Page 17 of Highland Warrior
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 Vían, 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 wouldneverleave my people unprotected.”
“I’d like it to be noted thatInever 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 asBerserkergangovertook 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. Conquest, War, Pestilence, and Death.
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 toonegeneration. 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 ofin 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.
“I cannot see the Wyrd Sisters, Malcolm.” Morgana grasped his elbow. “Something’s not right. Where are they?”
Turning to search, Malcolm noticed the Four Horsemen had begun a slow and steady advance down into his valley until they stood at the edge of the battle.
Apart from it, and yet an inevitable partofit.
Conquest, with his white stallion and silver armor looked like an arc angel sent by a vengeful god. Whereas War, with his horse almost the same color as his blood-red breastplate resembled some kind of Hell spawn.
Next to them, Pestilence, his visage hidden in dark robes, perched atop his nightmare steed more regally than Malcolm would have imagined. And Death, his horse pale and dappled, his armor dark and antiquated, surveyed the carnage with a relentless power that could only belong to an immortal such as him.
“Ye will not have this day,” Malcolm vowed at them, in a voice too low for anyone but him to hear.
Death’s head turned slowly toward him, far enough away that Malcolm barely marked the movement.
