The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

was the best fighter I had ever seen or heard of in legend. Yet even she could not defeat an entire army on her own. I looked at her. She had stopped in her tracks. Surely, I thought, surely even her thirst for battle is not enough to draw her into a fight against so many foes.

Loren gripped her reins, pulling them to the right. “Come. Mayhap they have not reached the eastern gate yet. We can try to—”

“They will have reached it,” said Mag. She turned to the rest of us, and there was no trace of a smile on her lips. “Come now, little children. Do you fear so few of them? Come with me, and you shall reach the Birchwood. I swear it.”

I heard the words. But I heard what she left unsaid as well. Mag had said the children would reach the Birchwood.

She had said nothing of herself.

Fear gripped me.

“Mag!” I cried.

It was too late. She turned and charged straight into the midst of her enemies, her blood-soaked blade held aloft. Sten did not hesitate, but plunged into the fray just behind her.

Fury filled me then, and though they were not to blame, I turned it on the children. Loren had taken a vow not to kill. She would be no help to us in this fight.

“Make use of those bows on your backs, or give me your arrows, but do not stand here idle while she risks her life for yours.”

And so saying, I spurred my mount onwards behind Mag and Sten.

It can be hard to tell a story of your own exploits without sounding prideful, particularly when you accomplish something especially noteworthy. Let it sound like pride, then, when I say that my bow sang a mighty anthem of death that day. I fought like I had never fought for any mercenary company I had served in. This was no warfare for mere coin. For the first time since I had met her, I feared that Mag might fall in battle, and I swore I would not let it happen unless I had perished first. When the Shades got too close, I drew my sword and hacked them down. And I fired arrows as fast as heartbeats, slaying any Shade who dared approach my friend.

Mag, for her part, fought with all the glory and fury that legends have built up around her. Others have been called “one who walks with death,” but Mag was death’s master on that day. My friend was gone, and a merciless killer had taken her place. She was the Uncut Lady. She was death made beautiful. No matter how many she felled, her strikes never slowed. Her foes could not pierce her defenses, not even when they surrounded her, for Sten was behind her. Back to back they fought, Sten the bulwark and Mag the striking serpent. And I was the vengeful stormcloud that rained death on any Shade who threatened to break their guard.

“Albern!”

Loren’s scream pierced the chaos, and I wheeled in my saddle. She sat there with bow in hand, her already pale face Elf-white with fear. But her finger was outthrust, pointing north.

I looked, and I saw what Loren had spotted. The Shades, seeking to kill Mag, had drawn to one side of the wide street. There was an open corridor on the other side, and it led straight to the north gate.

For one moment, hope swelled in my breast. We could escape. We could ride hard before the Shades noticed, and we could reach freedom.

But then I turned back to the battle and saw Mag surrounded by her foes.

We could escape. But she never could.

And then Sten slipped.

When they tell tales of battle, they never tell you that the deadliest threats are often the most mundane. There are a thousand details in any fight, and the least glamorous are often ignored in songs and stories—like the way a person shits and pisses after you kill them, their bowels and bladder voided as their bodies slacken.

Other details are less crude, but even more vital in the heart of a fight. One is the way that blood soaks the ground. It turns dirt to sticking, sucking mud, or makes a city street slick as a greased board.

Sten knew it. He was never a mercenary, but he had done his fair share of fighting. He tried to compensate, keeping his stance low and wide to keep balance. But Mag had spilled enough blood to bathe in. It was only a matter of time before it became too much.

A blade crashed down on his shield. The shield held, but Sten lost his footing, falling to one knee.

The weapon came around again, flashing in the sun. Sten’s head jerked back.

For a moment, I thought he had dodged the blow. And then the skin of his throat parted, and blood poured from the wound.

I felt many things all at once, but three stand out to me now: a surging wave of anger; a heart-wrenching sadness for my kind, gentle friend.

And a rising wave of terror. Terror for Mag, and terror of her.

She did not see Sten at first, for he had stood behind her. She must have thought he merely lost his balance. With her shield arm she reached back, trying to pull him up.

He fell on his back instead, and his blood splashed across the street. And Mag saw him.

I will never forget the way she screamed. I can hear it now, as clear in my mind as it was in my ears then. We had been all across the nine kingdoms together. We had faced many dangers, lost many friends. But I had never heard her make a sound like the one that ripped from her throat then. It was like the scream of a banshee that strikes the listener dead in the night. It was the sound of a storm ready to break the world. If