Storm Holt (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 3) (6 page)

He was jubilant. He had survived the Drowning Wastes and found his knights. The dark blanket that had covered all his days was now lifting. That sense of despair and loneliness, of searching for something he could never reach, was now dissolving. He felt clear-headed, clear-hearted. They all had paid the price for the evil committed that terrible day so long ago and were now free to walk the world once more. There was only one task left to do, destroy the demon wizard Karhlusus once and for all.

The raven appeared out of nowhere, swooping low and squawking loud, dragging him out of his thoughts. It was smaller than the one that had led their horses to them in the Drowning Wastes, and its pink tongue showed it was young. Its raucous warning sent shivers down his back. He looked ahead, but could see nothing other than the dusty path and jungle crowding around them. Still, the raven squawked its warning.

‘The ravens are on our side. It is warning us,’ he shouted to his knights over the noise of thundering hooves. ‘There must be danger ahead. Remember, whatever happens, those that look like us are most likely our friends.’

‘I’m ready for anything,’ Oria said, a keen excited look in her eyes.

He grinned at her, he was certainly ready for anything. He sat up and spied for danger. The smoke he’d smelt was no cooking fire. Dark smoke billowed above the trees ahead. Worry for Jarlain suddenly gnawed at him, and he urged his horse faster. He was ready, but he prayed it wasn't Maphraxies.

The smoke grew thicker and the air became hard to breath. Their horses didn’t even flinch as they bounded into the smog. These were no longer ordinary war horses, he realised, they’d seen death, felt death, and returned to the living that much stronger. Screaming and shouting came through the smoke. He squinted into the choking blackness, he could barely see the ground beneath his horse’s hooves. The sound of fighting was all around. He heard that familiar metallic ring as his knights drew their swords, and pulled his own free of its scabbard.

They plunged out of the smoke into bright sunshine. Mayhem filled his vision. In every direction Gurlanka were locked in a struggle with Histanatarns. The enemies’ nutmeg and green fish-scale skin shone metallically in the sunlight, and their glassy yellow eyes gleamed. They flooded into the village in their hundreds, coming up the wide track that led to the ocean, stabbing with their knives or hurling their spears with devastating accuracy. For every Histanatarn felled by Gurlanka arrows, two more immediately filled their places.

‘An old enemy,’ Cormak growled. The oldest dwarf’s face was fierce as he hefted his axe. Marakon nodded. As small as this enemy was in stature, they more than made up for it in numbers and ferocity.
 

‘They killed my entire crew just weeks ago,’ Marakon said. He gripped his sword, he was looking forward to taking his vengeance.

Gurlanka herded together the elderly and young, moving them back to the safety of the trees. Everyone had thick curved knives almost as long as short swords. Marakon knew those blades were deadly sharp, a stark contrast to their pretty sheathes and hilts decorated with colourful weaving. Those with bows had climbed trees and rooftops, and they fired arrows so fast, Marakon could not see the shafts flying as they devastated the front line of the invading Histanatarns.
 

The enemy had started fires where they could. Houses burst into flames. Their wooden structures and bamboo roofs flared alight even if their solid mud walls did not. Burning rooftops sent the archers running as each house flared alight the one next to it. The fire was spreading alarmingly quickly. Fallen leaves and old trees caught light, hampering the old and young from being herded into the jungle.
 

Marakon danced his horse around bodies, and spared a precious moment to take in the fearlessness and skill of the Gurlanka as they wielded their blades. They hacked and slashed without hesitation or error and moved onto the next. Every able-bodied man and woman, old and young, had a weapon, and all who could, engaged the enemy. He had only ever seen these people at peace, but now the warrior spirit was alive within them, he found a greater respect growing. They could certainly teach him a thing or two.
 

A spear hurtled into the Gurlanka line. He saw a man fall, but another Gurlanka jumped in the gap where he’d stood, and blocked the enemy from breaking through. For a moment he glimpsed dark curls amongst the throng ahead. He strained to see more. Saw Jarlain swing her blade and maim a Histanatarn just as another jumped on her undefended back. His heart skipped a beat as it brought Jarlain to the ground.
 

