“To arms.” The Holy Spirit’s command thundered through Draka as he lifted a spoonful of a stew that had made him melt at its warm taste.

  Maud was such a great cook. He could never have enough. But the spoon dropped from his fingers and he rushed to the board to below.

  His years in the Holy Lands and the eastern steppes had made donning his plate armor in moments like this much easier, faster, than it would be for others. He was quick to pull on his silk shirt, his gambeson over top of it, and his chainmail over that. Sabatons over his boots, with their pleated and heeled bottoms. The greaves were smelted perfectly from blessed steel to form snugly, tailored to the shape of his shins and calves. Formed steel plates called cuisses fitted to his thighs with metallic clicks, rising nearly to his hips, which were covered with long plates on either side linked to others that protected his groin he had to step into. Spiked poleyns to go over his knees with interlocked plates allowing him to tighten them and bend with ease. His breast and back plates, still linked to the pauldrons of interlocked steel strips that covered his shoulders. A seven-pointed golden star over the lower half of a red cross adorned the front of his breastplate.

  Two plates slid tightly into grooves along the edges of the breast and back plates to cover the belts he tightened, to protect under his arms. Rerebraces over his upper arms. Vambraces for his lower arms. Couters for his elbows, spiked to match the poleyns on his knees. He snapped the bevor into place over his shoulders to cover his neck.

  Draka pulled his thick gauntlets on, closing and opening his fists with wiggling fingers to ensure he had them on correctly. Then, finally, his spiked helmet that completely covered his head, held in place by webbed leather and silk under his chin, with only a narrow slit on the front for his eyes and nose in the shape of a cross. He linked his metal sheath on hooks and grooves on his right side and sheathed his sword in it instead of his usual leather one. He stringed his bow and pulled the quiver of arrows over and across his shoulders. The floorboards creaked with each hurried step he took toward the door from his weight.

  He grabbed his tall steel spear and kite shield, with the bladed point at the bottom, decorated with the same star and cross as his breastplate, on his way out the door to get Vigora. He didn’t go to the stable door for her. Instead, he went to the shack and uncovered her horse plates, blankets, and saddle, whistling for her.

  Vigora was quick to obey as he had been with a hard kick that sent the gate flying across the road. She stood still as a statue as he put the long steel peytral on her neck and chest, flanchards of interlocked plates for her sides, a crupper over a thick blanket that protected her rear and thighs, and interlocked plates to go over and snap into place over her tail. He strapped the many plates that formed the crinet covering her neck and mane over another blanket. Then, the steel and leather saddle followed by her very own helmet to cover from her ears to between her nose, complete with her very own thick horns that were blunted on their points.

  Her blue eyes were alert, focused. He rubbed her with each piece he belted to her, giving both reassurances and his silent goodbyes, and kissed her nose before he mounted her. This wasn’t their first battle together by a hundred-fold. She understood exactly what was to come.

  He put his spear in the slot on the side of her crupper so that it leaned toward their front at an angle that made it easy for him to grab quickly. He straightened his back, lifted his chin upright to see ahead of them, toward the village which the commanding presence within him indicated without a word, and directed Vigora to step forward.

  “Hold.”

  Draka halted Vigora.

  Ahead, he looked over the road, along the tree lines on either side of the fields spanning from the road, and into the village. No fires. No people. Silence in the dim moonlight.

  Something screeched.

  Draka lifted his bow from his shoulder and a barbed arrow from his quiver. He didn’t notch it. Not yet. He watched and waited. He watched as owls flooded the air from the trees surrounding the Clevlan house to cover the roof and circle above it.

  He asked for True Sight to see their true shapes through the dim light.

  They weren’t owls.

  At least two dozen feather-winged, horned, women with birdlike legs and claws all around, above, and across the Clevlan house. They were waiting, like him, for the command to attack. Those that were grounded in perching crouches took flight to join the rest as one, darker and emanating with an aura of darkness instead of the red of the others, flew a bit away and hovered in the air.

  “That one shall be spared. Expel her. Slay her legion.”

  One of the harpies swooped to the garden window. He could see it trying to break through.

  “Now.”

  Draka let the first arrow fly at that one. It hung lifeless from the window.

  Vigora charged across the field at his command. Light burst outward from him, brightest from within him, to surround them in its glow. A beacon their thirst to corrupt the righteous couldn’t resist.

  He lifted the spear. Like a funnel the they went high and dove toward them in a swirl of reaching curved talons. Draka threw the spear and drew his sword fluidly. As the spear sent its target thrashing beyond the swarm, the other harpies were upon him.

