Andry watched without blinking, frozen to the spot. What can I do? What can I do? His hands shook; his body trembled. Draw a sword, damn you. Fight. It’s your duty. You want to be a knight, and knights are not afraid. A knight would not stand and watch. A knight would charge down this hill and into the chaos, shield and sword ready.
Below the hill, the mud turned red.
And a knight would die doing it.
Arberin screamed first.
A corpse grabbed his red braid, climbing on his back. Another followed. And another, and another, until the sheer weight of bodies brought the Elder to the ground. Their blades were many. White steel, black iron, pitted and old. But sharp enough.
His flesh gave easily.
Rowanna and Marigon fought their way to their kin. They reached a body still bleeding, his immortal life ended.
Sir Grandel and the Norths were losing ground, their triangle tightening with each passing second. Swords danced; shields bashed; gauntlets cracked on flesh. Bodies piled around them, white limbs and decapitated heads. Edgar tripped first, falling as if through water, slowly, the end already realized. Until Sir Grandel seized him by the cloak, pulling him back upright.
“With me!” he shouted over the din. In the training yards of the palace, it meant keep up, be strong, push harder. Today it simply meant stay alive.
The Bull Rider roared, his ax wheeling, cutting throats with every pass. Red and black streaked his armor, blood and oil. But the mercenary could not keep up his pace. Andry wanted to scream when the horned helm of Bress the Bull Rider disappeared beneath the corpse tide.
The seconds felt like hours, and every death a lifetime.
Rowanna fell next, half submerged in a puddle, an ax in her spine.
A hammer blow caved in Raymon North’s breastplate. The wet rasp of his dying breath rattled even over the battlefield. Edgar bent over him, his sword forgotten as he cradled his cousin’s head. Despite Sir Grandel’s best efforts, the creatures fell upon the kneeling knight with knives and teeth.
Andry had known the Norths since he was a boy. He’d never thought he’d watch them die—and die so poorly.
Sir Grandel was heavy, difficult to pull down, though the creatures tried. He looked up from the clearing, locking eyes with Andry, still on the rise. Andry watched his own hands move, gesturing without thought, beckoning for his lord to abandon the battle. With me. Stay alive. In another time, Sir Grandel would have scolded him for cowardice.
Now he obeyed, and he ran.
So did Andry, his sword suddenly in his fist. His body moved faster than his mind, his feet sliding over the mud. I am squire to Sir Grandel Tyr, a knight of the Lionguard. This is my duty. I must help him. All other thoughts faded, all fear forgotten. I must be brave.
“With me!” Andry howled.
Sir Grandel climbed, but the creatures followed, tearing at his limbs, pulling him backward. He raised a gauntleted hand, fingers splayed. Not reaching, not begging. Not asking for aid or protection. His eyes went wide.
“RUN, TRELLAND!” the knight bellowed. “RUN!”
Sir Grandel Tyr’s last command struck Andry through. He froze, looking into the red maw of the carnage below.
A corpse tore the knight’s sword away. He fought on, but the mud sucked at his boots and he slid, pitching forward against the slope, fingers clawing at the wet grass.
Tears pricked Andry’s eyes. “With me,” he whispered, his voice a flower dying in frost.
He could not watch as one sword fell, and then another. The world spotted before him, black dots spreading to eat up his vision. The smell of blood and rot and ash consumed everything. I must run, he thought, his legs like water.
“Move,” Andry hissed to himself, forcing a step back. He felt his father watching, and Sir Grandel too. Knights dead in battle, knights who had done their duty and not forsaken their honor. The sort of knight he would never be. Andry sheathed his sword, his fingers meeting the reins of his horse.
Nour was dead upon the temple steps, their long, lithe limbs splayed across the marble. They were lovely even in death. Marigon wept openly over Rowanna’s body but still fought with deadly rhythm. She howled, tossing her hair, not a fox but a wolf with red fur. Surim and Dom were still alive, trying to fight their way to Cortael.
Okran’s spear broke at his feet, but he was not without shield and sword. The white armor of Kasa turned crimson, the Eagle painted with a fresh kill.
Andry untied his reins, hands shaking. Then he turned to Okran’s horse. The squire set his jaw, willing his fingers into motion. They were numb with fear, clumsy, as he loosed the knight’s horse. I can do this, at least.