Page 8 of An Unlikely Knight

Chapter Four

A deafening, bone-rattling pounding slammed against the thick wooden and iron-clad door of the keep, each impact reverberating through the solid stone walls. Everything inside seemed to tremble with the force of the assault. Outside, guttural howls and piercing roars filled the night, a chilling cacophony of Meliot’s wolf sentinels rallying, anxious to come inside and do what they did best, tear into flesh with their razor-like fangs. The unholy army was ready. Ready to destroy anything or anyone in their path the moment the doors gave way.

“Get down!” Liam’s voice cut through the chaos an instant before an arrow shrieked past Padraig’s ear, so close he felt the unnatural heat of its flight. It struck with a violent thud into the wooden beam at the center of the keep’s great hall, quivering like a living thing.

Through the narrow slits of the windows, shadows moved with unsettling speed—Meliot’s archers. Their forms grotesque combinations of human torsos fused onto the bodies of beasts, their muscular flanks shifting with unnatural grace. They were fabled for their deadly accuracy, and somehow, impossibly, their arrows found paths through even the smallest openings.

Another arrow flew through the air. This time, Padraig wasn’t so lucky. An arrow raked his arm, slicing deep. Hot pain exploded. He hissed between his teeth, clutching the wound as warm blood seeped between his fingers.

“I told you to get down,” Liam barked, his tone sharp with exasperation. He flattened himself against the wall next to a narrow archer’s slot cut into the stones, his bowstring taut. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he slid sideways, loosed an arrow, and ducked back just as quickly. “Got one right between the eyes,” he announced, smug satisfaction in his tone.

Padraig cursed under his breath, tore a strip from the bottom of his tunic and bound the wound hastily, using his teeth to tighten the knot. “I hope you killed the bastard who got me.”

Another violent impact rocked the door. This time, the force sent dust sifting down from the rafters. Still, the iron-reinforced wood held, unyielding. Tristan, with the power of superhuman strength, and craftsman Niall, had crafted these defenses to withstand an army. Every hinge, every iron bar across the entry had been forged with a singular purpose—to keep monsters like Meliot’s forces out. But for how long?

Then, something shifted. A low, unnatural hum buzzed through the air, the kind that made a man’s bones feel brittle, the hairs on his arms prickle.

“My wards are completely gone,” Padraig muttered, a sick realization tightening his gut.

He pushed to his feet, snatching up his bow, ignoring the sharp pull in his wounded arm. Pressing his back against the wall, he braced himself before twisting and letting loose an arrow. It found its mark—a centaur-like beast snarled in agony as the shaft buried deep in its midsection before it crumpled.

But there were more. Too many.

Blowing out a breath, he turned to Liam. “There are at least fifty archers out there. We can’t keep this up.”

“Try the wards again!” Liam ducked as another arrow screamed past, embedding itself into the stone wall with a crack. He turned, eyes wide. “That one nearly took my head off.”

A sudden, earth-shaking impact sent them both stumbling. The walls shuddered violently, a rain of dust and splinters cascading from the rafters.

“What the hell was that?” Padraig dropped low, then risked a glance through the window. His blood ran cold.

“A bloody catapult,” he breathed, unable to suppress a flicker of awe—before dread overtook it. “That’s ... actually kind of impressive.”

“Not when it’s being used to reduce our keep to rubble!” Liam snapped. “The wards, Padraig! Now!”

Gritting his teeth, Padraig threw his hands up, and magic surged from his fingertips in a searing blue light, crackling like raw energy. He focused everything into fortifying the invisible barrier that surrounded them, but something was wrong. The power of the wards that had held strong for centuries was growing weaker. The dark magic pressing against them had changed—grown stronger, either that or his power was diminishing.

Sweat beaded along his temple. His breathing hitched as exhaustion threatened to drag him under. He was fighting against something vast, something relentless.

And he was losing.

Finally, the wards reformed, those at the door flew backward, the dark army stopped shooting arrows when they bounced back, injuring several. Padriag’s breath rasped in and out of his lungs, sweat trickling down his face.

Through the windows, both Liam and Padriag followed the enemies’ movements as they retreated and disappeared into the forest.

“How’s the arm?” Liam asked, his bright blue gaze locked on the crudely tied bandage.

“I’ll live,” Padriag replied, flinching. “I don’t know what they put on their arrowheads, but my skin is still burning.”

After boiling herbs and adding a splash of whiskey, Liam helped clean the wound. Then they sat in front of the fireplace contemplating what had occurred.

“You are aware that you cannot stay here alone,” Liam said. “They will return, over and over.”

Padriag drank the rest of the whiskey in his cup and poured another serving. “If I am to be the one left here, I want to live here, in our home. Besides, I have no idea how we’d get to Esland without our horses. Even then, do we know where exactly it is?”

His friend shrugged. “I am sure we’ll eventually find our way to Esland.” He pondered further. “Meliot thinks there are two of us left. Still furious about the others being rescued, he probably wants to take us prisoner so we cannot escape.”

What his friend said was what he’d been thinking. “Promise me that if they ever do get through, you will immediately dematerialize and return to Scotland. I want a vow from you that you will go.” Padriag met Liam’s eyes. “Promise me.”