Trynne’s magic enveloped her as she fought her way toward the beleaguered soldiers. Attacks from the glaives glanced off her hauberk, but she countered viciously and fast, and so did her sisters. The ranks of Gahalatine’s soldiers broke apart, and the warriors began to flee, creating an opening to the stranded knights of Ceredigion. There was a cheer from the men of Glosstyr, a throaty roar of triumph.
In that moment, Trynne felt the urge to invoke the ring of disguise she still wore on her finger. The power came over her, almost without her bidding it to, and she felt it transform her and her steed. She could see the illusion of it—she was wearing the armor of the Maid of Donremy, disguised as the Painted Knight—even though she knew it was not real. In the commotion, she butted forward, using her sword to carve a path through the dense melee.
Finally they reached the haggard knights, their black tunics drenched, the white boars now crimson. She saw Severn, ashen-faced, bleeding from multiple wounds, barely able to stand. He leaned against a spear, gripping a battle standard in one hand and a bloodied sword in the other. Men had fallen all around him. There were perhaps less than fifty remaining.
Trynne saw the duke’s eyes on her. He had no Fountain magic left. His stores were completely depleted. But she felt the presence of another Fountain-blessed. A Wizr.
As she approached Severn Argentine, the man she had sensed stepped out from amidst the fleeing soldiers, his face twisted with rage. He was brimming with magic—until now, there’d been no reason for him to use it. The only armor he wore was a helmet buckled beneath his chin. His robes were ornate, in keeping with the customs and fashions of his people. He was dark-skinned, nearly coal black, with a nose ring and jeweled bracelets. The eyes of the Wizr were full of wrath as he stared at her, although she knew he saw the Painted Knight.
He gave a cough of command, the word of power to dispel magic and reveal that which is hidden. “Apokaluptis!”
She felt the blast of it strike her, radiating from him like a rock thrown into a pond. The Wizr’s eyes widened with surprise and realization when it did not affect her. Had her very immunity to the magic revealed her to him?
Slapping her steed’s flanks with the flat of her blade, she charged him. He spat spell after spell at her, trying to bind her, to thwart her, but none of them worked. His magic was powerless against her, and she watched his eyes widen in terror as she bore down on him with her horse, sword raised. Her magic revealed, once again, his vulnerability. As she’d sensed with the other Wizrs, his neck was his weakness. It was why he wore a helmet into battle.
That helmet bounced twice on the ground before his body slumped to the ragged earth. The dark magic in the air vanished.
Trynne yanked on the reins, watching as the warriors of Gahalatine fled toward the city. Other soldiers were coming; pikemen wielding long spears with hooked flanges were rushing in to defend the invading forces against the mounted knights. The poles could be fixed in the earth, forming a wall of spikes that even the bravest of horses would shy from. The response was quick and efficient. Despite the euphoria, she knew that they were still vastly outnumbered.
It was time to leave.
She rode back to Severn. He was rallying his men as the Oath Maidens helped them up onto their horses, the men riding behind the women. Severn refused to accept a hand, insisting that each of his warriors should be rescued first. He hoisted the battle standard and waved it in the faces of the onrushing pikemen, shouting defiance at them in a hoarse voice.
“Come on, you blackguards! I spit in Gahalatine’s eye! Where’s your bravery now! You bleeding cowards! Come and fight us! Fight our Painted Knight, you craven fools!”
One by one, the surviving knights of Glosstyr were pulled up onto the saddles of the Oath Maidens. Trynne gazed around the field, and her heart grieved at all the lost lives, the wickedness of war. It was Gahalatine’s ambition that had started it.
All the surviving knights had been rescued. Only Severn was left. Trynne rode up to him, her face impassive.
“My kingdom for a horse,” Severn croaked, a sneer on his face as he gazed at the oncoming warriors. Once again he had faced the odds and prevailed.
Trynne said nothing but reached her hand down to him. “I think we can spare one,” she said gruffly.
I joined the king’s army. There are rumors that the foreign war is not going well, that more soldiers are needed to join the attack. They are seeking older men now and training us in the arts of war. I keep quiet and to myself. It’s better to sleep in the barracks than in the brush. There is plenty of food. I have this feeling that I need to keep silent. To not reveal that I don’t remember my name. I call myself Stiev. I don’t know why. There was a man in the barracks the size of an ox. He thrashed anyone who stood up to him. I tried to stay out of his way, but he sought me out and tried to intimidate me. A feeling came over me. I knew his weakness and hit him there. I hit him hard. Now he stays away from me. They all do. The training yard is my favorite place to be. I know more than the weapons masters. But I don’t let on that I do. Maybe I used to be one? They say we might be put on a boat soon and sent to the enemy’s kingdom.