Page 64 of An Unlikely Knight

Chapter Twenty-One

Exhaustion weighed heavily on the five knights, their breath coming in ragged gasps as they exchanged grim looks. Blood, dirt, and sweat streaked their faces, but Padraig still managed a sharp grin. “Time to use what we have left and kick some ass.”

Liam’s quiver lay empty, his daggers long spent. Only two spears and his sword remained. Niall gripped his last two daggers, his knuckles white, his sword hanging at his side. The rest had nothing but their blades, their hands blistered and bleeding from the endless fighting.

Padraig’s arms ached from keeping the shields of protection in place, the shimmering barriers flickering, growing weaker with every passing second. Gavin, though he still summoned energy blasts, swayed slightly, his huge body betraying his exhaustion.

Only Tristan, with his supernatural strength, stood steady, his stance unwavering. But even he could not defend them alone.

Then came the sound that froze the blood in their veins.

A thunderous boom shattered the air and seconds later, the front of the keep exploded inward. The only redeeming factor was when the boulders they’d set on the roof’s edge tumbled from above, smashing into the enemy below with bone-crushing force. A final set of boulders dislodged from the roof, flattening those unlucky enough to be caught beneath them. But the brief satisfaction of taking down a portion of the enemy force faded instantly.

Through the gaping hole, the full horror of their situation came into view.

Lines of Meliot’s mounted warriors stretched as far as the eye could see, their dark-armored forms gleaming under the suns’ light. Interspersed among them, centaurs stood at attention, muscles rippling, bows at the ready. Their presence alone sent a fresh wave of dread crashing over Padraig.

Then, as one, the warriors parted. A figure moved through the ranks with measured, deliberate steps. Meliot.

The warlock’s robes billowed around him, his black eyes gleaming with triumph. A slow, mocking smile curled his lips.

“I must commend you,” he said, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “An entertaining fight, indeed. But surely, you see there is no victory for you.” He gestured to the waiting army behind him. The sheer number of them overwhelming.

His smirk widened. “Surrender, and I promise you a quick, painless death.” His gaze roamed over each of them, lingering on their grimy faces. “Your curse is nearly at an end.” He tilted his chin toward the heavens. “Three moons will shine down in mere moments. And then—you will be mortal.”

“You have not won yet,” Tristan called out, defiant. “We will die in battle before we let you take pleasure in our surrender.”

Meliot chuckled, a hollow, chilling sound. “Quick death or die fighting—it matters little to me.” He lifted his arm. “Once I give the signal, all will be over for you.” His grin stretched, grotesque in the flickering torchlight. “Thank you for the centuries of ... keeping me entertained ...”

Womp. Womp. Womp.

The deep, rhythmic beating of wings rumbled overhead.

Meliot’s grin faltered. He turned his gaze upward, confusion flickering across his features. Then, a shriek tore through the sky. His dragon—his own beast—appeared, an orange glow along its blue-black scales … and then, in an instant, it was engulfed in flames.

A roar of agony split the air as the massive creature plummeted, its body consumed in a raging inferno before slamming into the earth with a deafening thud.

Meliot spun in a circle, searching the heavens with wild eyes. His army hesitated, awaiting his command.

Padraig felt it then—a surge of power, like an electric charge crackling beneath his skin. He flicked a glance at Gavin, who met his gaze with a barely perceptible nod.

Raising his hands, Padraig summoned the last of his energy. Strips of fire and light wove together, curling and twisting like snakes.

As one, they struck.

The energy wrapped around Meliot, tightening like chains of steel. The warlock let out an angry scream unable to do more than struggle with his arms pinned to his sides.

“Get them, you fools!” he shouted at his minions.

The enemy surged forward—only to be met by a wall of flame.

Beautiful dragons with scales of green, blue, and lavender, burst into view, their sinuous bodies twisting in the sky. They roared in unison, their calls sending a tremor through the battlefield. With graceful, deadly precision, they rained down fire, incinerating everything beneath them.

Centaurs fired arrows skyward, but they fell short. Nothing could touch the winged giants.

“Where did they come from?” Gavin asked, his voice barely audible over the chaos.

Padraig laughed as the ground rumbled beneath them. “Esland.” His grin widened. “The Eslanders have arrived.”