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  The brutes were smaller than giants, but they were bigger than men. They wore steel caps and chest-plates, bore heavy shields, thick swords, and had muscles much stronger than human. The brutes, as the evil apparition in the sky looked over their shoulders, croaked like monstrous bullfrogs.

  This time the cavalry couldn’t sweep their opponents. Instead, at the last instant, stallions dug their hooves into the ground. They couldn’t bowl over these steel-clad brutes. The war-horses milled before the croaking line as knights, thegns and squires leaned over their saddles to hew. The tall brutes swung back. It was a mass of deafening steel banging against steel and bloody confusion, a wicked game of push and shove and clanking.

  With his blue-blazing sword as deadly with brutes as with undead and tuskriders, Gavin cleared a space. He then rose in the stirrups to study the overall situation.

  Clawmen, giants and tuskriders hid Swan’s half of the army. Gavin shook sweat out of his eyes. Then he went back to fighting.

  ***

  “Fire!” shouted Pavia.

  But no rocks sailed heavenward from the trebuchets.

  “Fire!” she shouted into the courtyard.

  “We can’t!” yelled a man. “We’re out of rocks.”

  Pavia glanced at Welf.

  Pale, trembling, the former forester watched the slaughter below the castle walls.

  “What now?” she cried.

  “Doom,” whispered Welf. “The Captain General’s plan has failed.”

  Pavia grabbed Welf by his mail-shirt. “What now? Tell me!”

  “We’re doomed.”

  Lady Pavia stared at the battlefield below. Despite the destruction of all the undead, the battlefield yet swam with foes. Then she chanced to look upon the Banner of Tulun. It radiated blue light. It radiated hope. And it thereby stiffened the Lady Pavia’s spine. Snatching up the nearby axe, she knew what she had to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Vivian watched the battle from atop a reserve catapult. Nearby her stood the statue-still Leng, with the moon-globe around his head. A little beyond him the Mistress paced in anger as the brutes fought the knights.

  A war raged in Vivian’s heart. She loathed Leng. She hated the Mistress. But she desperately wanted to survive. To die: the idea stole her strength.

  Vivian swallowed and for a moment, across the battlefield, she caught a glimpse of the Banner of Tulun. In that instant, Vivian saw her own wickedness, how far she had fallen in order to live just a few more days. Staring up at Leng’s face in the sky, all her shame and hate welled into a tight knot in her chest. She leaped onto the ground. No one guarded Leng now. All fought against the knights. Now was that one chance she had been waiting for. She had to take it.

  ***

  The knights and brutes waged a fierce struggle. Many died on each side. Although the brutes were bigger and stronger, the knights were better trained. A lifetime with swords and stallions gave them cunning and an understanding of edges upon armor. They used all their skill to bash at jointed spots, where enemy armor was weakest. Still, the brutes were stronger. If not for the stallions, which equaled the height between them, the brutes would have slaughtered the knights and thegns.

  Aelfric and Ullrick fought on one side of Gavin. Josserand fought on the other.

  “We must win through them!” cried the Bear.

  “Can’t be done!” shouted Josserand. “They’re too steady.”

  “I can end everything if I reach Zon Mezzamalech!” shouted Gavin.

  “Not if I reach her first!” shouted the Bear.

  “You’re both welcome to her,” said Josserand.

  Then they swung and defended, too busy to talk.

  ***

  Leng knew peace. The human infantry were all but slaughtered. The brutes held the knights at bay. Yes, the Standard Bearer stood bravely perhaps. Then he chanced to spy Vivian, her features screwed into a mask of loathing. She picked up a wavy-bladed dagger and charged his still form.

  Leng, the dark sky god, howled with fear. He bowed his head and in the blink of an eye, the outline of his head in the starry sky disappeared.

  ***

  Swan, who had been separated from Hugo and fought in an ever-dwindling circle of defenders, picked up a fallen and loaded crossbow. She sighted the giant who reaped their ranks. He seemed oddly familiar and roared something about his hand. As she aimed at his forehead, the giant moaned in fear and fell back. Swan didn’t understand why.

