“Here comes another wave,” Lord Amrein warned.
They were hopelessly outnumbered. Like arrows shot from bows, the next phalanx of leaf-armored warriors dropped down on them. The knights of Kingfountain were falling at an alarming rate.
Trynne saw Fallon’s father, Iago Llewellyn, emerge from the hillside, his face grimy with blood and dirt. There was Fallon at his side, shield in hand, sword drawn. Warriors from Atabyrion and Dundrennan came with them.
“To the king!” Iago shouted.
The sound of a hurricane ripped over the hilltop as their enemies continued to drop from the sky. Trynne couldn’t make sense of the madness as she fought, moving from one foe to the next. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. The knights of Glosstyr were hewn down, man by man, their horses shrieking and writhing.
She caught a glimpse of Fallon in the midst of a desperate fight. He received a wound to his leg but continued to fight after he collapsed, his face wild with fury as he stabbed his enemy through the bowels and killed him. Iago was buffeted on the helm from behind, the glaive slicing into his back. When he arched and fell forward, his opponent spun the glaive around his head in a circle, clearly intent on impaling him from behind. Agony tore at Trynne—she was closer to the king, and though she could see what was happening, she would not be able to stop it.
“Halt!”
The voice speared through the air like a thunderclap. It shook the ground and drove all the leaf-armored warriors down on one knee. They stopped midmotion, stepping back from their foes, even though their eyes were full of anger and hate.
Trynne was stunned.
“Rucrius, take me to the hilltop.”
The voice boomed again like thunder. Some of the soldiers covered their ears from the noise of it.
Trynne looked around. She was standing alone amidst a sea of enemies. All the men of Glosstyr around her had perished. There were maybe only six left from the fifty she had seen climbing the hill. Severn was panting for breath, his sword tip facing down but his shield still hunched up on his shoulder, braced for another blow.
The fog had totally cleared, and Trynne could see the battlefield down below. All fighting had ceased. Where was her father?
Then she felt the sizzle of Fountain magic and suddenly five additional men appeared on the hilltop. She recognized Rucrius instantly and was gratified to see his staff still bore the nick-mark from her father’s blade. He looked proud and disdainful. Two of the others were clearly Wizrs and Fountain-blessed. Trynne could feel the waves of power emanating from them, but their magic slipped around her harmlessly. She reached out with her own magic and felt their weaknesses—all three were vulnerable around their necks.
The three Wizrs turned and looked at her as one, and Rucrius’s proud look was replaced with bafflement.
The other two men who had been transported to the hilltop were not Wizrs. One was a warrior wearing different armor from the rest. It was gold rather than green, and he wore a forked helm that covered most of his face save a slit across the eyes and down the nose. The eyes that peered out were brooding and angry, and he held a greatsword instead of a glaive.
The final man wore a crown with a huge blue stone across the center of the forehead. His armor was very different from the others as well. It consisted of a chain hauberk and a fox-fur cloak covering a heavy leather jacket. Three leather thongs hung from around his neck, one with a claw or fang, another with a circular metal device she had never seen before, and the last was slung with a ring.
Trynne shuddered when she looked up at the man’s brooding and handsome face. It was nicked with small scars from a lifetime of fighting. He had a short, close-cropped beard, and his dark hair was a little disheveled and tangled and cropped high on his neck. He had the bearing of a leader and eyes that were so blue they were almost purple. It surprised her how young he was, no more than twenty-five or so—around the same age as his opponent. She felt his Fountain-blessed power raging inside him like an ocean. This was Gahalatine. His presence was unmistakable. But she also sensed that his power did not exceed the combined strength of the Wizrs who were with him. Perhaps that would mean trouble for the young ruler.
“Where is your champion?” Gahalatine asked King Drew. “Where is Owen Kiskaddon?”
She recognized his voice, though it was no longer amplified by magic. He looked stern and serious, as if he expected some sort of duplicity. She was drawn to his face, his bearing. Her insides fluttered with peculiar emotions that rattled her deeply.
“I know not,” King Drew said, lowering his blade. The two rulers faced each other on very unequal terms, but each radiated confidence. “He led a raid in the night.”