Read Online TODAY IS TOO LATE by Burke Fitzpatrick - Free Book Online
Authors: Burke Fitzpatrick
Ads: Link
sword at Tyrus, and they charged. On the walls, flames leapt up only to arc down. The explosions shook the ground. Horses screamed while men died.
The charging armies collided.
The rush of wind and speed slammed to a halt. Thousands of lances and shields crashed together, a rolling sound as the uneven lines met like a wave breaking over rocks. Tyrus saw three lances aimed at him, men intent on dying to slay him. He sacrificed his mount to survive, his last plan before chaos. The horse reared, screamed, and Tyrus fell.
He bounced off hard clay, and his own shoulder plate smacked his helm. He kept his sword while hooves kicked his hips and a man stepped on his back. He saw silver armor, grabbed an ankle, pulled the man down. Claustrophobia seized him, a press of bodies, animals and men, armor and shields, pushing him down. Darkness consumed as dust and bodies blocked out the sunlight. Too much noise. Too many people dying. No way to shout orders. Any moment, a lance would pierce his back.
His world brightened: blue skies, black smoke, and sunlight. Men in black armor, his champions, fought to him. A force rushed by, a sensation of power and speed, men on horses charging over the dead and broken people.
Tyrus found his feet, saw silver armor, and attacked. Dozens fought him. His own men stayed close, kept him from being pulled down. The holy knights weren’t like normal men: fearless warriors who gave him no space or respect, most too weak to meet his blade. Tyrus blocked and hacked and found no one with the strength to fight back. These men should let a champion challenge him.
He saw the boy. Knights held him back. Edan shouted and pushed, but the knights sacrificed themselves in his place. Tyrus hacked a man’s legs out from under him, had a moment to breathe, some clarity, and spat dirt. He had a mouthful of clay. Couldn’t remember how that happened.
An explosion, a high-pitched ringing sound, and Tyrus flew through the air. He crashed into the ground. His armor folded his body into a painful contortion, hips above his shoulders. He fell to his side, shook his head, and saw a slim figure standing firm. All around, men had been tossed like leaves, and yellow dust drifted on a breeze. The boy pointed his sword at Tyrus, and the blade burned white hot.
So he was a true Rune Blade. Tyrus knelt, judging the distance. Not much to do; he had no cover and no shield. Flames leapt from the sword. Tyrus pulled his face down, using his forearms to guard his head. The heat hit and suffocated. He wanted to scream but had no air and drowned in fire.
The spell stopped with a rush of warm wind. His armor smoked, his helm burned his forehead, and the smell of his own flesh cooking nauseated him. He ripped off his helmet, but not before it blistered his scalp. Edan prepared another attack, pointing a glowing sword. Tryus launched his helm at the boy. More flames washed past but dulled, off target, and Tyrus charged.
Thousands of men fought, but with less fury than before. They watched the Chosen One engage the Damned. The sorcerers on the walls sent fire at them, but the bone lords intercepted the blasts. A strange landscape in which to fight: dead and broken bodies in yellow dust with explosions burning the sky.
Edan closed with his sword, and their blades crossed. His aggression impressed Tyrus, a brave kid with arms not much thicker than the sword’s blade, but he had strength. Tyrus shouldered him back and hacked downward with everything he had, all his bulk, all his power, and the boy caught it. The shield didn’t even dent. Edan was a Reborn hero who could do things a normal Rune Blade could not, his power impressed Tyrus and he realized he should withdraw.
Azmon was right; this was a task for a sorcerer. But where could he go? His men watched, and if he ran, they would flee while the Shinari rode them down. Thousands would die. No choice but to fight. They crossed blades again, and Tyrus let Edan attack. He blocked each
The charging armies collided.
The rush of wind and speed slammed to a halt. Thousands of lances and shields crashed together, a rolling sound as the uneven lines met like a wave breaking over rocks. Tyrus saw three lances aimed at him, men intent on dying to slay him. He sacrificed his mount to survive, his last plan before chaos. The horse reared, screamed, and Tyrus fell.
He bounced off hard clay, and his own shoulder plate smacked his helm. He kept his sword while hooves kicked his hips and a man stepped on his back. He saw silver armor, grabbed an ankle, pulled the man down. Claustrophobia seized him, a press of bodies, animals and men, armor and shields, pushing him down. Darkness consumed as dust and bodies blocked out the sunlight. Too much noise. Too many people dying. No way to shout orders. Any moment, a lance would pierce his back.
His world brightened: blue skies, black smoke, and sunlight. Men in black armor, his champions, fought to him. A force rushed by, a sensation of power and speed, men on horses charging over the dead and broken people.
Tyrus found his feet, saw silver armor, and attacked. Dozens fought him. His own men stayed close, kept him from being pulled down. The holy knights weren’t like normal men: fearless warriors who gave him no space or respect, most too weak to meet his blade. Tyrus blocked and hacked and found no one with the strength to fight back. These men should let a champion challenge him.
He saw the boy. Knights held him back. Edan shouted and pushed, but the knights sacrificed themselves in his place. Tyrus hacked a man’s legs out from under him, had a moment to breathe, some clarity, and spat dirt. He had a mouthful of clay. Couldn’t remember how that happened.
An explosion, a high-pitched ringing sound, and Tyrus flew through the air. He crashed into the ground. His armor folded his body into a painful contortion, hips above his shoulders. He fell to his side, shook his head, and saw a slim figure standing firm. All around, men had been tossed like leaves, and yellow dust drifted on a breeze. The boy pointed his sword at Tyrus, and the blade burned white hot.
So he was a true Rune Blade. Tyrus knelt, judging the distance. Not much to do; he had no cover and no shield. Flames leapt from the sword. Tyrus pulled his face down, using his forearms to guard his head. The heat hit and suffocated. He wanted to scream but had no air and drowned in fire.
The spell stopped with a rush of warm wind. His armor smoked, his helm burned his forehead, and the smell of his own flesh cooking nauseated him. He ripped off his helmet, but not before it blistered his scalp. Edan prepared another attack, pointing a glowing sword. Tryus launched his helm at the boy. More flames washed past but dulled, off target, and Tyrus charged.
Thousands of men fought, but with less fury than before. They watched the Chosen One engage the Damned. The sorcerers on the walls sent fire at them, but the bone lords intercepted the blasts. A strange landscape in which to fight: dead and broken bodies in yellow dust with explosions burning the sky.
Edan closed with his sword, and their blades crossed. His aggression impressed Tyrus, a brave kid with arms not much thicker than the sword’s blade, but he had strength. Tyrus shouldered him back and hacked downward with everything he had, all his bulk, all his power, and the boy caught it. The shield didn’t even dent. Edan was a Reborn hero who could do things a normal Rune Blade could not, his power impressed Tyrus and he realized he should withdraw.
Azmon was right; this was a task for a sorcerer. But where could he go? His men watched, and if he ran, they would flee while the Shinari rode them down. Thousands would die. No choice but to fight. They crossed blades again, and Tyrus let Edan attack. He blocked each
Similar Books
![Siren in Bloom [Texas Sirens 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)](https://fs.dianahicksbooks.com/601901/thumbs/152x264/siren-in-bloom-texas-sirens-6-siren-publishing-menage-everlasting.png)
