Severed limbs tumbled through the air, as time itself slowed to a crawl. Whole bodies were taken to pieces as thoroughly-if not as neatly-as if they’d been worked on by a master butcher. Hair caught flame. Shields went spinning away like wagon wheels. Iron axes fell from broken, bloodied hands.
Those few berserkers who survived the blast stopped in their tracks. Their mouths hung open, their eyes wide, but no longer with the fury of battle. For the first time in the history of the eastern clans, someone had discovered a way to break the berserker trance.
Not howling, not foaming at the mouth any longer, but crying for mercy, the berserkers turned and ran as fast as they might for the safety of their own camp. Not a single one of them made it through the wall.
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
“What in the Lady’s name was that?” Hew asked.
Croy had no answer. He’d heard that noise, like the sky had split open, seen the gout of baleful fire that lanced straight out from the breach in the wall. What could create such a tongue of deadly flame, he could not imagine.
What he did know was that it changed everything.
A melee battle like this was always a scene of chaos, of commanders shouting to know what was going on, of soldiers running back and forth, operating under orders that had been countermanded though they did not know it, of whole formations wheeling the wrong way because it was impossible, in the thick of things, to get a proper view on the proceedings. A good commander learned to take the temperature of a battle, to rely not on hard facts but on intuition, and respond accordingly. Croy had developed almost a sixth sense for such things.
A moment before, he was convinced that Skrae had already lost, that the Army of Free Men was about to break and rout. That he was helpless and should retreat himself, if honor would have allowed it.
Now there was a different smell in the air. A smell at once hopeful and terrifying. It seemed that he still had a chance.
Some great miracle of magic and fire had burst from the walls of Ness, some work of sorcery, perhaps, or witchcraft or… or divine favor or… it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he must, absolutely must, take advantage of the change before things settled and went back to how they’d been. “Press, and don’t let up,” he commanded. “Get our footmen over to the left-it’s mostly thralls over there. Thralls who will surrender quickly, and open a wedge. We can split the horde in half, let the Free Men take one part and-”
“Was that sorcery, do you think? A demon set loose?” Hew asked softly.
Croy trudged over to him across the frozen ground and smacked the knight’s greave with the flat of his blade. The impact seemed to shock Hew back to his senses.
“Press the fucking attack,” Croy said.
It was not a word he used often. It had the desired effect. Hew rode forward to relay the command. Croy stomped after him. The steel armor he wore weighed him down, made his movements sluggish. He longed to be out of it. He longed to go running into the fight, to lose himself in swordwork.
Yet suddenly the barbarians were all moving away from him. Running toward the city. Did they run to get inside the walls? Yet it looked like they were being pushed toward one of the intact sections of wall, not toward the gap they’d made. Whatever infernal force had been set loose in that gap had cast terror into the hearts of the barbarians. They were not alone in their fear. Even the Skilfinger knights seemed loath to get close to the fires that still burned near the city. Croy waved Ghostcutter at them. “Push them up against the wall so they have nowhere to retreat! Press the attack!”
He heard his command repeated in the Skilfinger tongue. His translators were still alive, then. Good.
“Onward!” he shouted, and a ragged cheer went up all around him. He ran as fast as he could toward the main force of barbarians, heedless of how many casualties he took, heedless of his own safety.
He arrived just in time to find Morget coming toward him, leading a host of reavers. The giant barbarian had an axe in one hand and Dawnbringer in the other, and he showed no sign of fear at all.
Very good, Croy thought. Here, at last, was an enemy who wouldn’t run away.
Yet before he could reach Morget, Sir Hew came riding past again, Chillbrand swinging low to touch as many barbarians as it could reach. Hew made no attempt to cut them, he just tapped his magic blade against their exposed skin wherever it presented itself. Their faces turned blue and they dropped their weapons to hug themselves for warmth as the Ancient Blade’s magic stole all the heat from their bodies. Chillbrand flashed down to touch Morget, but the chieftain was too fast for Hew. He ducked low and rolled between the legs of Hew’s steed, disemboweling the beast before he rolled out the other side.
Hew was an old and seasoned warrior. He’d lost plenty of horses in his time, and knew how not to be thrown. Half sliding, half jumping, he landed on the frozen ground on one knee, his shield already coming up as Morget advanced on him.
“You’re not the one,” Morget growled.
Sir Hew started to rise, even as Morget hammered at his shield with Dawnbringer. The Ancient Blade burst with light again, again, again.
Hew pushed forward with the shield, trying to knock Morget down. He might as well have tried to bull his way through a hill. Morget’s axe came down and split the side of Hew’s vambrace wide open. There was blood on the blade when it came back up, and Hew’s shield arm fell limp at his side. Croy raced forward to help his old friend, but he could only watch in horror as Morget twisted around at the waist, all the strength of a rushing river in his axe arm.
Hew raised Chillbrand to ward off the blow. Axe and sword met with a horrible clang that made Croy’s teeth hurt, even from a half dozen yards away.
The axe cut through Chillbrand’s frost-rimed iron, barely slowing down as it shattered the Ancient Blade.
Morget boomed out a gruesome laugh. “Another one!”
While Morget exulted, Croy had closed the distance between them. “Try this one,” he screamed, and drove Ghostcutter deep into the barbarian’s side.
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Slag crowed and danced and shouted up to Malden where he stood on the wall, “Lad! Lad! Did you fucking see that?”
“I did,” Malden called back. He turned to the far side of the wall and peered down. The barbarians had surged away from the gap in the wall. Terror gripped them-many had even dropped their weapons. Yet behind them were thousands more, confused, perhaps even frightened by all the noise and smoke, but who had seen nothing of what Slag’s weapon could do. Still they pressed on toward Ness. Still they continued the attack.
He looked all around for Morget, because he knew that once the huge barbarian had time to realize what had happened, he would instantly begin rallying his troops for another attack. Even fire and destruction would not stop that man.
This wasn’t over. This was just beginning.
Cold fright gripped Malden’s bowels and he worried he might soil himself. They’d driven back the first wave, that was true. Slag had made that happen. Yet now there was an enormous gaping hole in the wall. Malden had no way to fight an effective battle without the wall to protect them.
Ness had a hope in the opposing army-though not much of one. Who was it out there, fighting the barbarians from the rear? Was it the Burgrave and his Army of Free Men? There was no way that rabble could defeat Morget once he regrouped. They might be making some small dent in the rearguard but could never hope to overcome the main force of easterners.
Malden rubbed at his face. It was bitterly cold up on the wall, where the wind stung every bit of exposed flesh, but still his face was wet. Greasy, sick-smelling sweat rolled down inside the collar of his tunic and pooled in the small of his back. He had to do something. Something!
