Eclipsing the Darkness (The Dragon Chronicles Book 5) (23 page)

And his efforts did not go unnoticed.

Cannuck had made his way through the chaos to stand at his side. The two of them fought together, cleaving a wide path through the terrified and confused Jindala. Ceor heard the High Jarl’s shouts of glory, and felt the splashing of the blood of his enemies as it misted through the air. It was a good feeling.

“When this is over,” Cannuck shouted. “I shall name you Jarl of your tribe.”

Ceor chopped off a Jindala head, stomping it into the sand with his heavy boots. “That will be for the warriors to decide,” he replied. “Cerdic wants the helm! And Wrothgaar is next in line.”

“Wrothgaar will not fight your son!” Cannuck reminded him. “He would not kill the son of his father’s best friend.”

Ceor nodded, gritting his teeth as he unleashed a powerful chop that split a swordsman in two. He wiped the blood and brains from his face and clapped Cannuck on the shoulder. “That’s a good thing,” he said. “But not good for the tribe.”

“Your men will follow you. They will not follow Cerdic.”

Cannuck was right. Cerdic, though strong, was not quite ready for leadership. But, as their traditions stated, the helm would go to whoever could take it. Honestly, he would rather see Wrothgaar lead the tribe. But Eamon was Wrothgaar’s king now. His future belonged to the people of Eirenoch.

“We shall see,” Ceor said, finally.

Eamon found Wrothgaar and the rest of the knights all banded together and still among the living. He breathed a sigh of relief, comforted by the fact that not his entire dream had come true. Still, the fear remained, and the loathing he now felt at having to break Ulrich’s death to Wrothgaar gave him pause. He knew the Northman would not react, but would mask his pain. It was their way. He briefly thought of not telling him, feeling that such news would affect his ability to fight with a clear head. But then, perhaps the news would drive him on to even greater ferocity.

Either way, Wrothgaar needed to know.

He pushed forward, backhanding a Jindala and thrusting the Serpent’s Tongue into his gut. As the man spun to the ground, Wrothgaar turned to face him.

“Why are you still here?” Wrothgaar shouted.

“The Dragon has not yet completed his task,” Eamon replied.

Wrothgaar chuckled out loud, returning to the battle. Eamon pushed his way next to him.

“Wrothgaar,” he said, hesitantly. “Ulrich has fallen.”

The Northman said nothing, but Eamon could see his brow furrow. He fought on, oblivious to the news it seemed, though his attacks became more fierce and barbaric. A Jindala swordsman lunged at Eamon, but Wrothgaar spun and flattened him to the ground. He then bounded toward Eamon, his face still bearing the stoic look it always bore.

“He is with our fathers now,” Wrothgaar said, “as I wish to be someday.”

Eamon nodded. “It was a good death.”

Wrothgaar clapped him on the shoulder, turning back to the battle. Eamon took note of the positions of his other knights, seeing them all accounted for, and moved up to join them. Each of them was stationary for the most part, guarding their own zone against passing attackers. The only exception was Brianna, who weaved in and out among them unseen, using the chaos to her advantage.

Suddenly, the ground shook violently, sending many warriors sprawling to the ground. Eamon stumbled, struggling to catch his balance. As he recovered, a massive, towering form appeared in the midst of the enemies in the distance. The figure appeared to leap from the sand, throwing dozens of Jindala warriors into the air as it burst through.

Eamon heard Wrothgaar laugh wildly as the dust cleared. The other Northmen in the area shouted their battle cries in response to the stranger’s appearance. The giant roared with a ferocity that echoed across the battlefield like thunder. It raised its massive hammer into the air as the surrounded Jindala fled in horror. Then its attacks began. Eamon rushed forward, intrigued by the appearance of the new ally. The massive creature, bluish in color, and heavily muscled, crushed the Jindala as it swept its weapon from side to side, and smashing them into the ground with powerful chops.

Eamon grinned as he realized what he was seeing.

Kronos had come.

Chapter Twenty One

The Enkhatar rose from the black mist, impossibly tall and as dark as night. Their spiked armor formed around them from the fog itself, and their fierce, red eyes burned with all the fury of Hell. Farouk gripped his sword in fear, silently chanting to himself as the dark knights took shape. He could hear the others around him prepare; Khalid’s blades flitted from side to side, Torak drawing his own blade and lighting it with the power of the sun. Tenegal remained quiet and still, his striking, cold eyes glaring straight at Sulemain with the rage of any demon that Farouk had seen.

