Battle Ground (The Dresden Files #17) - Jim Butcher Page 0,65

to fire.

I had been questioning the enemy’s wisdom in handing all the octokongs what amounted to shotguns. But I hadn’t been thinking. In the chaos of a city on fire, within the limited visibility of the smoke and darkness, nobody could see very well—and certainly not well enough for reliable precision shooting. “Firing thataway” with a shotgun was probably just about as close to accurate as it would be possible to get.

I dropped my staff, reached for my own coach gun in its scabbard, remembered that the staff had been helping support me, and fell hard against Butters, who grunted and crashed to a knee.

The octokongs kept relentless fire against my shield as I went down, and to my shock another dozen of the things came swarming along the walls and roof of the ramp, staying out of the line of fire of the original trio as they kept shooting.

Behind them came a sphere of wavery aqua light. In the haze, I could make out a tall, slender, frog-faced form at the center of the sphere. One of the Fomor themselves, then, driving his charges forward. The shape lifted a hand and sent a crackling bolt of green lightning crashing against my shield.

That one was some serious sorcery. I held it off, but it took a gasp of effort and energy to keep the shield in place.

My leg twitched when I tried to make it work, which was better than a moment before, but not good enough to get me out of this one. “Butters, get clear!” I screamed.

“Not yet!” he said. “Hold the shield!”

My ears picked out running footsteps from up the ramp—no, from the opposite ramp, the one leading up the other side of the parking garage.

I saw the shielded Fomor abruptly turn, just as an enormous, friendly voice boomed, “Hello!”

And the haze of battle vanished, burned away by an aurora of silver-white light around a curved, gleaming Sword. Sanya, Knight of the Cross, six and a half feet of muscle, dark-skinned and graceful, whipped the shining form of Esperacchius through an arc, and it was as if the Sword itself cleared and cleaned the air before it as it moved. It struck through the Fomor’s arcane shields as if they had not existed, and before the foe could shriek, its head had jumped from its shoulders.

The big man’s teeth shone white against his dark skin as he lobbed something calmly down among the octokongs and darted smoothly to one side in a sweep of white cloak.

“Grenade!” I screamed, and sent more power into the shield.

A second later, there was a sound you could chew, it was so thick, and a wash of power smashed against my shield, overloading what the bracelet could handle and scorching my wrist.

Octokongs tumbled from the walls, wounded, stunned, some of them dying.

Sanya let out a roar and reappeared, charging them, flanked on both sides by a pair of enormous wolves—Will Borden and the Alphas.

“Now, you stay down, Harry,” Butters snarled.

And with a clarion shriek of choral fury, Fidelacchius’s blade of pure light sprang to life in his hands, and Butters zipped up the ramp, his cloak flying behind him.

Between the werewolves and the Knights, it took maybe ten seconds.

Then there was a low rumble behind me, and Karrin Murphy appeared, wearing her motorcycle jacket and riding her old Harley, sticking out her good leg to support it as she brought the bike to a growling halt.

I eyed the motorcycle. Then her. “How?”

“Like I don’t keep this old baby behind wards,” she said. “The Ordo Lebes did it for me years ago. And bikes are the only things that can get through the streets.” She checked around her and then up the ramp. “Come on. There’re more of them coming up from the lake.” She drew a radio out of her pocket, turned it on, and said into it, “This is Valkryie. I’ve got Booster Gold.”

“Hey,” I objected.

“Roger that, Valkryie,” came a calm voice over the radio. Marcone. “Be advised that Winter One has chosen her ground. All remaining forces in the north will rally at Wrigley. The enemy command has turned south. I recommend—”

The world went red again. Scarlet light flooded the night and left us in deep shadow. Murphy’s radio went up in a shower of sparks. The quivering roar that followed the blast of the Eye was less savage this time. Ethniu was farther away.

“Son of a bitch,” Murphy swore in annoyance. She tossed the radio aside and reached into