The Silent Shield (Kingfountain #5)(66)

The throb of magic swelled in the air as a cloud of arrows hammered down at them. Then it dawned on her why she hadn’t heard any screams from the maidens. And it thrilled her to her core. One of the five oaths they had sworn was never to kill a man by spear or arrow—and in return, they would not be slain by one. The magic of the oaths they had taken had been extended to the Oath Maidens riding with her, forming a shield of sorts that was invisible but real. But it had not protected some of their steeds.

She was close enough to see the archers, close enough to see the fear bloom in their eyes when they realized their bolts hadn’t harmed a single maiden. Their discipline shattered, they tried to claw their way through the leaf-armored knights to escape the front lines of the battle. Trynne had a sword already in hand, the reins tight in her other, and watched as the archers abandoned their lines.

Trynne’s horse was in front, but she heard the thunder of her companions’ charge, felt them coming as a scythe to mow the wheat. She heard the tumult coming from the army behind them, the clatter she’d asked the king to make. When the maidens screamed a furious war cry as they leaped into the ranks of the enemy, it felt as if a tide had swarmed the enemy. Trynne surrendered to her instincts, to the wellspring magic that flooded her with knowledge and experience from hundreds of similar battles.

Their foes wilted before them. Some were running, some were trying to fight, and a few were attacking their own forces in the confusion and chaos. Trynne charged ahead, swinging her blade on both sides of her horse as she went, fighting her way through the ranks.

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.