Rilari: Book Four of New Blood

The future of Mankind relies on the Guardian of Maarihk.
Can he and the Knights of Ril resist forces bent on destroying Mankind's last hope?

Award-Winning Epic Medieval Fantasy

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Sample

"You!" the Guardian roared, using his battlefield voice to top the storm and ensure that everyone could hear. He stared at the greatest of the enemy number. The only thing that moved was Natharr's mouth, a faint plume of white with each exhalation, and the raindrops running down his skin. "I offer challenge! You! Me! No one else! I defeat you, it ends! Right here! Right now!"

Still, the figure did not move. The Rilari horses continued to shift in anticipation of combat. The problem was, in comparison to those large, clearly carnivorous beasts, how well could even the Rilari mounts match up? Only Storm seemed to match the fanged beasts, barely even blinking as the rain pounded at his muscular flesh, veins swollen along his powerful legs and haunches, his quivering muscles ready for battle.

Slowly, the figure's mount moved forward, two steps, that was all, leaving behind four muddy prints that quickly filled with water, its all-black coat at odds with its steel barding — then it leapt ahead into a hard gallop. Natharr jammed his heels into Storm's flanks and launched into a meeting charge. The lance point glinted, a tapered cap with a four-bladed tip. It was gripped in the warrior's right hand, held diagonally across the horse's body, so his large shield could protect the left side of his body. Natharr considered trying to get to the other side, immobilizing the lance against the other mount's neck, then realized that he did not have time. Storm and the beast would collide and who knew if he would even be able to evade that deadly point in the process? Another option was something the other would not likely anticipate. It would not be easy, but nothing ever was.

Natharr struck the lance near its tip with the flat of his songsword, setting off a resounding chime that rung in his ears, despite the dampening power of the rain. The lance shifted, only slightly, but enough to allow the Guardian to twist in the saddle and evade the deadly thrust, their mounts still at a gallop — and strike again, this time with the edge of his blade, severing the lance's shaft halfway down. If the warrior was shocked to see the move, the Guardian could not tell, because his plain face plate hid his expression. To end this quickly, Natharr would have to move — there was only a heartbeat of time, perhaps two —

The dark-maned warrior yanked one foot up onto the saddle and launched himself from his seat, arms extended to the sides, length of deadly dragonglass in one fist. The other warrior lifted his shield and Natharr struck it with his chest, pressing it into the other's body, even as his arms clamped around his opponent's armored frame. The strength of the Guardian's leap, coupled with the power of the racing mounts, bent the figure backward — then out of the saddle altogether. They rolled over the mysterious beast's saddle cantle, then over its rump, then into the air — arms still locked about one another — before both of the black-haired creature's cloven hooves snapped backward, catching Natharr squarely in the back when they were midway to the ground. He grunted in pain, the impact throwing them both further away, out of reach of another kick — but it succeeded in breaking the Guardian's body lock and they struck the sodden, muddy ground, rolling twice then agilely back up to their feet, all in one motion.

Natharr sneered in the rain, pain radiating outward through his back, making it hard to breathe, but at least his songsword was still in his hand. The other still had his large shield on his arm and drew his own sword. His upper body was encased in steel plate that reached down to his groin, but his legs were free of armor, clothed only in black leather. The Guardian should have attacked, but he could not yet get his muscles to relax, to uncoil around where those powerful hooves had slammed into him. In fact, he was having trouble taking a breath. That could mean several things: broken ribs, a collapsed lung, or simply that he was in too much pain to breathe.

The other's sword was more than three feet long, alive with symbols etched in black all along its length. They were not just writing — they were in the Olde Tongue — characters all along the blade's blood gutter as the central line.