The Willbreaker (Book 1) (41 page)

Reinhold’s men burst into the shouts of war. The Templars slammed their gauntlet-covered hands against their chests twice, filling the air with noise.

Across the field, Gretchen looked towards the men and elves. She spoke within her mind, directing it toward Aurora.

“There are more of them than I expected, but no matter. We will wipe the battlefield with their corpses. This will be Reinhold’s last stand.”

Aurora, calm, responded, “Let it begin.”

              Ny’Ael Sithek stood in the front row of the Templars, along with a thousand of his brothers. His bladed polearm rested at the precise angle on his shoulder to match the flowing line of elves to either side of him. He looked across the grassy plains to the majestic and towering city of Orlimay. It stood like a beacon of beauty, white marble with golden-topped towers, but the truth differed greatly for Ny’Ael and his fellow Templars.

              Ny’Ael earned his Templar Shield on the celebration of his eighteenth birth year. He entered Templar training at the age of eight and ten years later, he earned the right to call himself a true Templar of the Highren’Dol.

              A master swordsman, Ny’Ael used his gift of Mind to manipulate the air around him and excel in swordplay. His natural talent and ability to change the atmosphere around his opponents brought him the attention of the elven lords. The combination of his air bending and his sword skills moved him through the ranks quickly. One year after his promotion, the Lords of the Green suited Ny’Ael for marriage. The daughter of a noble weapon crafter, Ny’Ael’s wife blessed their marriage with a baby one year after their union. A beautiful, blue-eyed baby boy, Tho’Ael, gave reason for Ny’Ael to fight.

              Tho’Ael entered his first year of training this year. Although Ny’Ael missed his initiation into Templar training, his wife and son knew Ny’Ael donned sword and shield in the name of honor. Glory came to those who gave their lives in the name of the light.

              Ny’Ael gripped the handle of his razor sharp polearm tightly. Crafted from elven willow wood, the shafts of the polearms had the strength of fine steel and the flexibility and weight of bamboo. On the top of the shafts connected a long curved blade, sharp enough to shave a face, but strong enough to chop down a tree. Due to the lightweight nature and six-foot length of the polearms, the Templars also carried shields. In conjunction with their weapon training and the high number of Gifted within their ranks, the Templars of the Highren’Dol posed considerable threat.

              The leader of the human army, Lord Cedric Reinhold, rode back from the center of the battlefield. Ny’Ael and the others waited patiently as he met with three of the women from the opposing force. After a moment of inaudible talking, both sides of riders returned to their side of the battlefield. Lord Reinhold gathered in the front ranks of the army and shouted words of encouragement and battle, but the exact words he spoke were imperceptible from Ny’Ael’s position.

              Cedric raised his sword in the air with a final yell. Even though he could not hear him, the tone of his voice made Ny’Ael’s blood pump. As the Heart of the King went skyward, Ny’Ael and the rest of the Templars slammed their fists into their chests, making a metal on metal resonance that echoed through the plains.

              Thoughts of Tho’Ael and Ri’Ael, his wife, flooded his mind. He felt the blood pumping through his veins.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His breathing became more rapid and his focus became clear. His fellow elves moved and adjusted their armors as well, readying for the combat that faced them shortly.

              Across the battlefield, the Blade Maidens grunted twice, loud and in unison. The sound, fierce and intimidating, did not sound like it came from women. Like a wave of birds in flight, the maidens polearms drops down into battle position and they moved forward.

              Ny’Ael quickly pulled out the intricate silver necklace from around his neck, kissing the willow wood heart pendant, and said to himself, “This is for you, Ri’ and Tho’Ael. May your love guide to me honor.” He tucked the pendant away, gritted his teeth, and yelled out as the line of Templars advanced towards the center of the battlefield.

              The moans and creaks of the trebuchets groaned aloud as they whipped their payloads into the air. The metal-clad wheels whistled and buzzed as they became airborne.  The polished metal covers on the wagon wheels made the bright sun reflect off them, making them difficult to see. Magical wind rushed through the air in attempt to knock them down, but the blades just gyrated and thrashed chaotically in the currents of the wind. Some of the wheels shot upward, gaining distance, as others jetted down into the army of women below. The wheels, like rotating saw blades, cut through metal, flesh, and bone as they tossed and tilled up the earth, leaving a churned path of destruction behind them. Maiden’s bodies were shredded and dismembered as they tried to avoid the incoming wheels of death. The waist and legs of one maiden rested twenty feet away from her torso, and the limbs of others lied randomly apart from their bodies in the wreckage. Women screamed and cried as others moved forward.

