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

The Shades fell back from her, their spirit broken for a moment in dismay. But Mag did not let them retreat.

Before her scream had ended, she was killing again. But her movements had lost their methodical beauty of a moment ago. Now she plunged headlong into the fray. When Mag entered her battle-trance, she was cold, emotionless. But now she had removed the leash from her fury, and it burned like darkfire. Now she took no care to guard herself. She sought only to kill. Though she moved too fast to follow easily, I saw blood on her skin that I was certain did not belong to her foes. She would never escape from the midst of that press.

Beside me, Loren kicked her horse to leap into the fighting. I saw a wild light in her eyes. Mayhap she was ready to kill at last, or mayhap she thought she could help Mag escape the melee somehow. But I barked a command before she could.

“No! Fly, while you still can!”

She met my gaze, and I could see the anguish shining through the brilliant green of her eyes. I looked past her to Xain. He gave me a grim look and a slow nod before taking Loren’s arm.

“Fly,” he said. “Remember Jordel.”

Tears streamed into Annis’ eyes, but Loren did not weep. After only a moment’s pause, she took her quiver from her hip and threw it to me. I caught it and looked upon them all—for the last time, or so I believed. I loved them in that moment, even Xain. We had passed through much peril together, and I hated that it should all come to this in the end. But I thought, at the same time, that there was something very right about it. They had ridden together before I had met them, and they would ride on together after I died. It had been my fault, after all, that we had taken that cursed road through the Greatrocks that had led to Jordel’s doom. If Loren and her friends did indeed survive, then mayhap my own death was only fair.

We all think we are the heroes of our own story. But I realized suddenly that I was only a passing figure in a tale that had been about others all along.

I rode for the battle, rode for Mag. And out of the corner of my eye, I saw Loren and the others ride off. They passed the Shades and reached the gate, vanishing out of sight. It was a comfort, if a cold one. No matter what happened to Mag and me now, they were safe. They would warn Underrealm, and evil would be defeated.

Of course, back then, I believed that such a thing was possible.

All my arrows were gone before I reached the Shades’ ranks. I fought with my sword from horseback, but then they killed my horse. I managed to jump clear of it as it collapsed. I took Sten’s place at Mag’s side, and together we forged a path of blood into the Shades’ ranks.

And then a chorus of cries broke out behind us. The Shades froze, looking over our shoulders at something to my rear. I risked a look back.

A mass of Northwood citizens poured from the streets and alleys. The people of Northwood had rallied, and they were coming to our aid. There were at least two hundreds of them, and though they held no weapons more frightening than a pitchfork, their eyes were alight with fury, and their screams of rage curdled the blood.

Despite everything, I managed a smile.

They slammed into the Shades. Now it was something close to a fair fight. They had not expected such a fierce battle, that much was certain. And Mag was still there, still cutting them down, covered in blood, the thrill of battle keeping her on her feet.

It was not long before the Shades turned and fled—not forever, I knew, but the respite was most welcome. I fell to one knee right there in the street, planting the point of my sword on the cobblestones and resting my brow on clasped hands over the hilt as I gasped for breath. Mag was on her feet, and darkness take her, she did not even seem winded.

And then I heard a faint croak, and a hand scrabbled at my boot. I looked down, and my eyes flew wide.

It was Sten’s hand. His eyes were pained, and his whole front was covered in blood. But somehow, defying all expectation, he was still alive.

“Mag!”

She looked as if she had been contemplating running after the Shades, but she turned at once at the sound of my scream. When she saw Sten lying there, the color drained from her cheeks. Her battle-trance passed in an instant, and she dropped her blade and shield to the cobblestones. Falling to her knees beside him, she grasped one of his hands in one of hers, and pressed the other hard on the wound in his neck.

“Sten, Sten, my love,” she pleaded. “Stay here. Stay with me.”

“Healer!” I roared. Everyone within earshot turned to look at me, and I gestured at them frantically. “Healer! Now! Sten is alive!”

One of them, a young, bearded man named Taron, managed to gather his wits. “The medica! She is not far. I will be right back!”

He darted off down the street, leaving me thunderstruck. A medica, here in Northwood? That was a stroke of fortune I could hardly have imagined. But Mag had not even looked up—Sten had to survive until help could come, and even then it might be too late.

“Hold on, friend,” I said, gripping Sten’s shoulder. I ripped off my cloak and gave it to Mag so that she could press it over the wound on his neck. “We are getting you help. We will not let you go so easily.”

Sten huffed through his nose, and a