  “Look!” cried a spearman beside her. “The dark sky god has left.”

  Swan gazed up into the darkness. All she saw were stars. Then she understood. The evil apparition was gone!

  At that same moment, yelling caused her to turn. A column of humans, led by an armored Lady Pavia and Welf, hewed their way through the darkspawn to join them, more than tripling their numbers. Joy filled Swan. There was yet hope. Amid a sea of carnage, she and Pavia hugged.

  “What now?” Welf asked.

  Swan judged the mass of darkspawn. They were but momentarily dazed by the loss of their sky god. “This way!” she shouted, pointing at the blue nimbus that shone behind the backs of the darkspawn they faced. “Let us at least die under Hosar’s Banner.”

  ***

  Like frogs, the brutes croaked in dismay. Many fell back from the knights.

  Gavin saw it right away. There was no sky god to guide them. He spurred his stallion, shouting, “At them, lads!” Ullrick, his huge axe raised in one hand, followed to his right. To Gavin’s left Josserand wielded a spear. Knights yelled and charged. Some brutes fought back. Others shied away, trying to understand where their sky god had gone.

  “Fools!” thundered the Mistress from the rear ranks. “Fight them!”

  Brutes looked back at her. She radiated with Zon Mezzamalech’s power. They grinned stupidly and attacked anew.

  “It’s now or never!” roared Gavin.

  “At her,” agreed Josserand.

  But it was Sir Ullrick the Bear who won through. All the terror, the fear, the rage, all plied him with inhuman power. He went berserk, his iron battleaxe rising and falling, smashing brute-armor like a blacksmith at his anvil. Then he was past them. The Bear, with his mighty beard bristling, urged his war-horse at the ugly Duke’s daughter.

  The Mistress raised her hand, a green ball of balefire flaming in her palm. She hurled the ball. In flight, it sizzled and hissed. Her aim, however, was off. It missed Sir Ullrick and exploded full in the face of a recently knighted squire who followed close behind. That man screamed as green fire consumed him. The Bear, with his hair standing on end, yet thundered straight at the Mistress. His eyes were riveted upon her. He was the champion of Banfrey. He was the champion of Erin. This would prove it for all time. His battleaxe was raised for the perfect blow and his stallion ran smoothly. With a bellow, Sir Ullrick the Bear swung, burying the blade of his huge axe it in the Mistress’ forehead. She crumbled to the ground.

  Sir Ullrick reined in his foaming steed. He shouted in victory, a true knight. Now he must claim the prize, her head on a spear so all could see that he was the champion. He leaped beside the evil queen.

  “I slew Zon Mezzamalech!” cried the Bear. He wrenched his battleaxe free from her forehead.

  “No!” shouted Gavin. “Ullrick, beware!”

  The amulet and its chain, as if a living thing, a very snake, loosed itself from the Mistress. In an odd, bizarre way, it leaped, hurling itself off the corpse and onto Sir Ullrick’s arm. He shouted, trying to shake it off. It slithered up his arm and sprang again. The Bear screamed in horror as the golden chain whipped up over his hairy head. Then the amulet slid down onto his armored chest.

  Sir Ullrick went rigid, his eyes bulging. He staggered to the left and to the right. He foamed at the mouth and fell to the ground, shaking. A moment later, he grinned evilly, looking about. He jumped up and picked up his battleaxe. The amulet on his chest began to glow a hideous green.

  ***

  The moon-globe faded f
rom around Leng’s head. His statue-like stiffness dropped away. His shoulders slumped. He whipped open his eyes. Terror as he hadn’t known in centuries filled him. He twisted as a wavy-bladed dagger flashed at him. Searing agony exploded in his left arm. He howled, leaping out of range of Vivian’s backhanded slash, leaping off the obsidian conjuring block.

  She laughed insanely, her eyes wild.

  He raised his good hand as he fought off the pain and the waves of nausea. He concentrated his power. “I can kill you,” he whispered.

  In face of his certainty, Vivian hesitated.

  Then a terrible cry broke through their tableau. Ullrick shouted in exhalation, with the amulet blazing eerily upon his chest.