The Enkhatar made no move to attack; they simply stood as sentinels of death, the very darkness around them becoming almost tangible. Only Sulemain made any movement; slowly raising his gauntleted hand to point directly at Torak.

“You,” Sulemain hissed; his voice slow and hoarse. “Betrayer.”

Torak was silent. Farouk gazed at him from the corner of his eye, seeing the shaman chanting to himself. The druid turned his eye back to the Enkhatar, raising his own blade in defiance.

“It is you who are the betrayer, Sulemain,” he said. “Once the Prophet of Imbra, now a mere servant of the shadows.”

Sulemain hissed, cocking his horned head to the side; the fire in his eyes glowing brighter.

“You’re going to make him angry,” Khalid whispered.

“So be it,” Farouk said.

Torak’s staff suddenly burst into life, blasting a wave of sunlight that dispersed the black fog and staggered the Enkhatar back several feet. Farouk released his own spell, firing a bolt of energy at Sulemain. The Enkhatar lord was further pushed back, but recovered immediately, brushing off the magic as if it were nothing. The Enkhatar charged, shaking the ground as they bounded forward. Tenegal released three arrows into one of the lesser Enkhatar, striking it in the chest and causing it to shriek in pain and fury.

Khalid spun into the air, dodging the sweeping mace that Sulemain wielded. The heavy weapon smashed into the ground, shattering the exposed bedrock. Khalid countered with a backslash to the back of Sulemain’s knee. His scimitar sparked against the dark armor, but did little damage. He dodged another smashing blow, spinning to the side as Tenegal’s arrows streaked into Sulemain’s breastplate. The Enkhatar lord bellowed a cry of rage, turning his attention to the Alvar captain.

Farouk charged, releasing a concussion wave at the lesser Enkhatar that faced him. The wave knocked the creature back again, and the druid followed up with a thrust of his sword. The blade barely scratched the black plate, but skidded along its surface to bury itself in the underlying chain. The creature howled, retaliating with a backhand swing. Farouk blasted its arm with a bolt of lightning, and Torak, having waited for the right moment, released a blast of sunlight into the creature’s dark, hidden face.

Sulemain reared back in pain, releasing a horrifying wail that echoed through the temple grounds. He began swinging blindly, smashing his giant mace into the ground around him. The other Enkhatar rushed to his side, hissing in anger at the combatants as they surrounded him. Tenegal rushed at the nearest one, dodging its mace and leaping into the air to strike at the creature’s helmet. His blade sparked and shimmered as it met the dark steel, cleaving a wide gash that spewed black smoke. The Alvar captain stepped back, watching as the Enkhatar grabbed its head and staggered away.

Farouk blasted it with another bolt of lightning. This time, the Enkhatar was thrown to the ground, and Tenegal’s blade went to work once more. He spun toward the fallen creature, thrusting his sword downward as he landed. The Enkhatar rolled out of the way, but the Alvar pulled his sword from the ground and slashed. An explosion of dark energy deafened them as the creature’s right hand was severed.

“Keep at him!” Farouk shouted, turning his attention back to Sulemain. Torak stood at his side, and Khalid had taken on the remaining lesser Enkhatar. The druid tossed his staff aside and poised his blade. He focused, putting all of his magic within it. This would be a duel of blades, he knew. Tenegal had proven that.

“If we don’t survive,” Torak said, “I hope that I have earned your forgiveness.”

Farouk swished his blade from side to side, grinning as it whistled in the air. “You have come to redeem yourself,” he replied. “The Keeper has given you that chance, and you have taken it. You have my respect.”

Torak nodded, satisfied. Together, they charged.

Aeli and Allora followed the Alvar warriors through the dense forest. Ahead, the screaming and howling of the remaining wights led their way. The group had chased them for hundreds of yards, taking down a few here and there, but the undead creatures were oddly quick. If they were not destroyed before they reached the open plains, then they would scatter throughout the countryside and infect the population. Eirenoch would be in great danger.

