several other infantry soldiers, had fought their way to the dark haired stranger who had rallied the men and strengthened the line. More Finarthian warriors found the strength and courage to fight their way to this man, and they now stood before him exhausted but determined. They had formed a break in the enemy’s ranks but the fighting still continued all around them.
Kiln reached down and ripped out his sword from the back of the dead ogre. He glanced back and saw the men behind him, looking at him with uncertainty.
“Who are you?” asked Rorum through deep panting breaths.
Kiln glanced at the young warrior as he turned around to face the men. “I am Kiln!”
Then he looked forward and saw enemy soldiers converge on them screaming their battle cries. He grabbed his bloody dagger from the ground and focused his attention on the rapidly approaching tribesmen. He swung his sword from side to side. “If they want death!” he yelled, lifting his sword into the air. “Let them come!”
The men behind him yelled in unison, raising their crimson swords in defiance. Kiln smiled and ran forward to meet the enemy.
***
Jonas and Taleen sat high on their mounts scanning the battlefield below. They had followed the sounds of the battle and had ridden over the crest of a nearby hill. Below them, accompanied by the sounds of blasting horns and pounding war drums, raged a huge battle. The enemy riders had just attacked the flanks of the Finarthian cavalry.
Kiln, who had viewed the dire scene with them, had immediately spotted the desperate situation forming in the center of the infantry. He explained that if the center broke, enemy soldiers would surround and destroy them. Jonas had reluctantly followed Kiln’s orders and stayed behind while Kiln urged his mount down into the melee. Kiln told them that they would be needed to combat more dangerous foes, the priests of Naz-reen or Gould, or worse, a Banthra.
So Jonas and Taleen scanned the battle before them trying to figure out how they would best fit in. It didn’t take long for the cavaliers to sense the evil that was approaching through the ranks of enemy warriors.
“Jonas, do you feel it?” asked Taleen as she scanned the enemy ranks.
“I do,” Jonas answered, gazing out over the battle looking for the source of this malevolent feeling. “There,” he said, pointing towards a group of horseman that were maneuvering toward the Finarthian cavalry.
Their steeds had already sensed the dark force before them and both animals pranced, urging their riders forward.
Taleen looked at Jonas and nocked an arrow to her long bow. “May Helikon be with you,” she said with a nod of her head.
“And may Shyann guard your back,” Jonas responded, drawing forth one of his sabers. The cavaliers raced down the hillside towards the unearthly threat, eager to confront the evil that was corrupting their land.
Prince Baylin swung his mighty axe as if it were a toy. The razor sharp axe head dealt death to every enemy who neared him. His powerful legs controlled his horse expertly as he swung his battle-axe left and right with one hand. He lost all sense of time as he methodically cut down his enemies. Though he bled from several wounds, he didn’t register the pain as his mind and body became immersed in the heat and pandemonium of battle.
The prince’s battle frenzy was interrupted, however, by a sudden cold force that seemed to weigh him down, draining the warmth and energy from his body. He glanced frantically about trying to locate the source of this oppressive feeling that had so rapidly assaulted him, chilling his very bones.
His knights, too, were enveloped in the same dark miasma, their minds and bodies imprisoned by weakness and fear. Baylin saw his knights, and enemy warriors, part to give way to a trio of dark warriors mounted on even darker steeds, drifting through the ranks like a suffocating fog. Clad in black armor, the warriors and their horses emanated such evil energy that no nearby mortal could withstand it, turning their resolve into mindless terror.
The leader of the black triad caught Prince Baylin’s eye. Like the others, he wore dark plate mail the color of charcoal and his wicked helm jutted curved horns and spikes. What really drew the prince’s attention, however, were the warrior’s glowing red orbs that bore into his own, subjugating his will and causing his body to shake with uncontrollable fear.
Elsewhere, Graggis fought with the energy of a god,