roar of approval was almost enough to drown the sounds of men on the move, flowing down the western bank, faint splashes and muttered oaths echoing up as they waded through the Tarn.
“Hold them on the other side as long as possible,” Killian said to Sonia. “Then kill as many as you can when they get through.”
The woman nodded, seemingly unconcerned. “It’s been a privilege fighting for you, Lord Calorian.”
“Likewise.” Reaching down, he clasped her arm. “May the gods fight long and hard over who gets the privilege of hosting your soul.”
“Not too long, I hope,” Sonia replied. “I’m looking forward to some rest.”
Laughing, Killian trotted to the rear line, eyeing the raised and fortified platforms holding half of his archers. Extracting his bow from the wrappings keeping it dry, he nocked an arrow, holding it at the ready.
“The corrupted won’t come first,” he said, walking his horse behind the men and women, all of them tilting their heads to listen. “They’ll let us exhaust our supply of arrows on the unmarked soldiers; then they’ll move. Which is why half the archers will hold back. It’s up to the rest of you to keep the enemy off them. Once we’ve put the lot of them down, you’ll turn to reinforce the front. Then we’ll make those bastards pay for this ford in blood.”
“Dark Horse, Dark Horse,” the men and women chanted, and it was picked up by the soldiers at the wall until the air shook with their voices, the stomp of their feet, the hammering of blades against shields. And Killian wondered, as he listened, when the moniker for his shame had turned into a symbol of his redemption.
Holding up one hand, he silenced the line. “They’re coming.”
The enemy came as they had the prior night, a roaring wall of men charging out of the blackness of the trees.
“Shoot at will,” he ordered those who’d been instructed to engage. “Make them count.”
The air filled with the twang of bowstrings and the whistle of arrows. Then the screams of men. Killian picked off target after target until his quiver was exhausted. Then he pulled his sword and bellowed, “Charge!”
The soldiers on horseback dug in their heels; then they were flying forward.
And there was nothing like it.
The rush, the roar of blood in his ears, the echoing impact of two armies colliding.
His war-horse slammed into the running men, crushing three beneath his hooves, teeth snapping at anyone in reach, as much a weapon as the blade in Killian’s hand. He took the head off a man with the momentum of the charge, then an arm off another, who fell screaming. Then it was a blur, a bloody dance, as he carved through the ranks. Some landed blows on him, but his armor and adrenaline did their duty, and he barely noticed.
Then he saw them.
A blur of black sprinting out of the trees. Two of them cut toward him, and he dug in his spurs, horse leaping over the fallen as he plunged toward the corrupted.
One of them leapt into the air, and Killian lifted his shield. She slammed into it, the impact numbing his arm, but she flipped over his head to land heavily.
The other dived at the horse. The huge animal squealed and staggered, but before he fell Killian flung himself free, dropping his shield and rolling to his feet, another blade in his free hand.
The corrupted circled him warily, weapons out, though he knew they’d prefer to use their mark.
“Rufina has offered a thousand gold pieces to whoever brings her your head,” the man said.
“I’ll give you two thousand if you leave it where it is,” Killian replied, slicing at the woman as she approached. “I’ve been told I have a very nice neck.”
She danced back, grinning. “I’ve heard the life of the god-marked tastes twice as sweet, Lord Calorian. I’ll enjoy drinking yours.”
“Hopefully I age gracefully, or your reward might be in jeopardy.”
She frowned, and he threw the knife at her face. When she reached for it, he struck, opening her from stem to stern, then twisted, slicing through her spine. The other corrupted shrieked and attacked. Killian turned, his sword taking the man in the chest. The corrupted kept coming, his naked hands reaching.
They went over backward, Killian grabbing the man’s wrists and forcing him away. But the corrupted was impossibly strong. Wedged against the corpse of the dead woman and a tree stump, Killian couldn’t move, and the man’s hands dropped lower and lower. Then Killian