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But he couldn’t shirk his duty.
Even for love.
“I expect the village bard will be writing lyrics to our valor and ingenuity,” Ingmar still taunted. “If there are any men left after this.
“I told ye not to touch my castle grounds weeks ago. Not to cut down trees to make yer fences,” Malcolm replied slowly.
Niall turned, ignoring the warning look from Kenna. “What would your people have done without our fortifications?”
“What if the army breaks through the line?” Ingmar asked smugly. “Not that it’s likely,” he added. “But Dun Moray would have been defenseless if not for us.”
Malcolm made a slight gesture to his men, and the forty archers spread out, making enough space between them to reach the edge of the loch.
With a whispered spell, Malcolm stretched his arms out, palms up, and lifted them from his sides. As he did, the earth trembled beneath them, and then separated, lifting him, Morgana, Kenna, and the entire line of archers above the slack-jawed Vikings, and their wooden fortifications, on an impenetrable rock wall thrice as high as Bael, the tallest Berserker.
Standing on the corner of the wall, he wrapped the structure of stone around the village, using the edge of his wards for a guide.
As preoccupied as he was with Sean, with revenge, and with the inevitable battle, Malcolm enjoyed a victorious moment over the Viking’s rare, awe-struck silence. “You see.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Your fortifications were not needed. And I would never leave my people unprotected.”
“I’d like it to be noted that I never doubted you.” Bael twirled his axe and winked at Morgana, his dark eyes glittering with anticipation of bloodshed.
The army of souls began to run forward as they reached the edge of the loch, their weapons raised. The Vikings drew their own weapons and clustered into a shield formation. Bael and Niall growled their pleasure as Berserkergang overtook their bodies, their eyes turning into black voids, promising a quick death to their enemies.
If they were lucky.
“I can feel the Grimoire,” Malcolm told the Druids on either side of him.
“It’s close,” Kenna agreed. “They’re close, but I can’t see them.”
“Do you think they can die?” Morgana worried. “This army of souls?”
Malcolm watched them advance, his hand clenched around the staff made from the sacred Ash, a relic of the de Moray Earth Druids that transcended written history. He drew strength from it, the strength of patience, and the strength of survival. “We’re about to find out.”
Kenna called for a torch that was handed to her by an awaiting warrior. With a flare of her powers, the flame rippled across the line of archers, igniting their arrows. “We are they who repelled the Romans,” she said in their Gaelic tongue. “Protect the Viking army with your arrows, and slay our enemies.” Upon her order, they let loose their first barrage, dropping the first line of the Army of Souls and igniting the flames of war.
“Malcolm, look!” Morgana pointed east, to the crest of the hill opposite the loch.
Four silhouettes appeared as statues atop their magnificent horses. The rise was far off, but the figures were unmistakable. They neither advanced nor retreated, but stood as sentinels, witnesses to the most important battle humanity had faced thus far.
The Four Horseman.
They’d come to watch him battle for the salvation of the world.
Malcolm sent a silent prayer to the heavens. It was a heavy thing to think that the fate of the eternities rested on the outcome of the day.
Malcolm found himself wondering which side The Horsemen were on. Did they want to bring about the Apocalypse? Were they expecting him to fail?
If so, they would be sorely disappointed.
Now was not the time. Not like this, by dark measures and blood Magick. The prophecy said that four de Morays would wield behind one gate and the Seals would be broken. Malcolm had always interpreted that to mean that four de Moray’s would be born to one generation. He could not let the Wyrd sisters force the End of Days for their personal gain. There was still so much life left to be lived. So much progress and enlightenment and invention to discover. How could it end now when, it seemed, that the world was still so young?
A prickling of the fine hairs of his body heralded the notice of the Four honing in on him, even as the Army of Souls broke upon the Viking frontlines, and the fighting began in earnest.
Though the souls were neither alive nor dead, but some macabre version of in between, they still bled when Bael’s axe culled a dozen down in one mighty sweep. They still screamed, and writhed when Niall’s sword cut them navel to throat before kicking them off into the red-stained field. Their flesh sizzled and stunk as flaming arrows and bolts of Kenna’s magickal fire decimated and illuminated the carnage.
Malcolm mourned for his lush valley, and for the souls of those he claimed as he used his magick to pull the black, sharp boulders from the earth and roll them through the advancing horde. The crunch was sickening, but the tactic effective, cutting neat swaths of blood and bone.
And still foes spilled from the gathering shadows of the night as new waves of enemies broke upon his walls.
