David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

They swerved around a bend in the road, and the camp of Karak’s Army opened up before them. The soldiers’ attentions were still fixed on the battle waging in the far-off city, and for a second Patrick doubted their plan. Their rush was so loud, it was sure to attract their attention, and should that happen, they would have at least two minutes to prepare themselves for what was to come. If there was one thing Patrick had learned about battle over the last three years, it was that two minutes could be a lifetime.

Yet the soldiers never turned, instead keeping their eyes on the distant walled settlement as if transfixed. Patrick allowed himself to glance up, and he saw bright flashes light up the sky above Mordeina. That can’t be good, he thought. He tore his eyes away and had to shove aside worry for his sisters, nieces, and nephews, all locked away inside Manse DuTaureau. Should any harm come to them. .

Stop it. Focus. He lifted Winterbone and held it out before him like a lance.

He veered his horse through the rows between the tents, keeping his vision fixed on the soldiers. He saw one of the tents billow, but he wasn’t sure if that was due to the bitter wind or someone moving about inside. Not that it mattered. Any who emerged would receive their due when the most present threat was taken care of. On and on thumped the hoof beats, but the battle from afar was so loud and full of chaos, it appeared to be an unexpected blessing.

They were only twenty feet away from the soldiers when finally the one at the end of the line turned. He was an older man, and a smile was on his lips. That smile faltered when he saw Patrick on his horse, and it disappeared completely when Patrick hacked down with Winterbone, cleaving his face from his skull. The man collapsed, clutching at the bloody ruin where his face had once been. He disappeared as Patrick’s horse shot past the soldiers, galloping out into the field a good fifty feet before he yanked the reins and turned around.

The rest of the soldiers whirled in a confused panic just as Patrick’s mates descended on them. Seventeen fell during that first pass, the twenty-two other riders fanning out and hacking away. The unharmed soldiers fumbled for their weapons, but they were too shaken, too surprised. By the time the first few had pulled out their swords, each of their attackers was charging once more.

Another fourteen died on the second pass.

This time when Patrick and his regiment tried to turn around, they had to maneuver through the tents to do so, allowing the thirty remaining soldiers to ready themselves. Panicked orders rang out among Karak’s men, and they spread out, dashing this way and that in an attempt to separate their assailants. Patrick’s militia didn’t fall for it. Denton and two of the other men from Paradise, David and Michael, sheathed their swords and pulled out their homemade bows. They fired shot after shot at the soldiers while the rest continued the assault. Patrick spied the three of them over his shoulder for just a second, in awe that these men who had only seen a true battle once could adapt so well when the moment called for it.

Patrick chased after three soldiers who scooted between the rows of tents, heading for the supply carts. As he rode, this time he did see two other men emerge from the canvas enclosures, looking bewildered and frightened. These two never had a chance to draw their weapons, for Preston and Ragnar were on them a moment later, running them both through.

The three soldiers veered once more, and instead of swerving along with them, Patrick went against Preston’s advice and charged straight through the tents. His mare trampled them, scattering iron cookware, piles of smallclothes, and stones across the snow. Once the horse’s rear hoof became tangled with the corner of one of the tents, but after a momentary stumble the beast righted itself and kept on galloping.

He came upon one of the soldiers an instant later, driving Winterbone down and piercing the man through the back of the neck. The soldier lifted off the ground, impaled on the sword’s blade, his legs still kicking. Patrick’s forearms screamed at him with the extra weight, and he jerked upward. The razor-sharp blade ripped through the soldier’s scull, shearing it in half and freeing the sword. Blood sprayed everywhere as the soldier fell. Patrick winced, switched the massive sword from one hand to the other, and shook the pain out of his arm.

Big and Little Flick had cornered another of the fleeing men, viciously hacking at him. Patrick pulled back on the reins, bringing his mare up on its hind legs for a moment. When the beast returned to all fours, he spun in a circle. He saw no more standing soldiers, only his twenty-two brothers-in-arms, all hovering over the last of their kills.

Patrick whirled back around, searching for the final fleeing soldier. Grunting, his blood racing through his veins, he sheathed Winterbone, hopped off his horse, and began to walk down the line of supply wagons. Each cart was surrounded by a mound of snow that rose to the top of the wheels, and he noticed that one of those mounds had a deep impression in the center. When he reached it, he ducked down and saw a pair of feet pushing against the snow, desperately trying to get away.

“Got you,” Patrick said.

He grasped the booted feet with both hands and yanked, and the soldier slid out from beneath the wagon with ease. When he was fully exposed, Patrick roughly kicked him onto his back, grabbed him by the neck of his breastplate, and lifted him to standing. The soldier screeched and tried to get away.

“Please!” the soldier said. “Don’t hurt me!”

Patrick released him and took a step backward. The soldier before him was young, no older than Joffrey, the youngest Turncloak. He had a head of silver hair, a slender jaw, and light-blue eyes like seaglass. He looked like he could have been Moira Elren’s brother in another life.

Tears streamed down the young soldier’s cheeks. “Please,” he groveled, clutching his hands to his chest like a small child. “Please, I–I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to go home.”

“You want to go home?” Patrick asked.

The boy nodded. Patrick almost pulled the dagger out of his belt and shoved it into the boy’s throat right there, but something stopped him.

My son will be that age one day, he thought. He dropped his hands to his sides.

“Go,” Patrick said.

“What?” asked the soldier.

“I’m not going to tell you twice. Go. Now. Before I change my mind.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” the young soldier repeated as he crept along the side of the wagon. When he reached the edge, he turned and began running through the snow, heading south toward the Gods’ Road. Patrick watched him go, his inner thoughts in turmoil. Then he saw a shadow pass over his head, and a moment later the fleeing boy fell. His body shuddered for a moment and then stilled, an arrow protruding from the back of his head.

“You got him, Denton!” he heard one of the other men shout.

Patrick turned, his fists clenched, and spotted Denton Noonan sitting atop his horse, three of his compatriots patting him on the back. Patrick was about to charge him, but strong hands grasped his wrist, spinning him back around.

“Don’t,” Preston told him.

“I let the boy go,” Patrick growled.

“Denton didn’t know that.”

“He should have.”

Patrick shrugged out of Preston’s grasp and stormed through the snow, approaching the body of another of the soldiers he’d felled. He kicked the corpse, and it spun over. He gazed down at the face of a boy not much older than the one he had decided to set free. This one had wavy chestnut hair and eyes of a deep green that were already beginning to grow milky with death.