three Knights Eternal winged toward them like a murder of crows.
Siyaddah was running just ahead of Fallion. Suddenly she stumbled over something in the road. She fell in a tangle, and Fallion saw that it was a dead man, a scout who had not made it to the castle in time.
“Fallion,” Jaz shouted, “give me some light!”
Fallion stood above Siyaddah and reached inside himself, tempted to hurl a killing blaze, but instead cast a far weaker spell. He sent a nimbus into the air, a shimmering ball of heated gases that did not blind so much as it revealed.
A Knight Eternal in blood-red robes was swooping toward the fleeing form of King Urstone, the knight’s slender black blade aimed at the king’s back.
Jaz slid to one knee, drew an arrow to the full, and sent it blurring. It took the knight in the belly, six inches beneath the sternum.
The Knight Eternal howled in grief like a wounded bear, then veered slightly and crashed to the ground, mere feet ahead of Siyaddah.
A cheer rose from the castle walls, from defenders hidden up in the shadows behind the merlons, and Fallion felt a small thrill of hope to realize that they were so close to safety.
He and his friends ran with renewed vigor.
But howls of rage erupted from the other Knights Eternal, and they redoubled their speed.
Fallion felt a spell wash over him, an invisible hand. It reached inside him grabbed the heat that he had stored there, and began to pull.
A flameweaver is here, Fallion realized.
Fallion did not fight the creature.
He let the heat go, even though it would mean that Jaz would not have light to see by. The Knight Eternal absorbed the heat, imagining that his own powers were superior to Fallion’s.
They were only two hundred yards from the wall, then a hundred and fifty. Fallion heard the thud of heavy wings behind him.
He spun, reached out with his mind, and pulled the energy back from the Knight Eternal. Fire came whirling from the sky in twisting threads, and before the knight could react, Fallion sent it hurtling toward the creature in a bright ball of flame.
Jaz pivoted, dropped to one knee, and fired another arrow. The knight shrieked like the damned and veered away.
The arrow sped upward and went ripping beneath the knight’s wing, mere inches from the shoulder.
Fallion waited to hear the creature’s death scream, but it only went lumbering toward the trees.
A miss, Fallion realized, his heart sinking.
The arrows that Myrrima had blessed were few in number, and with the curse laid upon them, their wood was rotting away. In another day, they would be good for nothing.
“Give me more light!” Jaz cried.
Fallion could not help, but Sisel whirled and aimed his staff. Fireflies went streaking up into the night sky like green embers, filling the air.
But the last two Knights Eternal wheeled back, soaring like a pair of hawks above the trees.
Jaz and Fallion waited a long moment, acting as a rearguard for the king and his troops, even as the castle gate opened, and a mighty host spilled out.
Jaz shouted a taunt to the Knights Eternal, “Come on, will you? We’re not that dangerous. Give it your best try.”
But the Knights Eternal were gone, soaring away down over the valley.
Wearily, Fallion turned and trudged into Castle Luciare.
A BATTLE JOINED
Until one has found himself in a pitched battle, where every moment brings the threat of death, he cannot truly value peace.
In Cantular, Warlord Madoc stood upon a tower wall and peered to the north with nothing to give him light but the stars and a slender crescent moon that clung tenaciously to the horizon.
Wyrmling troops sprinted en-masse in the distance, starlight glinting off helms of bone and off of flesh that was paler still. Among them, something monstrous crawled, a creature huge and humped, like a living hill. Hundreds of wyrmling lords rode upon its back. Madoc could see a head, vaguely adder-like and triangular, larger than a house, low to the ground. Kezziards stumped along too, like giant lizards among the wyrmlings, their warty skin as gray as a toad’s. They towered above the normal troops, like oxen among toddlers. The wyrmlings roared as they came, beating hammers against their shields. The sound snaked over the miles and reverberated among the hills like a groan, as if the very earth cursed at the folly it was forced to bear.
Above the dark throng, three huge black graaks wallowed through the air. This was not a battle that Madoc could win. He knew it. His men knew it.
But neither could they run. The people of Luciare needed their sacrifice this day. The preparations had all been made, the conclusion foregone.
The wyrmlings were still two miles away, rushing forward, their battle cries becoming a dull roar. Warlord Madoc took one last moment to utter defiance against the oncoming horde.
“Men,” he shouted, “let us be called brothers henceforth. For here in our hour of darkness our deeds shall make us brothers, and the bonds we form this day on the battlefield shall make us stronger than brothers.
“This is the twilight of our race. And if this be our final hour, let it also be our finest hour!”
His men cheered and for a moment their battle cries rose above the din of wyrmling troops, the incessant clash of arms.
“Back home our sons and daughters can huddle in fear, wrapped in the arms of our wives and sisters. They can hope that our stout hearts and sturdy arms will be enough to turn back the deadly flow of wyrmlings. Let their hopes not be in vain!”
His men cheered wildly, but the sound of enemy troops nearly drowned them out. Madoc peered across the fields. The wyrmlings were running faster now, sprinting into battle. The pounding of their feet made the earth shudder. They’d soon be at the fortress walls, breaking against them like the sea in a winter storm breaking over rocks.
“I will tell you the truth,” Madoc cried. “We are marked for death this night. Perhaps none of us will escape.” At his back, his son Drewish made a frightened little moan, as if he’d never thought of that. “But I will tell you a greater truth: Dying is easy. Anyone can do it. A babe can die in his cradle in his sleep, seemingly from nothing at all. Dying is easy. All of us will do it.
“But living is hard! Staying alive tonight-that will be a battle royal. So I challenge you, dole out death tonight. Let the wyrmlings take the easy path. Let them die. Make them pay for every moment while you yet live!”
There was a thunderous roar as his men cheered, but Warlord Madoc could see that the cheering would be short. The wyrmlings were charging, less than a mile away now. He could make out individual troops in the starlight, their bone helms gilt with silver, painted with evil symbols.
There was a flaring of light as archers put their arrows to the pitch pots, then let loose a hail. The arrows soared out over the battlefield, landed in the dry grass. It would give his men some light to fight by and dismay the wyrmlings.
Madoc stood tall on the battle tower, then turned and looked down at his sons. He could not bear to watch them die.
“As soon as the wyrmlings break through the wall,” he said softly enough so that others could not hear, “I want you out of here. Get to the south end of the river, and then head through the woods. Those giant graaks will kill any man who dares the roads.”
