half of Que’ahl seemed all but deserted. Then he caught a glimpse of movement and saw three Wyldkin women armed with bows and swords, hustling a row of children into a small, wood-and-stone temple devoted to the Light. The Sylvan children’s wide eyes were full of fright. The women gave him cold looks but quickly returned to their duty. When the last child was inside, the women followed, closing the doors behind them.

Rowen found himself wondering if they thought the gods would protect them there. He remembered the Noshans who had been slaughtered in their own temple. In his experience, the gods had no more interest in safeguarding the innocent than they did the guilty. Granted, Sylvs worshipped the Light, but he had not known the Light to respond to prayers, either.

He shook his head and hurried on. He spotted what looked like the barracks and rushed in. To his relief, they were empty. He found an armory. His hope was short lived, though. He found dozens of blades and bows, but not a single rack contained the precious adamune
.
Then he spotted a chest in the corner. He opened it. Inside were the rest of their weapons. Still, Knightswrath was not there.

Rowen cursed. The sounds of battle had moved much closer than he would have thought possible in such a short time. He took the weapons, along with a Sylvan blade for himself. The blade was shorter and more curved than an adamune
,
though it seemed excellently balanced, and a test of its edge left a swell of blood on his thumb.

He ran back to their quarters. He was not surprised to see that the guards had already left their posts to fight alongside the other Sylvs.

Jalist stood outside, armed with a hatchet he must have found somewhere, but he cast that aside and took his long axe from Rowen’s hand. “You picked a hell of a time to wander off.”

“Olgrym,” Rowen said, trying to catch his breath. “They’re about to cut their way inside, if they haven’t already.”

Jalist paled. “That explains why you left your precious armor behind. And the sword?”

“Couldn’t find it.”

Jalist’s expression was nearly sympathetic for a moment. He glanced around at the streets, which were empty except for rows of lit braziers. “Looks like everyone who can fight has gone to the gates. Just how many damn Olgrym are out there?”

“More than either of us has ever seen.”

“Good to see our luck hasn’t changed. Let’s just get out of here while we still can.”

“Where’s Silwren?”

“Passed out. Pale as a bedsheet. I suppose we’ll have to carry her… unless I can persuade you to leave her behind.”

Rowen hurried into the cottage. True to Jalist’s description, Silwren was lying on one of several beds lining the far wall. Her cheeks were as pale as the dragonmist of her eyes, though to his relief, she was awake.

She had pushed herself up on her elbow and was staring at him weakly. “How… many Olgrym?”

“All of them,” Rowen answered.

Silwren stood then swayed unsteadily. Rowen moved to help, but Jalist shook his head.

“You keep watch. I’ll carry her. She weighs two feathers, anyway.” He wrapped one strong arm around Silwren’s waist. “Sorry to treat you like a bag of potatoes, Sorceress, but we’re out of options.” Though he was a full head shorter than she was, he easily hoisted her over his shoulder.

Silwren did not protest, though Rowen caught her unmistakable grimace. He smothered a grin then sobered when he heard another surge in the battle. The cries of the dying Sylvs drowned out the clash of steel.

“Hurry,” he said, rushing out. He looked around, trying to find some means of escape, but all he saw were the tightly lashed logs that formed Que’ahl’s walls.

“What kind of damn town only has one entrance?” Jalist said. He gently lowered Silwren onto her own two feet.

“The kind that’s probably used to repelling a host half this size.” Rowen turned to Silwren. “Can you burn a way out?”

“I… I don’t think so.”

Rowen considered climbing over the walls, but there were no stairs or ladders nearby, and the highest rooftop sat well below the tops of the fort wall. He considered making a crude grappling hook with rope tied to a sword. They had no rope, but he’d seen coils of it in the armory. Or else they could try to dig under the walls, but the upright logs that formed the walls of the stronghold were likely sunken deep in the earth.

He turned to Jalist. “How long would it take you to cut through?”

Jalist started to laugh. When he realized Rowen was serious, he stepped forward and studied the stout stronghold walls. “Six or seven years.”

Rowen fit an arrow to his longbow. “How about a few minutes?”

