Gregory Keyes - The Blood Knight

She had seen this thing before, in a field of black roses, in a forest of thorns.

The Briar King.

He had no face, only dreams in motion. At first she saw nothing she recognized, a miasma of colors that had scent and taste and palpable feel. But now she could not look away, though her terror was only growing.

She felt as if a million poisoned needles quilled her flesh. She could not scream.

And Anne was suddenly very certain of two things…

She jerked awake and found her face pressed into the pool of blood on the man’s chest. His body was very cold now, and so was she.

She rose, gagging, and stumbled away from the corpse, but her limbs were numb. She shook her head, clearing the last of the Black Mary. She vaguely knew she ought to take the horse and follow the hoofprints that had brought her here back to their source, but it seemed like too much trouble. Anyway, it was snowing harder now, and soon the tracks would be filled.

She folded herself into a crevice in the roots of a huge tree and, as warmth slowly returned, gathered her strength for what needed to be done.

An arrow skipped off Neil MeqVren’s helm as he churned his way over the snowbank, the hoarse battle cry of his fathers ringing through the trees. His shield turned aside another death-tipped shaft. And another.

Only a few kingsyards away, four archers continued to hold their ground behind the shields of six swordsmen. Together, the men formed a small fortress well situated to rain death on the only course Neil had any desire to follow—the track of the horsemen bearing Anne.

He decided to charge right at them, as suicidal as that might be. Anything else only delayed the inevitable.

Neil concentrated as he ran, feeling clumsy in his ill-fitting armor, longing for the beautiful set of lord’s plate Sir Fail had once given him, the armor that now rested at the bottom of the harbor of z’Espino, hundreds of leagues away.

The world seemed slow at times like this, and wondrous detailed. Geese trumpeted, distant and overhead. He smelled the resin of broken pine. One of the shieldmen had bright green eyes behind the burnished noseguard of his helm and a downy auburn mustache. His cheeks were red with the cold. His face was clenched in a determination that Neil had seen more than once behind the war board. On another day this young man might drink wine with his friends, dance with a girl, sing a song known only in the tiny hamlet of his birth.

On another day. But today he was ready to die if need be and take whoever he might with him to greet the ferry of Saint Jeroin.

And on the faces of his companions there was the same look.

Neil stumbled, saw a bow bend and the tip of an arrow come down, felt the line drawn through the air to his eye. He knew his shield had dropped too low, that he would never bring it back up in time.

Suddenly the archer dropped his weapon and reached awkwardly for the shaft that had appeared in his own forehead.

Neil couldn’t afford the time to turn and see who had saved his life. Instead, he crouched deeper behind his shield, measuring the last few yards, and then—howling again—flung himself at the shield wall, battering boss to boss with the green-eyed boy.

The fellow did what he ought to do and gave ground so that his fellow shieldmen could move up and put Neil inside the line, surrounding him.

But they didn’t know what Neil carried. The feysword he’d taken from the pieces of a man who could not die lashed through the air, leaving in its soughwake the faint scent of lightning. It cleaved the lifted shield that hovered before him, through the metal cap and skull beneath, through an emerald eye, exiting finally below the ear before twisting to shear through the ribs of the next closest man.

Along with his battle rage, Neil felt a sort of sick anger. There was nothing chivalrous about the use of such a weapon. To fight against overwhelming odds was one thing. To claim victory by shinecraft was another.

But duty and honor didn’t always go together, he had learned. And in this case, it was duty that swung the sword he had named Draug.

The simple fact was, feysword or not, this wasn’t a fight he was likely to win.

Someone grappled with him at his knees, coming at him from behind, and Neil cut down and back, only to find another armored body in the way. Draug bit deeply, but the pommel of a broadsword smacked hard into Neil’s helm, and he toppled into the snow Another man wrapped around his arm, and he couldn’t swing the sword anymore.

The world flared entirely red as he struggled, waiting for the dagger that would inevitably work around his gorget or through his visor. He was suddenly and strangely reminded of sinking into the waves back in z’Espino, dragged down by his armor, his helplessness mingled with relief that his trials were finally over.

Except that this time there was no relief. Anne was out there, in danger, and he would burn the last tinder of his strength to prevent her coming to harm. To more harm. If she wasn’t already dead.

So he struck with the only weapon he had left, his head, butting it into the nearest panting face, and was rewarded with the cartilage crunch of a breaking nose. That was the fellow pinning his left arm, which he brought up now with all the strength of his battle rage, punching into the fellow’s throat. That sent him back.

Then something slammed into his helm with all the weight of the world, and black snow fell from a white sky.

When his head cleared, Neil found someone kneeling over him. He levered himself up with a snarl, and the man leapt back, gabbling in a foreign tongue. To his surprise, Neil found that his limbs were free.

As the red haze parted, he realized that the man kneeling over him had been the Vitellian, Cazio. The swordsman was standing at a respectful distance now, his odd light weapon held in a relaxed ward.

“Hush, knight,” a nearby voice said. “You’re with friends now.”

Neil pushed himself up and turned to regard a man of early middle years with a sun-browned face and close-cropped dark hair plentiful with silver. Another shake of his head and he recognized Aspar White, the king’s holter. Just beyond were the younger Stephen Darige and the honey-haired Winna Rufoote, both crouching and alert in the bloodied snow.

“Best keep your head down,” Aspar said. “There’s another nest of archers out that way.” He gestured with his chin.

“I thought you were all dead,” Neil said.

“Yah,” Aspar said. “We thought you were, too.”

“Anne is where?” Cazio demanded in his heavy Vitellian accent.

“You didn’t see?” Neil asked accusingly. “You were riding right next to her.”

“Yes,” Cazio said, concentrating on trying to get his words right. “Austra riding a little behind, with Stephen. Arrows started, yes, and then, ah, eponiros come up road with, ah, long haso —”

“The lancers, yes,” Neil said. Archers had appeared all along their flanks, and then a wedge of horsemen, charging down the road. The cavalry from Dunmrogh hadn’t had time to form up well but had met them, anyway.

Neil had killed three of the riders personally but had found himself pushed farther and farther away from Anne. When he’d returned to the scene, he’d discovered nothing but the dead and no sign whatever of the heir to the throne of Crotheny.

“Was trick,” Cazio said. “Came, ah, aurseto , struck me here.” He indicated his head, which was sticky with blood.

“I don’t know that word,” Neil said.

“ Aurseto ,” Cazio repeated. “Like, ah, water, air—”

“Invisible,” Stephen interrupted. The novice priest turned to Cazio. “ Uno viro aurseto ?”