  ***

  Gavin launched himself from his stallion as the amulet-wearing Sir Ullrick strode at him. Motes of light played up and down Glamore. They were like tiny lightning bolts, but inside the sword, not outside. The silver blade glowed almost as brightly as the banner across the battlefield. Terrified brutes stepped away from Gavin, shielding their eyes from the sword’s light.

  “You!” shouted Gavin.

  What had recently been Sir Ullrick the Bear turned hellish eyes upon him. “Come, Champion of Light,” it said. “Come and taste Old Father Night’s wrath.” The amulet grew dark, and the axe became a thing of ultimate shadow, a blot of evil. “O little Hosar, a godling of sunshine, flowered fields and laughter. How can he fare against death, against the crush of hate and the ecstasy of darkest night?”

  Gavin felt his cuts and his aches. He hesitated. The thing that had been Ullrick seemed unbeatable.

  “Come, little one,” it said. “Taste death. March forever in my horde. Become the lord of the new undead.”

  Gavin knew that if the dark axe touched him… He took a step back.

  He who had just been Ullrick laughed. “Yes. Finally, you know wisdom. Darkness ever conquers Light. It is inevitable.”

  Then Gavin felt the familiar tingle in his arms.

  “You are doomed,” said he who wore the ancient amulet of Zon Mezzamalech. “Your time is over.”

  ***

  The blue circuit of light from the Banner of Tulun protected Hugo’s last defenders. Like wolves around a fire, the howling mob of darkspawn didn’t quite dare to close for the final clutch. Since their sky god had departed, they knew fear. Soon, however, despite everything…

  “We’re not dead yet!” shouted Hugo.

  There came a return cry. A column of warriors broke through the sea of howling darkspawn. At their head marched the Seer, her sword bloody, her face aglow.

  “For Hosar!” she cried.

  The dismounted knights, militiamen, men-at-arms and crossbowmen cheered.

  “Attack the darkspawn!” roared Hugo.

  ***

  Gavin skipped back. Sweat poured from his face. He who had just been Sir Ullrick panted like a spent hound.

  “We end it now,” Gavin said.

  The one wearing the ancient amulet of Zon Mezzamalech swore with rage and charged. Gavin, as he only rarely did on the joust field, sidestepped the rush and thrust out his foot. His enemy tripped and sprawled full-length onto the bloody earth. Gavin pivoted, clutched Glamore with two hands and swung once to part the head from the body. Then he swung a second time, against the amulet. He didn’t want it to slither away or leap onto him.

  As the blade touched the green amulet—a flash, a shriek, a column of billowing dark smoke rose. The old evil spirit of Zon Mezzamalech howled. It was a sickening sound. It stilled everyone on the battlefield. The amulet cracked. A blaze of darkness gushed upward from it. The darkness flowed up and up, more and more, faster and faster in a seemingly never-ending torrent. All the black magical power that Zon Mezzamalech had stored eons ago now shot up like a geyser and in a massive surge. The howl, which turned into a shriek of mind-numbing horror, now dwindled. And a black thing, ugly and evil, shadowy and mean, slithered from the land of the living as it sped down into the pits of the Netherworld that had long awaited its coming.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lo, the spirit of the darkspawn fell before the silver sword Glamore. Then did the crusaders fall upon the mazed creatures of the Night and rout them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The stars waned. The night seemed spent, not quite as dark as it had been just moments before. Cuthred shuddered. His legs ached. His feet hurt. He was tired. Beside him, Simon the giant clutched his side as his face screwed up in pain.

  “T-T-The sun, Cuthred, it rises.”

  Cuthred grabbed Simon by the arm. The vengeful humans wouldn’t rest. Not with the sun to guide them. Simon’s arm felt like iron. Surprised, Cuthred saw that Simon had become rigid, frozen in fear as he stared at the coming dawn. Then tension oozed out of Simon as his features melted into a hideous mask of gut-wrenching horror. As if all the bones had been sucked from his body, Simon fell to the ground. He covered his eyes. “Please…” he whispered, no louder than a child would. “No more light. I hate the light.”

