Page 10

Chapter Ten

P atrolling, and protecting the people of Atlandia alongside the princesses’ warriors made time pass effortlessly. Niall didn’t mind the routine, however, he missed the simpler life back at the keep. Here, he was forced to interact with others during sword practice, meals, and patrols. Often the shifters and warriors commented on his supernatural healing abilities, wanting to know how he’d acquired it.

Not wanting to speak of Meliot’s curse and subsequent gift from a powerful enchantress, his brief explanation of being born with the ability seemed to satisfy whoever asked.

On that day, things looked to be a repeat of the day before and the one before that as they finished the morning meal.

“When are we returning to the other realm?” Padriag asked as they made their way to the stables.

Niall shrugged. “It is up to you.”

On the opposite side, Liam huffed. “No, it is up to you Niall. It is your time. You must release the idea that you will not be freed, because it will happen sooner than you expect.”

Coming to an abrupt stop, Niall turned to Liam. With the gift of foresight, he’d learned long ago it was best to believe Liam’s visions because they always came to be.

“What do you mean? How will this happen?” He grabbed Liam by the shoulders and shook him. “I do not wish to be freed, not by the terms set.”

Liam shoved him away. “You know very well I have no control over what I see.” The Englishman glared at him. “It is time you stop being a martyr and accept your role in this, in freeing yourself and Padriag.”

It was best to remain silent. Whether his friends knew the terms of his enchantment or not, he wasn’t sure. He’d shared with Tristan, and he’d probably told the others. To their credit, they’d never pushed him about it until lately. He understood, if the roles were reversed he’d do the same.

Once they arrived near the border of Meliot’s dark lands, where a relentless icy sleet fell from a gray sky, the men pulled their fur cloaks tighter around their shoulders and donned thick gloves to stave off the biting cold. The landscape was bleak, a desolate stretch of frozen ground and skeletal trees shrouded in mist. Just as the warriors were about to disperse into patrol groups, the thunderous pounding of hooves shattered the brittle silence, signaling a sudden shift in plans.

A single Atlandian guard galloped toward them, his steed kicking up a swirling cloud of snow and ice. He reined in abruptly, his breath coming in white puffs, urgency written across his frostbitten face. “I spotted a group of Meliot’s guards headed toward the border near the village. There are only six men left to defend. Hurry!”

Without hesitation, they followed, taking the southern route, mindful of avoiding crossing the border. The cold sleet stung Niall’s face, and the wind picked up, howling through the trees like a vengeful spirit. Niall could barely see his comrades, their forms mere shadows in the swirling whiteout. He whistled softly for Liam and Padraig, relieved when both answered in kind.

At last, the edge of the small village emerged through the haze. The roads between the buildings were eerily empty, the villagers undoubtedly huddled around their hearths, seeking warmth and safety from the merciless cold. The men advanced cautiously, surrounding the village and forming a tight perimeter, their figures hidden behind the skeletal tree line.

The sound of rustling leaves and the faint nickering of horses alerted them to approaching movement. Niall strained his eyes and caught the vague outline of a mounted figure in the dim light. Sword at the ready, he waited, tense and poised for action, watching the senior guard for the signal to strike.

The leader, Argo, a battle-hardened veteran, wisely held his men back until more of Meliot’s forces came into view. Then, with a piercing battle cry, he led the charge, his weapon gleaming as they surged forward, weapons raised high, toward the startled enemy.

Niall’s warhorse, responded instantly, muscles rippling as he charged into the fray, hooves pounding the frozen earth. Niall guided him with practiced ease, one hand on the reins and the other gripping his sword tightly. Out of the swirling gloom, a hulking warrior in dark armor and chainmail appeared, his lance aimed squarely at Niall’s heart.

With a swift swing of his sword, Niall deflected the lance, the clash of steel ringing sharply in the frigid air. The force of the blow reverberated through his arm, nearly unseating him. He grimaced at the sharp ache but maintained his grip, his gaze locked on the enemy as they passed perilously close, close enough for Niall to catch the wild gleam of fury in the man’s eyes.

His horse slowed momentarily, snorting clouds of steam from his nostrils, eager to re-engage. Niall pulled the reins, wheeling the massive beast around just as his opponent did the same. Both warriors readied themselves, the dark knight leveling his lance once more, his shield poised for the next charge.

As if by mutual agreement, they spurred their mounts forward, galloping headlong toward each other. The dark warrior shouted an oath, gripping his lance with grim determination. This time, he was intent on finishing what he had started. Niall leaned low, avoiding the lethal tip of the lance to his midsection by mere inches, though it grazed his shoulder, tearing through flesh and sending a hot, searing pain down his arm. He retaliated with a swift swing of his sword, aiming for the warrior’s head, but the blow was thwarted by the enemy’s shield. Laughter, cruel and mocking, echoed in his ears as they parted once again. The dark warrior seemed to find a new target, because he charged away.

Irritated at not downing his opponent, Niall urged his steed forward, weaving through the chaos of clashing swords and fallen bodies. His attention flicked to a shadowed movement at the edge of his vision. Instinctively, he ducked as an iron-spiked claymore swung toward him, narrowly missing his head. In a fluid motion, he retaliated, his sword slicing cleanly through the attacker’s neck. The head hit the ground with a dull thud, followed by the lifeless body toppling moments later.

Before he could catch his breath, the dark knight charged once more, his lance poised to end Niall’s life. Niall’s instincts screamed a warning. He slid sideways on his saddle just in time, narrowly evading the deadly weapon. The horses collided violently, sending both riders crashing to the ground.

Dazed and bleeding, Niall struggled to breathe, the air knocked from his lungs. His shoulder throbbed, and the loss of blood was sapping his strength. He dropped to one knee, trying to gather his wits. His sword lay several feet away, lost in the impact. His opponent, seeing his vulnerability, dismounted and approached, broadsword raised high, ready to deliver the final blow.

A strange calm settled over Niall. Time seemed to slow. Death loomed near, but four centuries of battle-hardened instincts refused to surrender. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he rolled toward a discarded claymore just as the enemy’s broadsword sliced through the air where he had been.

The dark knight roared in frustration, his victory denied once again. Before he could react, Niall’s horse reared up, massive hooves pawing the air above the enemy’s head. Seizing the man’s momentary distraction, Niall grasped his sword and stood, ready to face his adversary.

The dark warrior turned with a snarl, charging at Niall. Their weapons clashed in a furious exchange, metal ringing against metal, each strike driven by sheer will to survive. Around them, the sounds of battle faded into the background—the groans of the dying, the clash of steel, the whinnies of frightened horses.

Spotting an opening as the dark knight drew back for a heavy strike, Niall twisted his sword and drove the blade deep into his enemy’s chest. The warrior staggered, eyes wide with shock and fury, before crumpling to the ground.

Not waiting to see him fall, Niall turned, sword at the ready, prepared for the next attack. But there was none. The battle was over. Meliot’s men lay dead or dying, and only a few of Atlandia’s guards had fallen.

Liam and Padraig approached, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. Ever light-hearted, Padraig raised his hand. “High five, guys. We kicked ass.”

Niall shook his head, fighting the urge to smile, his heart still pounding from the fierce encounter.