He turned his horse towards her and lunged forwards, running down the Histanatarn who jumped in his path. He reached Jarlain in seconds just as the enemy raised its sharp knife. He brought his horse to a skidding stop, and grabbed the descending knife. With all his strength he crushed the Histanatarn’s arm in his grasp and yanked viciously, feeling the socket come loose. He smashed his sword pommel into its face, it sagged and he dropped its body.
 

Another screamed and rushed in, but Jarlain rolled and sliced his spine. She gasped, eyes wild with life and fury. She smiled up at him, her brown eyes and dark lashes warmed his heart. She staggered upright, blood oozed from her thigh turning her tan clothes red. She was hurt, but still managed to stand.
 

‘There are too many,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘We’ll cut them off at the trees. You’re hurt. Stay safe,’ he added the last, knowing that to convince her to seek shelter would fall on deaf ears, just as it had fallen on his Rasia’s ears in battle so many times before. The Gurlanka knew how to look after themselves. Jarlain nodded. He wheeled his horse towards his knights and glanced back, but she was lost from view. He prayed she would leave the battle and find shelter.
 

The Gurlanka were heavily outnumbered, and all were beginning to fall back.

‘Knights,’ Marakon roared. ‘Let’s stem the flow of these bastards.’
 

He lifted his sword high and veered his horse towards where the Histanatarns were flooding in. His knights roared back and followed him, a line of white horses gleaming in the mayhem. Marakon smashed into the enemy line without pause, his horse’s hooves trampling and stamping over their small wiry bodies. He sliced his long sword in an arc, barely feeling the blade hit flesh as he decapitated two and wounded a third in the same blow.
 

He heard the battle cries of his knights behind him as they hit the enemy hard, and for the first time in his life he saw the Histanatarns hesitate. It must have been a long time since they’d faced mounted knights in armour. It lasted only a moment before they screamed and came at the knights. His horse slowed at the tree line, reared as he turned it fast around for another run through.
 

Three Histanatarns came on at once, two on one side and one in front. He cut the first down in a spray of blood. The second ducked, missing his sword, but not seeing his devastating backward swing. Red blood splashed over his face and the flanks of his white horse. He wiped his cheek and turned to the other, seeing in his peripheral vision the strange gestures it was making in the air. Before he could react it hurled glittering sand straight into his face. A thousand needles of fire pierced his skin and eye. He yelled. He couldn’t do anything.
Curse all magic wielders.

He raised his sword and hacked uselessly in all directions, blinking and rubbing his eyes as he pulled his horse back. Arrows whistled past, making him flinch. He squinted through streaming eyes and searing pain, readying himself for the inevitable thrust of spear or knife to finish him off. The pain began to dim. Finally his vision cleared enough to see. All around him lay dead and wounded Histanatarns, Gurlanka arrows in every one of them. He looked to the trees, saw archers there. He raised his sword in gratitude.

There was no time to pause. Another Histanatarn caught his reins and swung itself up onto his horse’s head, its scaly skin gleaming green in the light. A blade lunged for Marakon’s throat, but his horse flicked its head, trying to dislodge the thing clinging to its face. The blade scratched harmlessly down his breastplate. He crunched the pommel of his sword down upon its skull, crushing it and killing it instantly. He shoved its lifeless body down onto the blood covered ground and drove his horse forwards again.

His heart pounded in his chest, every fibre of his being was ready for fighting, and adrenaline flooded his veins. This is what he lived for; to stand on the edge between life and death, never knowing from where his end might come. A swift blade he did not expect, a spear he didn’t see. Death could come at any time, and he would be waiting. The Histanatarns fell back from his horse, wary this time, but his mount and sword were fast and two more fell under it before they were out of reach.
 

‘Drive them back to the shore,’ he snarled, struggling to stay mounted as his horse reared away from a stabbing spear. Hooves crashed down upon the spear-wielding Histanatarn, it wailed a strange high-pitched cry, and fell to the ground. Despite their overwhelming numbers, the Histanatarns’ small bodies, quick knives and light armour were no match for plate-armoured mounted knights, and for the first time in ages Marakon was relieved to find himself on the side creating the blood bath. The only threat was to their horses’ undersides and from spears launched with enough force to pierce armour.