Jalist raised one eyebrow. Then he took a firm stance, his long axe in both hands, and went to work.

The Dwarr was fiercely strong, and the axe blurred in his grasp, sending a shower of woodchips in every direction. He sounded like the Olgrym hacking at the stronghold’s gates, but Rowen saw at once that even Jalist could not work as quickly as necessary. He swallowed a surge of panic and turned, focusing on the still-empty streets.

Silwren joined him. A little of her color had returned, but she was shivering. She touched his arm. “I don’t think I’ll be able to help you. Not without… great risk.”

Rowen heard the shame in her voice. He squeezed her hand. “You saved us at the gates. No way you could’ve known the Olgrym would attack tonight. Just bad luck.”

Rowen listened to the steely chop of Jalist’s axe on wood. The sounds were growing farther and farther apart. He fixed his gaze ahead. A bend in the streets of Que’ahl prevented him from witnessing the fighting elsewhere, but he could imagine how awful it was. He confessed to Silwren, “I made Briel think I was going to bring you.”

She squeezed his hand but said nothing.

Surely, by then, the Olgrym must have hewn their way into the fortress. Soon, they would slaughter the rest of the stronghold’s defenders and sweep through the streets, killing anyone left in hiding. He thought of the children and the Wyldkin women in the temple. He couldn’t just leave them.

He started forward, but Silwren grabbed his arm. Rowen smiled thinly. “I take it you were reading my thoughts.”

“The Olgrym are close. We’ll never get away with a herd of children following us.”

Rowen deliberately removed her hand from his arm. “Odd that a Human would have more concern for Sylvan children than you do.”

Her wince told him that his words had wounded her.

“Stay with Jalist.”

The Dwarr’s face was slick with perspiration, but he continued hacking away. Rowen sprinted down the brazier-lit streets. He saw dark figures in the distance but could not tell if they were Olgrym or Sylvs. Mercifully, the temple was close. The Wyldkin stood guard outside. He called out to them in Sylvan, insisting he had a way out of the stronghold. Then he stood, catching his breath, and waiting for their answer.

He heard rustling from inside the temple, followed by stifled crying. The Wyldkin women glanced at each other. He could see they were skeptical, but they were also practical. If scores of bows and blades could not hold back the Olgrym at the gates, what hope did they have in the temple?

One said something Rowen could not hear then rapped on the temple doors. Wood scraped wood as a heavy crossbeam was lifted out of the way. The doors opened, and the third Wyldkin woman appeared. She gave him a cold look, but the three spoke in quick whispers. Two went back inside to gather the children.

Rowen kept a wary eye on the streets, flexing his bowstring.
Just a little longer…

But time had caught up with him. A thick, ghastly knot of Olgrym appeared a hundred yards away, their bodies smeared with blood and gore. Rowen counted one dozen, then two. He hoped the Olgrym would not see them, but one pointed and howled.

The third Wyldkin woman cursed. She screamed a warning to her comrades. They appeared a moment later, dragging some children and pushing others. Some of the older children carried smaller ones. One girl had armed herself with a splintered makeshift spear she must have fashioned from a broken candelabrum.

Rowen pointed. “Around that corner, then three blocks away. My friends will guide you to safety.”
At least, I hope so.

He could see they still did not trust him, but that made no difference. Even a slight chance was better than none. The children ran, creating a ragtag column that still moved far too slowly for Rowen’s tastes. One Wyldkin woman went with them. Two stayed behind. They said nothing but joined him, stone faced, longbows in hand.

The Olgrym, seeing the majority of their would-be prey escaping, howled again and broke into a sprint. They surged down the streets, knocking over braziers in a shower of cinders, sometimes tripping over and fighting each other in their haste.

Gods, it’s finally about to happen
.
I’m going to die.

Rowen realized one of the Wyldkin women was talking to him. She repeated herself, speaking decent-enough Common Tongue despite her accent. “What is the battle cry of your people?”

Rowen’s senses were so soaked with fear that it took him a moment to realize what she was asking. Finally, he answered, “
Singchai ushó fey.
” He was about to translate the Shao phrase—
No courage without fear—
then realized there was no point.