As the large group of Templars moved, the speed of their advance increased, and as they progressed into a run, the sounds of their armor and shields clinking faded away from their cries of battle. Ny’Ael focused on one particular maiden in the wall of inbound warriors. She seemed to look at him as well, disgust and hatred streaked across her face. The distance between them closed fast. Elves to his left and right smashed into fighting women; swords, shields, and polearms dropping and slicing, stabbing and hacking. The sound of the collision was tremendous. The maiden ahead of Ny’Ael gripped her polearm in both hands and planted her legs, thrusting the long blade at the end of its shaft towards his middle. His momentum carried him right towards it. With a swift brush of his arm, Ny’Ael smacked the blade away with his shield and he drove the sharp blade of his polearm right into her chest. Metal on metal shrieked as the blade punctured her chest plate, spewing blood from the entry point. Her face transformed from hatred to surprise as her mouth fell open. A single, small cough and she fell backwards.

              Ny’Ael pulled the blade from her chest, just in time to raise his shield as the weight of another maiden’s swinging polearm crashed into him. The shield took the damage, but the strength of her swing buckled his legs, dropping him down to a knee.

              As he dropped, he heard the life-ending grunt of the Templar next to him as the body fell limply backwards to the ground, showered in blood and without a head. Metal clashed against metal. The sounds of war deafened him. Shouting, screaming, and grunting surrounded him. His adrenaline fully dumped into his system.

              The maiden on top of him stepped over a body and planted her foot on top of Ny’Ael’s weapon. She screamed out as she kicked his shield with her powerful leg, knocking him backwards into another Templar. The other Templar jumped forward at her, arm vaulted backward as he moved to thrust his polearm into her flesh. An arrow shrilled through the air, stopping as it plunged into the flying Templar’s neck, spewing blood all over Ny’Ael and the maiden in front of him. His lifeless body struck the maiden and knocked her over. Ny’Ael stood, shield raised, and grabbed his weapon.

              He lunged his arm at her as she attempted to gain her feet. His blade caught underneath her arm, cutting into her ribs just beneath her armpit. She wailed out in pain. Another maiden stood behind her, ready to advance. Ny’Ael reached out his hand, leaving the long polearm stuck in the woman and thrust his open palm to the maiden advancing from the rear.

              He let the power within his mind flow through his body, funneling it down his arm and through his hand. A short but powerful gust of wind punched the woman in the chest, hurling her back. As he reached to retrieve his polearm, a strong blow struck Ny’Ael in the ribs from his left side. The blow came from a great battle hammer, crushing in the side of his armor and breaking numerous ribs. His feet left the ground as he whirled upward, spinning through the air until he crashed on top of other fallen bodies. Ny’Ael gasped for air. Pain tore at his insides. He clutched his middle, trying to catch a breath but the pain kept him from a full gulp.

              He scooted backwards the best he could, as the maiden with the giant hammer approached him for the final kill. Ny’Ael could not get away from the pain long enough to summon this power. The agony kept him from moving back any further. In one swoop, the armed maiden raised her battle hammer over her head and with all of her might dropped it onto Ny’Ael’s head. Flashes of his family, the last things he saw, disappeared into forever as the shape of his skull collapsed and crumpled underneath the weight of her hammer. Today, Ny’Ael earned his honor on the battlefield.

              Janga Blackhand led the attack of Reinhold’s men. His unit, much smaller than the groups of Templars, did not attack the head force of maidens; they attacked the group from the left flank. Janga, suited in thick, battle worn plate mail and his signature right-shoulder pauldron, charged on foot into the wave of inward bound maidens. He carried a wicked spiked mace in each hand and had two thin, curved short swords strapped to his back.  Like a raging bull, Janga’s immense presence plowed into the fighting Blade Maidens. His sweeping blows, powered by his adept muscles, broke through blocking polearms and intercepting blades. He crushed his enemies with every swing.

