Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 25

Stay with me, brothers.

The chair splintered against the charge of a baron, who collapsed away from Dawkin. Dawkin heaved another free chair into the path of an oncoming assailant – this one dressed as a bishop – who stepped to the side, narrowly averting the same fate.

Damn it! he cursed as the man charged. He flung off his clerical robes, which fell behind him as he ran, revealing a suit of white mail. The brilliant sheen nearly distracted Dawkin from the rise and fall of his hilt. Dawkin instinctively lifted his sword to block the anticipated blade.

The weight of a weapon indeed fell upon his. Only, where he expected steel, he found . . . nothing.

His assailant grimaced as he shoved the might of an unseen weapon down on Dawkin. Dawkin blinked. Had his eyes deceived him?

Marks of blood – from the assailant's last victim – hung in the air above him, suspended, as if foreshadowing his fate.

What is this?

. . . Glass that cannot shatter . . .

No, it can't be. 'Tis impossible.

His adversary shoved Dawkin back. He lunged at him, with Dawkin narrowly glancing the translucent blade from piercing his shoulder. The familiar clang his sword sang awakened Dawkin from his disbelief.

This is happening, he realized, his consciousness thrust into the present once more as he blocked a cut coming down upon him. His peripheral vision confirmed his fears: the weapons their combatants bore shimmered and shone unlike any metal or material of armament known to man. Like the false bishop, other enemies wielded invisible blades. Still more swung weapons of materials seemingly both familiar and foreign: steel with an unearthly sheen, polished wood bearing ringlets of geometric patterns that appeared as written language, and leaves with the flexibility and strength of leather. From the walls and corners of the hall, the assailants pulled their arms. Where one would expect a solid barrier, enemies dug their fingers and hands into facades that gave way, as easily as one dips through the surface of water.

As the imposters gathered their weapons and attacked, the rest in the hall scurried, their frantic direction having no rhyme nor reason. Too many had elbowed and crammed toward the entryway; those not trampled made for easy targets, with the assailants' weapons spilling blood and cracking bones in quick succession. The other barons and clergy in the hall not clogging the exit fought back to the best of their abilities, using every bench, candlestick, and free item as weaponry to compensate for their lack of arms.

Pigs to the slaughter. Even as he took down another combatant, the realization waned on him. Whatever warning Cora had imparted on him had come to him too late. How had she known? He asked himself for the thousandth time as he fought off another. Why had the warning been so cryptic? So hidden? So delayed?

Two barons charged him. One with a blade broad and clear, his also stained with blood. The other wielded a double-headed axe seemingly of wood, which Dawkin knew could cut through him as cleanly as any sawyer's tool. At once, he cleared his head as his training had taught him, bolting toward his latest foes with focus and intent.

Before their clash, the two collapsed at his feet, their faces pained in agony. Their hands fell to their back, signaling wounds to their rear. Instinctively, and without thought, Dawkin extended his sword to the threat behind them –

Only to find Symon in full helm, his visor raised.

"You see me?!" Symon yelled as he brandished a short sword. The unfamiliar blade glowed with a dull green hue, an object no doubt stolen from one of their attackers.