Allora had disappeared briefly during the chase, but had returned with a grave look. She had told Aeli of what she had witnessed; Jhayla’s imminent death. Aeli’s sorrow was great. Jhayla had become a close friend since they had first met. She was one of the very few women that had accepted Aeli during her life. She had helped her to raise Jodocus, escorted her through the forest in times of danger, and had given Aeli her ear when it was needed.

She would miss her.

Ahead, the rangers and the Alvar were closing in on the horde. Aeli could hear the twangs of many bows, and see the fallen wights as she passed. Allora cast spells to ensure the undead were, indeed, dead. Her magic swirled about their bodies, burning them to cinders in an instant.

It seemed that they would never catch up to the fleeing wights. The edge of the forest was coming into view, and the first of the wretched beasts was breaking through to the plains. Aeli’s heart was pounding, her breath was quick, and her legs were beginning to tire. It seemed a pointless chase.

The rangers and Alvar warriors reached the tree line, pausing to draw back their bows once more. They released a desperate volley of arrows, hoping to take out as many of the horde as they could. Aeli and Allora finally reached them, stumbling to a stop, breathless.

“We will never stop them,” a ranger said. “They are too fast.”

“Don’t give up!” Aeli shouted. “We must destroy them!”

Then, in the distance, the sound of a battle horn broke the tension. It was a familiar sound; one that widened the eyes of the rangers. The Alvar raced forward, running up a hill toward the crest. Aeli followed.

From the shallow valley below, the sound of many horses thundered across the plains, racing toward the escaping horde. There were a hundred horsemen, lances and swords poised, prepared to run down the advancing wights. At their head was a familiar figure; an old man in robes with his staff held high.

A light as bright as the sun erupted from the staff, lighting the valley with a bluish light that stopped the wights in their tracks. The horsemen crashed into them as they cowered, throwing their broken bodies into the air.

“Maedoc!” another ranger shouted. “He has brought the Mordumarc!”

Indeed, as Aeli looked, she recognized the black and steel armor of the newly-formed regiment. The white dove that emblazoned their breastplates was a welcome sight. Maedoc had brought them, leading them to battle in the absence of their commander, Brynn, and he had brought Lords Ferrin and Galen as well.

The three of them led the Mordumarc forward; Maedoc blasting the wights with magic while Ferrin and Galen cut them down with their blades. Lord Ferrin passed Aeli, nodding his respect as he beheaded a charging wight. The creature’s head bounced by her, and was crushed under the hooves of the nobleman’s horse.

As if the Mordumarc were not enough, seven dragons, six with riders, descended upon the rest of the horde. They spewed their flames, dropping their riders to join the melee.

The Alvar and rangers blended in with the chaos, dodging the charging horses and destroying those undead that were not run down. Aeli and Allora continued burning their corpses with magic to ensure they did not rise again.

“Aeli!” Maedoc shouted as he approached on horseback. He was disheveled and panting, having become overwhelmed with the excitement of battle. “How fare the others?”

“They battle the Enkhatar at the temple!” she replied.

Maedoc nodded, pursing his lips, and rode off into the forest. Aeli knew he was anxious to assist them, but worried for his health. However, as he rode by, she silently cast a spell to give him strength. Allora had made her way over to her and her magic trailed Maedoc as well.

“I worry for him,” Aeli said.

Allora smiled, giving Aeli comfort with a hand to the shoulder. “He will be fine,” she assured her friend. “He would not rest if he were to sit back and allow the rest of us to do the work.”

She was right. Maedoc had dedicated his life to protecting the kingdom through any means necessary. From what she had heard, he was willing to sacrifice his own life to help win the battle at Morduin. She loved him greatly, almost as much as she had the elder Jodocus.

“Come,” Allora said, sensing Aeli’s thoughts. “We should find Jodocus.”

The moorcat stood over Jhayla’s body, his heart heavy with grief. He stared in wonder at the familiar sword that jutted from her heart. Its cross guard bore the symbol of Ferrin’s house, and the blade was etched with the creed of the Thieves’ Guild. It was Adder’s sword, he knew, and Adder had killed her.

He looked at her face lovingly, knowing that the ranger captain had only done what he could do to prevent her from becoming the undead. The gash on her shoulder told him that she had been bitten, and it would only have been a matter of time before she too would have been laden with the curse. It was a very heart-wrenching thought. It was definitely something she did not deserve.