Read Online The Sorcerer's Ring: Book 05 - A Vow of Glory by Morgan Rice - Free Book Online
Authors: Morgan Rice
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jungle.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Erec
sat on his horse, breathing hard, preparing himself to attack the two hundred
soldiers facing him. He had fought valiantly and had managed to take down the
first hundred—but now his shoulders were weak, his hands trembling. His mind
was ready to fight forever—yet he did not know how long his body would follow.
Still, he would fight with all he had, as he had done his whole life, and let the
fates make the decision for him.
Erec
screamed and kicked the unfamiliar horse which he had stolen from one of his
opponents, and charged for the soldiers.
They
charged back, matching his lone battle cry with theirs, fierce. Much blood had
already been spilled on this field, and clearly no one was leaving without the
other side dead.
As he
charged, Erec removed a throwing knife from his belt, took aim, and threw it at
the lead soldier before him. It was a perfect throw, lodging in his throat, and
the soldier clutched his throat, dropping the reins, and fell from his horse.
As Erec had hoped, he fell before the feet of the other horses, causing several
to trip over him and sending them crashing to the ground.
Erec
raised a javelin with one hand, a shield in the other, lowered his faceplate,
and charged with all he had. He would charge this army as fast and hard as he
could, take whatever blows he would, and cut a line right through it.
Erec
screamed as he charged into the group. All his years of jousting had served him
well, and he used the long javelin expertly to take out one soldier after the
next, knocking them down like a row of dominoes. He tucked himself into a ball
and with his other hand covered himself with the shield; he felt a rain of
blows descend on him, on his shield, on his armor, from all directions. He was
slammed by swords and axes and maces, a storm of metal, and Erec only prayed
that his armor would hold. He clung to his javelin, taking out as many soldiers
as he could as he charged, cutting a path through the huge group.
Erec didn’t
slow, and after about a minute of riding, he finally broke out the other end, into
the open, having cut a straight path of devastation right down the middle. He
had taken out at least a dozen soldiers—but he had suffered for it. He breathed
hard, his body aching, the clang of metal still ringing in his ears. He felt as
if he had been put through a grinder. He looked down and saw he was covered in
blood; luckily, he did not feel any major wounds. They seemed to be minor scratches
and cuts.
Erec
rode in a wide circle, looping back, preparing to face the army again. They,
too, had turned around, preparing to charge him once more. Erec was proud of
his victories thus far, but it was getting harder for him to catch his breath,
and he knew that one more pass through this group might finish him off. Nonetheless,
he readied himself to charge again, never willing to back away from a fight.
An
unusual cry suddenly arose from the rear of the army, and Erec was at first
confused to see a contingent of soldiers attacking the rear. But then he
recognized the armor, and his heart soared: it was his close friend from the Silver,
Brandt, along with the Duke and dozens of his men. Among them, Erec's heart
fell to see, was Alistair. He had asked her to stay in the safety of the
castle, and she had not listened. For that, he loved her more than he could
say.
The
Duke's men attacked the army from behind with a fierce battle cry, causing
chaos. Half of the army turned to face them, and they met in a great clang of
metal, Brandt leading the way with his two-handed ax. He swung at the lead soldier,
chopping off his head, and swung his axe around in the same motion and lodged
it another man's chest.
Erec,
inspired, got a second wind: he took advantage of the chaos and charged the
other half of the army. As he galloped, he leaned over and snatched a spear protruding
from the earth, leaned back and threw it with the force of ten men. The spear lodged
through
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Erec
sat on his horse, breathing hard, preparing himself to attack the two hundred
soldiers facing him. He had fought valiantly and had managed to take down the
first hundred—but now his shoulders were weak, his hands trembling. His mind
was ready to fight forever—yet he did not know how long his body would follow.
Still, he would fight with all he had, as he had done his whole life, and let the
fates make the decision for him.
Erec
screamed and kicked the unfamiliar horse which he had stolen from one of his
opponents, and charged for the soldiers.
They
charged back, matching his lone battle cry with theirs, fierce. Much blood had
already been spilled on this field, and clearly no one was leaving without the
other side dead.
As he
charged, Erec removed a throwing knife from his belt, took aim, and threw it at
the lead soldier before him. It was a perfect throw, lodging in his throat, and
the soldier clutched his throat, dropping the reins, and fell from his horse.
As Erec had hoped, he fell before the feet of the other horses, causing several
to trip over him and sending them crashing to the ground.
Erec
raised a javelin with one hand, a shield in the other, lowered his faceplate,
and charged with all he had. He would charge this army as fast and hard as he
could, take whatever blows he would, and cut a line right through it.
Erec
screamed as he charged into the group. All his years of jousting had served him
well, and he used the long javelin expertly to take out one soldier after the
next, knocking them down like a row of dominoes. He tucked himself into a ball
and with his other hand covered himself with the shield; he felt a rain of
blows descend on him, on his shield, on his armor, from all directions. He was
slammed by swords and axes and maces, a storm of metal, and Erec only prayed
that his armor would hold. He clung to his javelin, taking out as many soldiers
as he could as he charged, cutting a path through the huge group.
Erec didn’t
slow, and after about a minute of riding, he finally broke out the other end, into
the open, having cut a straight path of devastation right down the middle. He
had taken out at least a dozen soldiers—but he had suffered for it. He breathed
hard, his body aching, the clang of metal still ringing in his ears. He felt as
if he had been put through a grinder. He looked down and saw he was covered in
blood; luckily, he did not feel any major wounds. They seemed to be minor scratches
and cuts.
Erec
rode in a wide circle, looping back, preparing to face the army again. They,
too, had turned around, preparing to charge him once more. Erec was proud of
his victories thus far, but it was getting harder for him to catch his breath,
and he knew that one more pass through this group might finish him off. Nonetheless,
he readied himself to charge again, never willing to back away from a fight.
An
unusual cry suddenly arose from the rear of the army, and Erec was at first
confused to see a contingent of soldiers attacking the rear. But then he
recognized the armor, and his heart soared: it was his close friend from the Silver,
Brandt, along with the Duke and dozens of his men. Among them, Erec's heart
fell to see, was Alistair. He had asked her to stay in the safety of the
castle, and she had not listened. For that, he loved her more than he could
say.
The
Duke's men attacked the army from behind with a fierce battle cry, causing
chaos. Half of the army turned to face them, and they met in a great clang of
metal, Brandt leading the way with his two-handed ax. He swung at the lead soldier,
chopping off his head, and swung his axe around in the same motion and lodged
it another man's chest.
Erec,
inspired, got a second wind: he took advantage of the chaos and charged the
other half of the army. As he galloped, he leaned over and snatched a spear protruding
from the earth, leaned back and threw it with the force of ten men. The spear lodged
through
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