The Hollow Crown (Kingfountain #4)

Archers were rushing up one of the hillsides to shoot at the flying warriors, but they dared not loose arrows uphill for risk of hitting their king. The battle raged across the hillside. Trynne stared in dread at the field below, exposed with the fog blasted apart. She saw tiny little specks in the distance, men leaping up to the walls of Guilme. Now it was apparent to all that the enemy didn’t need siege engines. Gahalatine’s army was attacking King Drew’s army and the besieged city simultaneously.

Suddenly more of the leaf-armored soldiers dropped from the sky and the Espion were in hand-to-hand combat with them. King Drew freed his sword Firebos and joined the fray, trying to hold the hilltop against the invaders who had bypassed his entire army to reach him.

And then she saw the flag of the White Boar charging up the hill. It was Severn Argentine’s sigil. He was leading about fifty men, all mounted, and they rode up through the ranks of fallen warriors.

They were heading straight for the king.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


Lord Gahalatine




Trynne whipped around, slicing through another opponent while blocking his overhand attack with her second blade. The drain on her Fountain magic was palpable, but the leaching effect was tempered because she was acting in defense of the king. The soldiers of the White Boar were nearly at the hilltop when she heard Severn’s voice ring out.

“To the king! Form a circle! No one gets past. Show these knaves our will is made of iron! Come, lads! To the last man standing, save the king!”

Trynne felt the first flush of relief. Perhaps Severn wasn’t the enemy, but she still had to stay near the king to protect him. She ducked a glaive as it spun toward her head, then butted the warrior in the helm with the pommel of a sword and stabbed him through. The hillside was swarming with enemies, converging on the hill like fire sweeping through grass. The horsemen of Glosstyr barged in, the knights slashing and crowding their way to the hilltop. The leaf-armored warriors hoisted up into the air like poppet dolls on strings before slamming down on the knights and stabbing riders or steeds. The noise and commotion of the battle raged around Trynne as she closed up ranks.

“My lord, we’re surrounded,” Kevan Amrein said to the king in a tone of desperation. His sword was bloodied from the conflict. “Where is Morwenna? We need to get you out of here.”

“I will not abandon my people!” Drew said fiercely, holding the blade Firebos in front of him. Trynne could feel the ripples of Fountain magic coming from it. Since their enemies could leap around like grasshoppers, many continued to drop down from above, and the king was courageous in his own defense. With each stroke of his blade, he knocked back several men, as if the sword brought the force of a waterfall with it.

Severn brought up his steed, its lips lathered with foam.

“What happened down there, Lord Severn?” the king demanded, not looking over his shoulder.

“I know not,” Severn replied. “Owen suspected treachery and sent me back to guard you.” Another warrior plummeted from the sky and Severn kicked his stallion forward to engage. The glaive clanged off Severn’s shield before the old king took off the man’s head in a counterstroke. Trynne’s fears for her father bloomed. She hadn’t known his strategy, but she did know that he had planned to test Severn’s loyalty. Despite the strangeness of what had transpired between Fallon and Morwenna, it appeared the former king had passed the test.

“Here comes another wave,” Lord Amrein warned.

They were hopelessly outnumbered. Like arrows shot from bows, the next phalanx of leaf-armored warriors dropped down on them. The knights of Kingfountain were falling at an alarming rate.

Trynne saw Fallon’s father, Iago Llewellyn, emerge from the hillside, his face grimy with blood and dirt. There was Fallon at his side, shield in hand, sword drawn. Warriors from Atabyrion and Dundrennan came with them.

“To the king!” Iago shouted.

The sound of a hurricane ripped over the hilltop as their enemies continued to drop from the sky. Trynne couldn’t make sense of the madness as she fought, moving from one foe to the next. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. The knights of Glosstyr were hewn down, man by man, their horses shrieking and writhing.

She caught a glimpse of Fallon in the midst of a desperate fight. He received a wound to his leg but continued to fight after he collapsed, his face wild with fury as he stabbed his enemy through the bowels and killed him. Iago was buffeted on the helm from behind, the glaive slicing into his back. When he arched and fell forward, his opponent spun the glaive around his head in a circle, clearly intent on impaling him from behind. Agony tore at Trynne—she was closer to the king, and though she could see what was happening, she would not be able to stop it.

“Halt!”

The voice speared through the air like a thunderclap. It shook the ground and drove all the leaf-armored warriors down on one knee. They stopped midmotion, stepping back from their foes, even though their eyes were full of anger and hate.

Trynne was stunned.

“Rucrius, take me to the hilltop.”

The voice boomed again like thunder. Some of the soldiers covered their ears from the noise of it.

Trynne looked around. She was standing alone amidst a sea of enemies. All the men of Glosstyr around her had perished. There were maybe only six left from the fifty she had seen climbing the hill. Severn was panting for breath, his sword tip facing down but his shield still hunched up on his shoulder, braced for another blow.

The fog had totally cleared, and Trynne could see the battlefield down below. All fighting had ceased. Where was her father?

Then she felt the sizzle of Fountain magic and suddenly five additional men appeared on the hilltop. She recognized Rucrius instantly and was gratified to see his staff still bore the nick-mark from her father’s blade. He looked proud and disdainful. Two of the others were clearly Wizrs and Fountain-blessed. Trynne could feel the waves of power emanating from them, but their magic slipped around her harmlessly. She reached out with her own magic and felt their weaknesses—all three were vulnerable around their necks.

The three Wizrs turned and looked at her as one, and Rucrius’s proud look was replaced with bafflement.

The other two men who had been transported to the hilltop were not Wizrs. One was a warrior wearing different armor from the rest. It was gold rather than green, and he wore a forked helm that covered most of his face save a slit across the eyes and down the nose. The eyes that peered out were brooding and angry, and he held a greatsword instead of a glaive.