The first Wyldkin aimed down the shaft of her arrow and let it fly. The second followed suit. Rowen did the same. All three arrows found their marks, but the charge did not slow in the slightest. Fear quickened Rowen’s limbs, allowing him to nock and fire another arrow nearly as quickly as the archers beside him. He saw an Olg draw an arrow from his gut, toss it away, and keep charging, but the Wyldkin arrows converged on the Olg next to him and brought him down. He fell, tangling the legs around them, slowing the charge.

I should have taken a spear from the armory.
Rowen fired a third arrow but could not tell how grievously he’d wounded his target. The ground shook as the Olgrym approached. Sylvan bows twanged beside him. More arrows drew blood, but somehow, the charge quickened.

Rowen threw down the bow and drew his borrowed shortsword. He reached out and plucked a torch from a nearby brazier as well. As he did so, he realized numbly that this was his chance for one final, profound thought. But he could think of nothing.

Then the Olgrym were upon them. Rowen had the sudden feeling that he was dueling a gigantic boulder tossed in advance of an avalanche. The odd thought made him smile, giddy with fear, despite the panic knotting his muscles and nerves. He had hoped to stand his ground, but already, he was backpedaling as fast as he could, ducking beneath the bone-crushing swings of an Olg’s axe. A little blood dripped off the tip of his Sylvan shortsword. He’d managed to cut the Olg’s arm, though the beastly warrior did not seem to notice.

I’m still alive. So far, I’m still alive.

The Wyldkin women were not so lucky. One had fallen before she could draw her sword, an Olg’s spear pierced almost completely through her body. The other had run—not out of cowardice, Rowen sensed, but the hope that she could lure the Olgrym off the children’s trail. It had not worked.

Rowen felt his back strike something solid. He ducked. The Olg’s axe rang off a brazier. Rowen swung blindly then sidestepped—directly into the path of another Olg who was driving a spear at his chest. With as much luck as skill, he managed to turn sideways and parry the thrust, though the force of the blow jarred his sword arm. The Olg’s face was so close to his that he could smell his putrid breath. The thing seemed to be smiling. Rowen thrust his torch into the Olg’s smile and pushed hard.

Cinders burned his hand, but the Olg howled. Then he backhanded the knight, driving him toward the one with the axe. The second Olg simply reached out, caught Rowen by the arm, and threw him to the ground. Rowen grunted as the air left his lungs. He looked up to find a gray mountain blocking out the starlight. He tried to stab the mountain, but it sprouted hands that wrenched the blade from his grasp.

Then Rowen heard the beautiful twanging of bowstrings. The Olg fell backward, away from him. Hail after hail of arrows poured out of the night, slashing into the Olgrym’s ranks.

From the direction of the stronghold’s gates came a squad of Sylvan archers. More filled the platforms above. Another squad of swordsmen, led by Briel, moved to flank the Olgrym. Somehow, despite how quickly they aimed and fired, they did not strike him by mistake.

Rowen might have cheered, but he thought of Silwren and Jalist, not to mention the Sylvan children. He clawed his way back to his feet and fumbled for a weapon. The first thing he saw was the dead Olg’s axe. It was absurdly large and heavy for him, but it was better than nothing. He hefted it and ran to find his friends.

Luckily, the Olgrym were too busy clashing with the Wyldkin and Shal’tiar
to notice him. There seemed to be more Sylvs than he would have expected, given that the Olgrym had already carved a path into the stronghold. He hoped he would not get tagged by a stray arrow.

He followed a trail of tipped-over braziers, considered picking up another torch, then realized he would need two hands to swing the axe. He heard the din of battle ahead, distinguishing Jalist’s angry cry through the noise, and ran faster. He rounded the corner in time to feel a wave of heat wash over him. Purple fire flowed like water from a broken dam. A wave of sheer force followed the fire, knocking him to the ground.

Silwren!
He fixed his eyes on the blaze, forcing them open despite the glare. Enormous bodies struggled in the violet wash, writhing and burning. Then they were gone. The fire vanished, too.