Arc 2: Chapter 16: Infernal
Almost as soon as I understood what we faced, the Burnt Rider charged.
It doesn’t do the moment justice, to just say “he charged.” The horned steed Jon Orley rode reared, letting out a terrible scream, then slammed its blazing hooves down on the hill. The hill rumbled. Then, with a burst of flame, the Rider began to tear down the slope. He moved faster with every passing moment, more of those concussive bursts of flame erupting in sequence, emitting echoing sounds like cannon shots, each one seeming to propel him forward with greater momentum like some misfiring alchemical rocket. He left a smoldering trail of steaming snow and burning grass in his wake.
“Brenner!” Ser Kross snapped. Only then did I realize we’d all been frozen, transfixed by the sight. Even me — why? I’d seen many terrible and supernatural things in my life.
It’s his aura, I realized. The Scorchknight had struck us with an enormous wavefront of power, of pure awe and terror. Not unlike my own ability to compel people with my voice, but done on an enormous scale. The kind of sorcerous might that would take…
I'd rarely faced anything that potent. To be fair, I’d never faced a Devil Cavalier before. The sight before me was almost an exact comparison to the drawings I’d studied in the archives of Elfhome, preparing myself to face the horrors lurking within the hinterlands of my world.
“Form up! Lances!” Lord Brenner’s roar pummeled the air, breaking through the wavefront of awe the Rider projected. No magic there, just charisma, training, and loyalty. The knights and lesser men-at-arms in the village scurried into motion, archers spreading out into loose packs, shieldbearers passing their burdens to their masters, and the Hunting knights themselves forming ranks with their war spears raised like a line of trees.
Hendry tried joining the cavalry, but his father grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Rearguard,” was all he said, his voice a savage snarl. Then he donned his own helm, an elaborate piece with antlers of gently shining elfhorn and a white plume. He took his own spear, a broad-headed thing of ancient make with a black blade. To my auratic senses, it blazed near as strong as the oncoming threat.
The Table ghosts in me knew the weapon’s name. Ursinhunt. A mighty arm.
Brenner took the lead of his knights. Ser Kross and I joined them on our own mounts, though we kept a ways apart. Without full plate or lance, I wasn’t much use in that charge, and the knight-exorcist had armed himself with only his old sword, and wore no helm.
The Burnt Rider had already cleared half the long slope, quickly bearing down on the village’s bridge. Brenner ordered his retinue to a trot, and the kynedeer began to leap forward, quiet and graceful in comparison to that oncoming blaze. Ser Kross drew his blade, his face calm as a statue’s, and spurred his lionhound after them.
Before I joined the charge, a thought struck me and I looked for Emma. She still stood with the archers and rear guard, her face pale. Sweat beaded on her brow, and she seemed to be mouthing words. Her griffyn paced beneath her, clearly agitated.