Battle Ground (The Dresden Files #17) - Jim Butcher Page 0,128

its arm had been.

I had to turn to keep pace with Butters, or he’d have left me clambering through the muck after him. But I looked behind us and saw the wake we were leaving—not only of felled enemies, but of allies, seared free of the dark pressure of Ethniu’s will, their courage renewed.

Behind us, Sanya and his people angled into that opening that Butters’s passing had left, filling it with sudden friendly forces—and others struggling in the havoc around us saw that opening and rallied toward it, toward the two Knights, as their allies called encouragement and flung themselves upon an increasingly uncertain foe. Sanya managed to meet up with Butters with a cheerful whoop of greeting, and then the big man covered Butters’s six, simply following the smaller Knight, blade whirling, and fending off attacks that came at his flanks and rear.

In that moment, I knew what Michael had meant when he said that the most powerful part of the Sword of Faith had nothing to do with the word sword. Or even with the artifacts the two men held in their hands. Neither of the Swords could have done anything without the minds and hearts and hands of the men bearing them. And now Butters was, himself, the edge of a blade that was carving its way into the enemy, filling the empty space left behind with members of the alliance, surging with renewed energy, with the big black Russian behind him, laughing in a steady roar of amused defiance.

There was no way I could have taken myself through that mess without making it a hell of a lot messier. Butters made it look easy.

On that field, in that chaos, not even the mud stuck to him. Where the light of the Swords went, everyone knew who was who—there was no confusion to be had. Only choices. And everywhere the Knights went, the enemy fell, and our allies roared back into the fight.

Having those two going before me was not like having two allies. In that terrible, desperate place, it was like having hope and faith themselves standing beside you, and that power was deeper and ultimately more meaningful than any enchantment or mystic weapon around.

Long story short—the Swords cut a hole through the chaos, leaving bad news for the enemy everywhere they walked. Granted, a lot of the beings fighting on our side weren’t exactly angels. But whatever their reasons, that night they stood in defense of life, and evidently, that was good enough for the Power behind the Swords.

The physical trauma the Knights actually inflicted on the bodies of the foe was insignificant compared to the wreckage they made of enemy morale. For every Fomor trooper that went down before them, fifty more saw their companions falling beneath blades of terrifying light, saw the enemy surging to the fight with rising ferocity. Worse, beneath the light of the Swords, the dread will of the Titan held diminished sway—and without that psychic pressure to oppose them, the troops that the Winter Lady brought to the fight came at the enemy with pure, intelligent aggression.

And somewhere along the way I realized that the Winter troops Molly had brought to the battle were kids. They were a batch of goddamned kids, even younger than the Wardens. Kids fighting like stunt doubles in martial arts movies.

There had been rumors on the Paranet that the faeries had begun stealing children again.

Maybe they had. God, given what was in front of my eyes, I wasn’t even sure it was a bad thing.

The Winter Lady shrieked over the battle again, her voice pure, contemptuous fury, as one of her dwindling bodyguard of trolls smashed its way through the blocks of ice left in her wake. Another wave of enemy magic crashed upon the battlefield around her, and if she walked through it mainly untouched, the trolls around her screamed their pain and rage as fresh waves of enemy troops, driven by terror of Corb and his coterie, flung themselves at the Winter Lady.

My heart went into my throat as I saw a sword strike her and wedge itself into the flesh of her naked shoulder as if she had been a block of ice. Molly contemptuously touched the hand holding the weapon with her blade and snapped a kick up into the ice, shattering the frozen hand. She knocked the sword casually out of her flesh. Then she leaned down and almost sensually ran the edge of her icy blade beneath the