Sons of Ironstorm - Book 4: Griffon's Stand

A Pause to Catch One's Breath

As beleaguered as they were, it was the defenders of the Dagger themselves that answered the young Silvercloud Merisin's silent question by holding the walls for a full Watch despite the enemy's best efforts to wrest it from them. Again and again the dark soldiers mounted their assaults, seeking to best the walls with ladders, siege engines and towers. And each time the defenders held, throwing the enemy to their deaths on the corpse-littered ground at the foot of the western and southern walls. And thanks in no small part to the efforts of the brothers Ironstorm, the Wielders giving strength to the defense and holding large parts of the wall at times by themselves.

Forsaking his fists and feet finally for twin blades of cold fire, as he now called the energy swords summoned by the runic power of the Star, Shawn joined Patrik in windmilling through the enemy. Their edges forged of cosmic energies instead of steel, no armor could withstand the cold fire blades, piercing steel and flesh with equal ease. Elf battle magic too continued to play a vital part, some spells being pulled from long-forgotten archives to send seething rips of energy scintillating across the battlefield, Shawn able to draw on the very power of the universe to fuel his incredible counter-attack.

Night waxed fat, then waned as Ri'im sent Rimnor scampering from the sky and morning washed the Easterling with its light and warmth. He then climbed to noon's Watch before falling from the sky into evening's glow, once more letting Rimnor retake its place in the western sky. The silvery orb was swiftly obscured behind thick winter storm clouds and a steady drizzle soaked the Easterling surrounding the Dagger, a rainfall that continued through the remainder of the night and well into the next day. Only the light of Charon and the Chain Islander wizards' spells, the tired master wizard working his way through his fifth bag of components, and the irresistible force of the Wielders, relieved the gloom.

And through it all, the forces of the Shadow pressed their intent against the walls of the Dagger, moving to surround the ancient fortress and attack it from every side. Still, the defense held through some gift of divine providence, the assault spread too thin for the Wielders to directly counter.

Ciradaan grunted as the axe eluded his sword to penetrate his reactive plate armor and bite deep into his shoulder, cleaving the joint and cutting deep into his chest. It's owner then lurched and fell away as the Sword of Aesthegon removed its head almost in afterthought and the downward pressure on the axe's handle disappeared. Still, it was more than enough to finish the Aquilan and, pain a fire seething through him without relent, his legs lost their strength and he fell back against a guard tower wall, blood pouring from the mortal wound.

A look around him was enough to tell the failing king that too many of his comrades, too many of the defenders had joined him in the fall, their bodies liberally littering the walkways of the fortress walls. 'Soon, my friends,' he thought as his vision began to dim. 'Soon I will join you in death, cheating myself of the chance of seeing the Final Battle unfold with my own mortal eyes.'

His eyes, however, weren't dim enough to miss the sudden blast of living lightning that reached past him in a rush to take hold of a nearby soldier, pick it up and use it as a living battering ram to sweep the wall clear of darkly painted breastplates and crimson uniforms. Then Shawn was kneeling beside him, the young human's face a mask of concern.

<<That looks painful,>> he quietly commented, assessing the damage with quick eyes. <<Hold on, your Majesty. I'll have that out of you in a shade.>>

<<Don't bother, my lord Wielder,>> Ciradaan managed to wheeze, feeling his chest fill with internally-bled fluid even as Shawn took hold of the axe's handle. <<I'm done. I've not the strength to withstand one of your healing runes.>>

The axe flared to bright light then vanished into ash, leaving the rent in Ciradaan's body gaping open.

<<I'll not call upon your life force to heal you, Majesty, so you've nothing to fear,>> Shawn reassured the injured elf, already reaching out to sketch what looked like a healing rune on Ciradaan's chest, similar with a slight difference. One that drew energy from the Wielder's body instead of using the wounded elf's reserves to knit tissue back together and refill emptied arteries and veins with life-giving blood.