Theron gave Han an appraising glance when he straightened up. "You have the thanks of mighty Theron, assassin."
Han gave him a cool smile. "The name is Han."
"Han, then. So be it. Come, Han — let us show our mettle as warriors together!" Theron leaped atop a table and snatched a battle-axe from the wall. Han cut down another akhkharu in mid-air as the king heedlessly whirled his axe above his head.
"For Wortan! For Melasgar!"
He leaped off the table into a crowd of combatants, bowling over both friend and foe. As he rose, he swung like a woodsman and split the head of one of the fallen akhkharu.
Another moved faster than Nyori though possible, blurring from the front of the king to the back almost instantaneously with a raised dagger. Fregeror caught the wrist and broke it with a savage twist as Theron slammed his axe in the akhkharu's gut. With a wild roar, Theron lifted the wraith above his head. He leapt in the air and brought his foe down on a heavy oak table, splitting it in two with a loud crack. A flood of food and drink buried them.
The Norlanders were many and ferocious, but their foes were unlike any they had fought before. Outside of the fortress, the clash of weapons and shouts of battle were audible. The entire stronghold appeared to be under attack.
Nyori found herself back to back with two Norlander women. She had no idea where Fregeror had gone, nor how long he was missing. The battle seemed to transcend time, just a mire of heat, rage, and blood. The women with her snarled and roared as loud as any man as they diced their foes like raw meat with axes and daggers. Eymunder flared as though it sought confrontation. The sizzling flickers from the orb engulfed any akhkharu it touched in flames, slaying more than Nyori's companions combined.
Han was a lithe, black-garbed whirlwind, hurling silver stars while his blade whirred against multiple foes. Nyori could not say for sure, but it appeared almost as if he were enjoying himself. Her notion was confirmed when he winked at her while somersaulting over an enraged foe.
She caught a glimpse of Marcellus in the press. He moved almost dreamlike and struck so swiftly that his foes appeared impossibly slow. Yet he appeared almost distracted, as if he waited for something. When she heard the scream in the distance, she knew exactly what it was.
A faint smile crossed Marcellus' face when the scream resounded again, this time just outside as though the Night Mare had flown in from the shadows of the evening.
Every window in the hall shattered.
The thick glass crashed inward as both Norlander and akhkharu paused to see the apparition that bore through the ruined windows. The Night Mare seemed too large, too monstrous to be real as her liquid black eyes searched for her master. Silver shod hooves gleamed in the torchlight as she reared with yet another scream, so piercing it rattled the timbers.
Glowing flame billowed from her nostrils and engulfed Marcellus completely. As before in the garden of his manor, it ate away the man and released the Reaver, who emerged from the fire with a colossal blade in hand. Even the hardiest, most battle-tested Norlander gaped in astonishment at the black-armored phantom that towered over them all.
The reaction of the akhkharu was more specific. As one, they rose to their feet and scrambled madly to escape. Their attempts were pitifully futile. Silver hooves and black blade flashed; flames devoured. They became easy prey to both Reaver and the furious Norlanders. The dining hall was cleared swiftly, and the battle carried out to the castle ramparts, where the Reaver led the Norlanders in a charge that broke any akhkharu foolish enough to still fight.
Nyori found herself yelling in the midst of a protective circle of Norlander women who attacked any akhkharu exposed by Eymunder's revealing light. Her heart pumped like a bellows, and her dampened hair clung to her sweaty face despite the bitter cold. The heat of battle washed over her, and she floated in its madness like a chip of bark in a raging river. Her mind flowed with unbridled memories, and the Theurgist's knowledge flooded over. Her hands formed Glyphs that glimmered in the air, and her mouth spoke the True Verse that made fire and lightning hers to command. She fought side by side with the Reaver and its Night Mare, their monstrous darkness contrasting with her light as they dealt fatal devastation to their inhuman foes.
In a surprisingly brief amount of time, the battle ended. Only mounds of glowing ash and fallen bodies marked the fact that the city had been under attack.
THOUGH THE NUMBER OF wounded appeared to be quite high, there were fewer dead than Nyori would have figured. The Norlanders had proved their reputation for being the fiercest of warriors. Throughout the castle and beyond, they roared their triumph and defiance.
As Han walked by, the Norlanders called to him. Men who had a short time earlier given him challenging looks now clapped him on the shoulders, laughing and offering drinks. A burning slash stung Han's cheek, and blood stained his sleeve from a gash across the shoulder. He ignored the wounds, of course, drinking with the men and sharing in their victory. They celebrated being alive and honored their dead by celebrating even harder.
It was up to her to tend to the wounded. She had been at for hours, joining the injured in circles with those who took no wounds. The lesser wounded spurned her help, laughing while claiming she would ruin their scars.
She knelt beside one of the wounded women, who was bathed in sweat and clutched her midriff; blood oozed between her fingers. Nyori focused, allowing her to shift to her Inner mind to gather the healing energies.
She found nothing.
Her head reeled, her stomach clenched, her muscles quivered like a blown horse. She became aware of arms holding her upright, of Han's voice in her ears.
"She is exhausted. She can barely stand…"
"I just…need some air," she managed to say. "This woman is the one who needs help. Don't worry about…me. See to her."
Despite their protests, she tottered out to one of the massive balconies on her own strength and sat on a stone bench. After accepting a thick wool blanket from one of the servants, she waved Han away.
"I am fine, thank you. I just was a little lightheaded." He left with a worried glance, talking softly with Fregeror. She sighed, knowing they'd be trouble later on. Men always thought women were made of porcelain. They could not realize how healing drained the Shama, but with rest she would fully recover.
Still, it angered her that she could not heal all of the wounded. There were always limitations. Ayna often said it was for their benefit. Unlimited power would only lead to the corruption of those who wielded it, no matter how benevolent their intentions were. She tried to pull from the memories of Teranse the Theurgist, but the knowledge had submerged into her mind again, leaving nothing, not even the recollections of the commands she uttered when in battle. Another safeguard to curb one's power, it appeared.
Nyori tugged the blanket around her tighter. In the heat of the battle, she had forgotten how cold it was. The battle. She shivered, recalling the blood that floated in the air, the roar and screams of the combatants. The way the bodies caught aflame when Eymunder scorched them.
You are a killer now. The thought was alien. Akhkharu were not precisely human, but in many ways there was no difference. They died at her hand, as Eretik did at the battle in the catacombs of Kaerleon. She tried to find pity for them as she should have but found the sentiment impossible. It frightened her to realize the changes in herself, and even more so the inability to want to do anything about it.