Useless; foolish; nothing could stop the sword of a Shadow King, which had passed through metal like smoke. She gripped it anyway, a last instinct, a last way to fight. Her thoughts were on Elizabeth and Cyprian. Please. Please have made it out. Eyes closed, making herself small behind the fragment she held, she felt the icy cold as the sword of the Shadow King came down upon the shield.
A great clang rang out through the hall, reverberating up through her arm, jarring her teeth. The sword – the sword hitting the shield – striking it like a mallet—
And being knocked back.
Violet opened her eyes and saw the face of a Lion. Etched into the metal, warped and tarnished with age, it was looking back at her from the surface of the shield.
A broken shield, forged long ago, and borne by the Lion whose ancient strength ran in her blood.
The time will come when you must take up the Shield of Rassalon. Do not be afraid.
The Shadow King screamed, a sound of pure rage at being thwarted, and brought its sword down on her again – and she met sword with shield and knocked it away.
It worked, it worked, the sword flung back, the shield intact.
Breath heaving, she planted her foot on the stone and stood up.
In your blood run the brave lions of England and the bright lions of India. You are the strongest fighter the Light has left.
Rassalon’s shield on her on her blood-soaked arm, she faced the Shadow King, staring it down among the broken white columns of the ruined hall.
Around her lay all the signs of her fallen comrades. The Stewards who had fought and died to push back against the dark. Their weapons littered the floor; their blood drenched the stone.
She stood in the centre of it all, and attacked with the shield.
They fought in earnest then; she hit out with the shield as the Shadow King screamed in fury and tried to get at her. Her arm hurt; she ignored it. She ignored the swirling dark and freezing cold, and when she saw an opening, she took it, sweeping her shield at the Shadow King’s jaw and knocking it back two steps. Another blow, striking its shoulder.
A visceral surge of triumph: the shield could not only block, it could hit. She attacked with it, sweeping away the Shadow King’s strikes with ease while it railed and tried to reach her, then hitting it with all her strength.
It reeled: an opening. She ran at it, shield first like a charger, letting out a furious cry of her own. The shield impacted, slamming the Shadow King back – and she followed it to the ground – so that she tumbled down above it, among it, the swirling dark all around her.
For a moment she was trapped in it, an endless abyss. But inside the freezing dark she glimpsed its flickering form. Their eyes met, and she was staring down into two chilling pools. She lifted the edge of the shield and brought it down like a blunt guillotine onto the Shadow King’s neck.
It screamed and a force blasted outward from it, strong enough to shatter the windows, stone dust raining down around them. She had to pull the shield back up to protect herself from it, covering her face and eyes as she would against a gale. It went on and on, unnaturally long though its neck was severed, until the winds died down and the sound faded.
Silence. She slowly lowered her shield arm, opening her eyes. The Shadow King was dead. It had vanished into nothing from beneath her hands. Only the horrifying black shape of it remained, scoured into the floor.
She looked up. Light was filtering in from the shattered windows above her. She could now see the empty hall around her, illuminated in daylight. Its beauty endured, though columns were smashed, stone paving was cracked, the floor covered in marble dust, coating the strewn remains of an even older fight.
A broken shield. She pulled the shield from her arm and turned it over, looking down at the etched lion that seemed to look back at her. Something inside her stirred, and for a moment she almost thought she saw a real lion, gazing at her with its liquid brown eyes.
Alive; it hit her suddenly that she was alive. The Shadow King was dead. Cyprian and Elizabeth were safe … She had done it. Relief flooded her, and she grasped tight to the shield. She felt her exhaustion now because she could afford to feel it, the pain in her sliced arm, the bruising and ache in her shoulder, the throbbing cut in her cheek. Curling her fingers around the warped metal, she closed her eyes and thought, I did it, Will.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IT WAS LATE when he reached the inn at Castleton, because he had stayed with her through the night, while the room grew cold.
He had taken Simon’s purse, and his jacket, and cut his horses loose from the carriage that waited for him on the road. A pair of restless matched steeds with shiny black coats, they would find plenty of forage on the moors, until they were cornered by a farmer who couldn’t believe his luck. With Devon gone and the sun rising, he had made his own way back up over the craggy tors to the thicket where he’d left Valdithar. From there he’d ridden to the nearest inn, where he’d asked for a room, a pen and ink.