Page 135 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

Opening his eyes, Madan found soldiers surging around him, weapons drawn. A boot slammed into the back of his head, and everything went black for a long moment before slowly refocusing.

Madan peeled himself off the gravel to find the Colonel’s body splayed beside him. His head lay several feet away, eyes still wide with surprise. Beyond, Whelan nearly cleaved another soldier in half, his beautiful face twisted with rage.

He shoved to his feet, the world spinning, and pivoted in search of his sword. Any sword he could wield single-handedly. The broadsword would prove too much even for his vampiric strength. Instead, he scooped up a smaller blade and charged forward. The soldiers may be quick, but so was he, and he cut down the nearest Caersan before they even realized he was standing.

The next soldiers he engaged were ready. They moved with sleek precision, swords flashing like lightning in the moonlight. Another fell to his blade, blood spraying across his face as he sliced open their jugular, but each swing of his sword felt strange. Awkward. Out of sync with his body. Odd how much missing half a limb impacted his movements and impeded his skills. Every swing, parry, and jab, once perfectly counterbalanced, felt clunky.

Yet as the third soldier fell at his feet, Madan began shifting his weight, throwing his non-dominant shoulder back farther than what once felt necessary and slid into a more familiar rhythm.

Until, of course, two soldiers closed in on him in unison. There’d been a time he would’ve pulled out a second sword or even a dagger to fend off multiple attackers. Now his blunt limb could do nothing save for block using the thick bracer he’d strapped to it.

Madan stepped back to bring all three soldiers into his line of sight. Unlike dhemons, he didn’t have the brute strength to take the fight to the ground and win. He had to stay on his feet and use his wits and speed. But those meant nothing when he didn’t have a way to make use of them.

More soldiers surged forward, further separating him and Whelan. They encircled him, no matter how far back Madan retreated. Blades drawn and fueled by anger, they shifted forward step by step, closing in slowly. There was no outcome in which he’d survive if they got close enough.

Madan’s heart slammed into his ribs. He’d never been trapped like this before. There’d never been a time during their raids that he’d been alone long enough to be overwhelmed in such a way. Whether it’d been Azriel or Whelan, there’d always been someone who had his back, and with Whelan trapped behind a wall of soldiers, he was more alone than he had ever felt before.

He should’ve given the word sooner. Should’ve told them to take flight long before he’d gone outside. But they’d been coming for him, too. No amount of avoidance would’ve kept them from enacting Loren’s plan.

Well, he’d succeeded in one thing: distracting them long enough for Lhuka to safely evacuate Margot. More crimson-clad soldiers raced from the back of the manor, shouting for even more to join and eliminate the threats. To eliminate him, and worse, Whelan.

But Madan wouldn’t let them get to Whelan. He chose a target and lunged. They twisted to avoid his attack, and rather than let them create space, he hooked his short arm around the soldier’s neck and stepped up onto the exposed hip. As he swung onto the Caersan’s back, another soldier stepped forward—met by Madan’s blade. Then he sank his fangs into the side of the soldier’s throat, tearing through the tendons and muscles like a dhemon.

“You’re as dramatic as your brother.” Brutis landed on top of three soldiers who hadn’t seen the shadow swooping in overhead. His massive claws crushed them into the dirt before he let out an ear-shattering roar.

At once, the soldiers disengaged Madan. They shouted. Screamed. One even wet his pants as he scrambled back from the dragon’s massive jaws.

Madan released the soldier’s corpse and used the distraction to cut down four more soldiers. Across the drive, Whelan did the same. The Caersans didn’t even see the attacks coming, so focused on Brutis they were. A half dozen died by their swords…and then the dragon snapped into action.

Brutis swiped out with a foreclaw, smacking a soldier into two of his comrades. Another turned to run away but was met by the spiked end of a tail, throwing him back to where he crumpled, broken, in the drive. Again and again, the Caersans screamed and tried to escape, only to be met by Madan’s sword, Whelan’s blade, or Brutis’s arm-length teeth.

“Get to Margot,” Madan told him as he ripped the sword free from a soldier’s chest. The last of the soldiers who’d tried to behead him in the front of the manor. “Keep her safe.”

The dragon huffed, plumes of smoke rolling from his nostrils as he stretched his wings again and launched from the ground in search of his grandmother. As the great beast soared around the manor, the soldiers began to regain some semblance of sanity. They regrouped, and several loaded their crossbows, aimed, and shot at the massive membranous wings.

Several bolts hit home. Madan felt Brutis’s pain leech down their connection before he shut himself off. Neither of them could afford to be distracted by the other. With more soldiers rushing from the guard houses and calling for even more to join them, the grounds were flooding with crimson.

The soldiers fleeing Brutis’s sudden appearance reeled back from the forest edge, retreating in a vain attempt to save themselves. More dhemons rushed from between the trees, cutting down any vampires in their way. They moved in silence, cobalt complexion and dark clothing maintaining their camouflage with the night. Only the Caersans called to one another, warning the others of the latest arrivals.

Madan stalked forward, cutting down a soldier with a crossbow aimed at Brutis before taking a bolt to the side. He grunted in pain, but the armor had done its job and kept the sharp head of the artillery from burying itself too deep. The arbalist reloaded his weapon and lifted it toward him again—then promptly lost his head.

As the soldier’s body crumpled, Whelan kicked it to the side, his ruby eyes alight with fury as he took in the bolt. Madan yanked it free. Where his brother or a dhemon may leave such a thing in place, his body would work to correct the injury faster than either of them. Keeping it there would only slow down his healing process.

“Lhuka?” Madan asked, turning to another soldier at the same time Whelan took out another pair.

The dhemon grunted while yanking his short sword back. “With your grandmother.”

Another roar echoed from the back of the manor. Madan opened himself up to the dragon, and a rush of pain and rage swept through him so hard, he nearly doubled over. His heart kicked up its pace in a panic, and before he could say anything else to his partner, Madan took off for the back of the manor. Something was wrong.

Whelan didn’t ask questions. Instead, he turned and stayed on his heels, facing off with any soldiers that dared get in their way. Each sweep of Madan’s sword reminded him of his own shortcomings, particularly when Whelan was forced to abandon one soldier to prevent another from getting to Madan on his weaker side.

“Don’t stop,” Whelan growled when Madan slowed to bring his sword arm around.

He cursed under his breath, then pushed forward. The manor was entirely too large, and he’d only made it halfway around before finding himself blocked by a wall of soldiers. Another rush of pain surged through him as Brutis took another hit.

That was when a handful of dhemons he recognized only from his dragon’s mind launched into view, led by a woman with horns just long enough to signify adulthood. Her lip lifted in a sneer at the Caersans, sharp teeth glinting.

“Who are you?” Madan asked in the dhemon language, positioning himself beside her to face off against the soldiers.

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