  Cuthred squinted at the brilliant smear on the horizon. He found it hard to concentrate.

  Simon clawed fistfuls of dirt out of the ground as he wept.

  “Simon!”

  Simon felt his hole. Then he crammed his face into it. Spasms washed over him.

  The hackles rose on Cuthred’s neck. He turned from Simon in loathing and disgust. Dawn-light made it hard to think. Then the sun rose and no longer just threw its rays into the night. It actually shone with the barest tip of its dreadful orb. He couldn’t breathe. Air! Air! He needed air! Cuthred fumbled at the straps to his armor, snapping, ripping them off. His armor clanged to the ground. He yanked off the greaves girding his legs and hurled them away. The he snatched up his club and crashed blindly ahead.

  Later, as the sun blazed in the sky, he stopped in a forest. He was deep within its comforting gloom. His feet ached. The heated air—at least to him it was heated—scorched his lungs. He had to reach Glendover Port. There, surely, waited darkspawn behind thick walls of stone, darkspawn who could stop the humans.

  He snatched several hours of fitful sleep. Every time he woke, he prayed to Old Father Night. Later, as the sun sank toward the horizon, he dared the sunlight again. So engrossed was he enduring the sun that he failed to hear the voices that would have normally alerted him.

  He stumbled around a clump of trees and came upon ten haggard humans. Some lay sprawled on the ground, spears and shields beside them. They snored. Two rested with their backs against an oak as they oiled crossbows. One thin man squatted, staring at an anthill.

  Cuthred didn’t know whether to attack or to flee, so he stood there frozen. The squatting man looked up. Only it wasn’t a man. She had dark hair and a keen, alert manner. Something about her seemed familiar.

  “A giant!” shouted a crossbowman. He madly cranked his weapon. Snoring men leapt up in shock.

  Cuthred would have attacked now to save himself, but something in the woman’s eyes stayed him.

  The short man with an eye-patch, and with gnarled fingers, threw away his crank and slapped a bolt into the weapon’s groove. He approached like a crab, slantwise and edgy. Other men followed the one-eyed man, although they hung well behind him.

  “Do we kill him?” the one-eyed man asked the woman.

  Cuthred rumbled low in his throat: his prelude to any attack.

  “Seer?” asked the one-eyed man.

  The woman shook her head.

  The one-eyed man spat on the ground. “The Cap’n General says slay all darkspawn.”

  “The Captain General isn’t here,” she said.

  “We must cleanse the land of evil,” he said, “no matter how unsavory the task.”

  “There is wisdom in your words, Hugo.”

  Then Cuthred knew who she was, but the memory hurt. “Swan,” he said.

  They glanced at him, puzzled.

  “How do you know me?” she asked.

  Tears leaked from Cuthred’s eyes. “Castle
Forador,” he said, “long ago, before, before…”

  She moved closer yet, was almost close enough to touch him.

  “Careful,” said the one-eyed man.

  Swan appeared thoughtful. “Cuthred the dog boy?” she asked.

  A shudder went through Cuthred. “I loved my dogs.”

  “Loved?” asked the one-eyed man.

  Tears streaked Cuthred’s grimy cheeks.

  “Get the banner,” said Swan.

  “My Seer…”

  “Hugo, please, will you do as I ask?”

  Hugo hesitated, but then nodded and turned to go. “Watch him,” he told the other crossbowman.

  “Cuthred,” said Swan. “I’m going to ask you to do something very hard.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Do you trust me?”

  Her gaze said that she knew he did.

  “Listen to me, Cuthred.”

  He nodded, but he was scared.

  The one called Hugo returned. He held a long pole, a lance, it seemed. Cloth bound the end of the lance. Cuthred’s nervousness blossomed into fear. His gut clenched.

  “Listen to me,” she said earnestly.

  Cuthred wanted to flee. Then an evil thought gripped him. He would snatch her and flee, and later he would twist off her head!

  “Seer,” Hugo said.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Cuthred, do you hear me?”

  Cuthred blinked, and he found that his club was in his hands.

  She reached out to touch him.

  Cuthred snarled as something within him—something alien and evil. He raised his club for a killing blow.