The knights cut through the mass of the Histanatarns, making their way towards each other until they formed one line again. They pushed forwards, and step by step forced the enemy back through the trees. They emerged onto a long white sand beach. The turquoise sea lapped at the shore. Marakon found the peaceful scene at odds with the clash of metal, sprays of blood and howls of rage. He led the centre and he forced his way forwards until they formed an impenetrable arrow shape driving straight into the mass of shrieking Histanatarns.

‘They’re as vicious and relentless as always,’ Hylion said beside him. His usually pale elven face was flushed and splashed with blood. He had a cut above his eye that was dripping down his face.

‘Their numbers are thinning now. Push them back into the water. They won’t stop until they’re all dead or swimming,’ Marakon rasped. He stabbed his sword down at the Histanatarn trying to climb up his leg, and sunk his boot into its face, splattering its ugly nose in a spray of blood. His horse’s hooves now touched the water.

‘This place is sweltering,’ Lan gasped on his other side, sweat pouring down his brow. Blood soaked through his ripped leather gauntlet and over his sword hand, but still he showed no signs of weakening. The sea came up to their horses’ fetlocks, but the knights fought on, pushing the Histanatarns further into the blood waves.

The Gurlanka rushed to their sides and behind, they must have overcome the Histanatarns in the village. The enemy were out-numbered and the sea was turning red with their blood. Only when they were waist high in water, did the Histanatarns turn and dive under the waves back towards their boats. Marakon sliced two more before it got too deep. The ring of metal and cries of battle dwindled as what remained of the enemy fled. Arrows whistled overhead, taking out any Histanatarn that could be reached before they swum out of range.
 

Marakon grinned as he watched the Histanatarn’s crawl into their boats and flee to the horizon. He took in deep gulps of air.
That’s for Bokaard and Lanac and Erylin, and all the others, you bastards.
 

One by one the knights dismounted, and watched the enemy go. Behind them came the rising cheers of the Gurlanka. Marakon lifted his sword and cheered, his knights did the same. He washed the blood from his sword and face.

‘Thank the goddess they are leaving. How many did they lose, at least half their number?’ Ironbeard asked, the water came up to the dwarf’s chest, washing out the blood in his beard.

‘I reckon a thousand came here,’ Ghenath said, cupping water in her hands and splashing it over her bloodied face. ‘But I see only a hundred fleeing. Look at how many empty boats there are,’ she smiled. There was relief in her pale violet eyes.

Marakon nodded, taking in the mass of bobbing boats. He stopped washing the blood from his horse’s flanks and looked at them each in turn. None had fallen, how could that be? He remembered them being good, the best even, but against an enemy so numerous? At least one should have fallen or been seriously injured. He rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

‘How bad are our injuries?’ he asked.

Most shook their heads. Lan held up a bloodied hand, ‘I think two fingers are broken, but all are still intact.’

Hylion wiped the blood flowing from his cut. ‘Something hit me hard, twice. I’ve got a headache, but I think food and rest will fix it.’

Marakon nodded. ‘What are the odds…’ he trailed off.
 

Ghenath understood where he was going, ‘Against so many, one or two of us should have fallen, at the very least a few of us should have had more serious injuries,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Woetala protects us.’

‘Not Woetala.’ Cormak shook his head. ‘Zanufey.’

‘Or perhaps you just can’t die twice,’ Ironbeard said. They all laughed.

‘Do you think we’ll live forever, that we’ve become invincible?’ Nemeron asked.
 

Marakon instantly remembered he was the youngest knight there, but at only twenty years old he was still the quickest with a rapier any of them had ever seen. Although now he was really thousands of years old.
 

‘I don’t think I want to fight forever,’ Oria said, her green eyes staring off across the ocean.

‘Zanufey most certainly protects us,’ Marakon agreed and pointed to the raven circling above them, no doubt waiting to pick a chunk of flesh off one of the fish bastards. ‘That is why we must no longer be called Knights of the Shining Star - that name is tainted and best forgotten and laid to rest.’ The knights nodded, thoughts of the past hanging heavily over them. ‘I was thinking we should be called Knights of the Raven, since the raven is sacred to Zanufey. It was the raven that found us from beyond the grave and united us together once more.’ They all looked up at their new totem as it wheeled above them in the clear blue sky.