              Janga fought into a large group of maidens. The other men around him had either fallen or disappeared. Realizing he was surrounded, he began to perform the Dance of Death, a lost training set used long ago by skilled blade masters. Polearms from every side thrust at him, fueled by rage and hate of the women behind their blades. Janga stepped back, swinging one mace in front of him, pushing their blades away from his body. As he stepped, he twisted his body, flipping his other mace with him, countering the momentum of two incoming blades at his side. He slipped into the middle of the women’s arms, driving his elbow into the face of one while hammering his heavy knuckled fist into the jaw of the other one. The maiden’s face distorted as her jaw cracked and then broke. Janga twisted again, barely avoiding the stab of another maiden, her blade skimming in front of his belly. He mashed his mace across the shaft of that polearm, snapping it in half. With his other hand, he hit the stunned maiden in the head with his angular spiked mace. Blood mist filled the air as she collapsed into a bloody heap.

              Out of the corner of his eye, Janga caught a glimpse of a swinging blade heading straight for his head. He ducked down, already swinging again, and connected to the side of the woman’s knee. Her leg snapped like dry tender as she screamed out in pain and fell to the ground. As she toppled, her legs pressed Janga’s mace into the ground, pinning it beneath her. Without thought, he released it and withdrew one of the swords at his back. In a single motion, the blade came free of its sheath and traveled into the underbelly of another maiden, just beneath her plate mail. Her guts spilled over her legs onto the ground, instantly dropping her. Janga looked up as four other Red Lion soldiers entered the circle, battling toe to toe with the Blade Maidens. Janga stood and engaged his enemies once more.

              Men and women, all with families and friends, and lives outside this battle, fell to the steel and magic of their opponents. Every fighter, whether fighting for Aurora or Reinhold, believed they were doing the right thing. They believed
their
cause would lead them to victory.

              Gretchen Lomire had a grace and expertise in combat rarely seen in the combat world. She danced into the Templars, long and graceful swings chopping the legs out from underneath the charging elves. A wide swing overhead left a Templar armless and then the graceful withdrawal of the polearm planted its long blade into the gut of another elf. Gretchen whirled the weapon through the air, interrupting the swing of a Templar’s polearm as the blade sliced across his body, splitting him in half. Three times as fast, four times as strong, and graced with the agility of a cat, Gretchen left a path of bodies in her wake as she moved forward.

              Gretchen had the Gift. Her influence fell under Body, Enhancement. She could move boulders by herself that took the pull of three horses to budge, she could outstep an arrow fired at her from thirty paces, and she could run along a one-inch beam for miles without falling. She gave the Templars a reason to be afraid of her.

              Gretchen glared at the Templar that killed two of her maidens in a single motion of his double short swords. His eyes rose, catching hers in a dead stare. He plucked the wet blade of his sword from the gut of the fallen maiden in front of him, wiped it on his knee, and walked towards Gretchen with confidence. Gretchen spun her weapon outward, catching it underneath her arm as she engaged the Templar. Each of them, Gifted, touched the source of their power, uniting body and energy into machines of destruction. Adrenaline burned through their veins and their muscles waited for detonation. There would be only one victor.

              Aren’Fel faced Gretchen, two masters of their trade, both Gifted in Body and the reason the dead lay scattered around them. Aren’Fel circled the Commander General of the Blade Maidens as the fighting clashed on around them. Gretchen eyed the elf carefully, watching his every move; how he stepped, how he held his swords, and how his body moved around the corpses of the fallen. Their eyes never left the locked glare they shared, but they both fluidly moved around and over dead bodies, weapons, and debris.

              Gretchen moved closer, her body anxious to react from the slightest movement of her opponent. Aren’Fel gripped his swords tighter, paying close attention to Gretchen’s polearm blade. Like lightning, she lunged at him, the polearm fully extended in an attacking thrust. Just as quickly, Aren’Fel twisted his body, sucking in his belly as the blade glided across the plate mail covering his stomach. Aren’Fel rolled his body towards her, both weapons spinning like a windmill. The swords landed in successive hits across the raised shaft of Gretchen’s weapon, held over her head. Aren’Fel planted his foot into her chest, kicking her into the dirt.