Page 62 of An Unlikely Knight

A sound like thunder shattered the silence.

Padraig’s eyes flew open, his pulse slamming in his chest as he pushed up from where he’d slept beside the dying hearth. Across the room, Niall stood watch, motionless by the window, his silhouette rigid against the pale moons’ light creeping into the ruined keep.

Padraig’s voice was hoarse. “What is it?”

Niall didn’t turn. “I see the light of torches. The sound could be horses.”

Padraig was on his feet in an instant, crossing the floor in three strides. On the horizon, lines of fire flickered in the distance. The torches bobbed and swayed in waves, their golden light stretching across the darkened landscape. Meliot’s army. Hundreds of soulless creatures moved steadily closer.

A sense of anticipation filled Padraig. The suns would rise soon, and with them, clarity. What they faced would be evident, whatever the outcome this would be the last day of the life they’d known.

Behind him, the other knights were already moving.

Liam and Tristan fastened their leather harnesses, each loop filled with sharpened daggers, their movements swift and practiced. Liam slung two bows over his shoulder, disappearing up the ruined staircase to the upper floor where he would have the best vantage point. With over a hundred arrows, Padraig had no doubt the Brit would take down more than his fair share of enemies.

Padraig turned toward the rickety table where his own weapons lay. His fingers moved swiftly, securing the belts across his chest and hips, the familiar weight of steel pressing against his ribs somewhat soothing.

Then came the sound.

Womp. Womp. Womp.

The air vibrated as a dragon’s wings cut through the sky. The night collapsed into day in an instant. Unlike the world they’d once known, this realm had no gradual dawn—just a sudden, searing light that forced temporary blindness until the eyes adjusted.

Padraig squinted through the brightness. The torches had stopped. A ripple passed through the approaching army. They were disoriented, blinking against the abrupt shift from night to day.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Idiots.

He shoved open the front door, just wide enough to crawled through and going forward until he could hide behind the tangled branches of a bush. The ground trembled beneath him, a dull, rhythmic quake the unmistakable thunder of hooves closing in. Through the dense branches, he watched them near

He lifted his hand. A ball of fire flickered to life in his palm, spinning and twisting, growing hotter with each moment.

When the first wave of horsemen crossed into the trap they’d laid the night before, he let the ball of fire fly.

The flames struck.

With a roar, fire exploded across the dry brush, racing outward in a wave of destruction as the wall of fire circled the keep. Horses reared, their riders thrown as the inferno swallowed everything in its path. The screams of burning men filling the air, a horrifying symphony of agony.

Padraig wasted no time. With a flick of his wrist, rings of energy formed in his palms—discs of concentrated power. He flung them one after another, cutting through the chaos, severing limbs, knocking dark warriors off their mounts, sending more bodies into the roaring flames.

It didn’t take long before his arms began shaking from exhaustion, still he continued. This was a chance to take down as many as possible.

Suddenly, a heavy hand shoved him back.

“Go! I’ll handle it,” Gavin barked, stepping forward.

Padraig knew better than to argue. He scrambled back as the giant Scot lifted both arms, palms outward. An arc of raw energy formed, humming with power. He unleashed it.

Lightning-fast bursts shot through the second wave of Meliot’s army. Those not caught in the blasts were picked off one by one by Liam’s arrows, each shot clean, deadly, unerring.

The keep’s front courtyard was filling with corpses sprawled among the smoldering remains, arrows piercing skulls, spears jutting from still-twitching bodies.

Still, they came.

Niall and Tristan stepped forward, forming a deadly line. Their spears struck true, taking down what remained of the advancing force.

Padraig closed his eyes, pulling every ounce of strength he had. Shimmering domelike barriers formed, wrapping around his friends like an invisible wall. It would hold. For now. But he knew—Meliot’s power was stronger. The shields would not hold against him.

A new tremor shook the ground beneath his boots.