Mythborn Read Free Page B

mind mused with regret. His eyes watered from the pain as he ducked under a counter and struck again.
    Baalor’s mace swung back and forth in short arcs, catching the king’s blade on its haft. Each impact created a starburst of blue, a flash that left afterimages of yellow in Bernal’s eyes. At the last strike Baalor turned his mace over the king’s arm, forcing it down. The demonlord’s elbow came flying over the top and smashed into Bernal’s skull.
    Pain and black exploded in the king’s vision. He felt rather than saw himself hit the ground. Strangely he felt detached, a part of him thankful that he hadn’t actually felt the thundering impact, even as another cried at the damage being done to his frail mortal body.
    “Your sacrifice achieves nothing.” Baalor’s deep voice whispered. “Accept your fate. Accept us.”
    Weariness far deeper than anything physical came over the king. It would be easy to lie down, to give in and let the pain end. Another bloody cough wracked his chest, a spasm of pain that brought more tears to his eyes.
    Though he felt this deep within his bones, his body still would not listen. It rolled over again. He could feel the gritty ground under one cheek, his betraying hands pushing him up to a knee. He paused there, head hanging, as his vision slowly returned. He could feel broken teeth in his mouth, and spat them out. No need for a last meal, he thought wryly.
    His head tilted back and he gazed up at the Stormlord, a goliath wreathed in lightning. He was wrong, he thought. This was worth it. He smiled, a grotesque visage made up of split skin, jagged teeth, and broken bone. When Niall was rescued, it would be worth every drop of blood spilled here.
    Baalor stepped forward and growled, “Join us, King Bernal Galadine. I claim you, and will add your strength to my own.” The Stormlord raised his mace, the white lightning increasing to a buzzing crescendo as it gathered at the tip of his weapon like a star. A feeling like thousands of ants crawled across Bernal’s skin. At least, he thought, the end will be quick.
    Then a red flash erupted behind Baalor. An arch opened and out from it streamed blue-skinned figures, dangerous and fast. They slammed into Baalor’s ghost army, using long wicked spears and shields in interlocking groups of three, pushing the demons back.
    Their discipline was obvious. Each set of three would form a triangle, two in the front and one in the rear. While the two forward shields slammed into the line of opponents, the third man stabbed into the fray with lethal effect. These small units would then lock together with others to form larger interlocking phalanxes where needed, pushing back the enemy and then stabbing through them with deadly efficiency before contracting back into a defensible shield wall.
    Bernal had never seen close quarters combat so well synchronized. These clearly were highly trained and battle hardened men. But on closer inspection they were not men like he’d grown accustomed to. Each was blue skinned, with ram’s horns coming out of their foreheads. Yet the question remained—who did these horned creatures fight for?
    The red gate snapped shut as fifty or so of these blue-skinned warriors continued their sweep into the forces of the Lord of Storms like a scythe through wheat. They stabbed and sliced with weapons that glowed an unearthly blue, much like their skin. They left nothing in their wake, for each Aeris they killed disappeared in a cloud of smoke and ether.
    Baalor moved back from the new troops he seemed genuinely worried about and said, “Fall back! We will feast on elves tonight!”
    The false bravado and strident orders had the desired effect. Baalor’s forces melted away, seeping into the cracks of the fortress like a living mist.
    The Lord of Storms looked at whoever was the leader of the blue-skinned attackers and said, “Malak, your highlord revels in ruin and does not see the true enemy.”
    The blue-skinned