  The first few burst to ash in their dive into the aura. The aura dimmed. Draka swung his sword at the next to reach him, using Vigora’s speed. He lifted his shield to batter those on the other side. Left, slash. Right, shield. He concentrated on his strikes, concentrated on keeping his lungs filled, his muscles filled with blood and adrenaline.

  Vigora drew to narrow like a swirling funnel of wings and claws by keeping at her fastest. She nimbly leapt and changed directions at random, encircling the field while they struggled to grapple him.

  The aura dissipated. Draka struck one after another with his shield. He tried to bolster the aura with his faith, but fear of their numbers was overpowering his thoughts. Too many, too fast. He slashed and stabbed with his sword.

  Thunderous explosions of light from within him, testaments of his faith, blasted through those unlucky enough to feel his slams. It was second nature to him, calling on the Holy Spirit within him to strike out from his shield with holy light. He didn’t feel the weight of his sheild, the fatigue of constantly twisting his other wrist, or the hard pulls and crooks of his elbow wielding his sword. His blade spun and arched, sending limbs and wings twisting through the air in their wake. The feather-winged beauties gnarled by corruption were the corpses of Vigora’s trails through the field.

  The dark one called out from above them in their unholy language. The funnel thickened at its end. They came down on him with a thickness in their whirlwind.

  Was it hundreds that struck him at once? Less. Or more. He couldn't tell. Dipping. Clawing. Rising out of his reach and then down again. Too many at once. Their shrieks and screams, roars and howls, were deafening against the song of his steel tearing through the air as fast as his arms could whip it.

  He tried to strike, tried to reach, tried to bat them off with his shield, but it was too little. Too slow. Talons hooked into his breast plate with a sizzle of the holy ointment he cleaned it with burning them. They moved faster than he could strike. He felt punctures through his skin, through the layers. His vision was clouded by fluttering blurs and searing pain.

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  He was lifted from the saddle. The armor, the chainmail and quilted coat beneath, cushioned the impact but all the air in his lungs was thrown from him. He rolled as the Holy Spirit strengthened him. He made the thunderous explosion of God’s power erupt on the barrage of swooping talons from above. A momentary release from their grapples.

  He felt his blade cut flesh in his roll. His shield struck bones with loud cracks.

  He was on his feet. He couldn't see but for their hooked claws and feathered wings, fangs gnashing and chomping. He pushed with his shield, crashing through them until air filled the cross-shaped opening of his helm.

  The impaled harpy was a bound away from him, suspended over the ground with dangling limbs by the spear protruding from the dirt. Draka charged.

  They bore down on him with their numbers. He answered them with thunderous slams of exploding light. Shield bashes sent them whirling away from him when they were lucky enough not to be burnt to glowing cinders by the light. Drifting ashes that fluttered around his charge. His blade took limbs and sprayed ichorous gore.

  He grasped for the spear with his shield arm.

  They came down on him. Crushed him into the dirt, prone. He felt their talons scraping at his plates. Points pierced into his back. Into his chest. He was spinning. He was on his stomach. Through his skin, tearing. Bone gnawing. Scraping. Metal, fabric, chains.

  Teeth sank in. They jerked and pulled at the armor, shaking him and slamming him into the suffocating dirt, patches of mud splashing as he floundered and scraped to find hold. It gushed through the opening of his helmet, filling around his face. Draka’s mouth. His nose. His eyes. Suffocating. Overwhelming.

  He heaved. He could feel the ache of his death grappling at him as his chest tightened.

  Mud. Everything had become mud. His vision. His thoughts. His taste. The squeezing of every muscle trying inflate with oxygen. They were pinning him.

  Voices screeched in his ear of his failures.

  He saw her blood smeared, fanged smile in front of him from long ago.

  His dagger in her heart. Her eyes filled with love looking up at him.

  No. Draka brushed it away. They will not take me like that. I will die as I am.

  He pushed. He lifted. He gripped. He clawed. He kicked. His head was a swaying cannister. Rattling. Rocking. Pounding. His ears were nothing but noise and shrieks of degradation.

  Temptations.

  "Murderer," she said. "Jehovah abandons you."

  "Adulterer," another.

  "Coveter," her voice cooed, almost soothing in its hiss, "Surrender to us and you shall have your true desires and more, Son of Trich."

  "Know peace."

  "Your son shall be returned."

  "Your wife is waiting."

  "Another wife perhaps."

  "Jehovah denies your desires. We shall give you all of them."

  His grip on his sword was jerked loose. One of them tried to stab his shoulder with it but he moved just in time for the sharp edge to scrape his bevor and helmet instead. The song of metal slicing metal made his ears ring.

  Draka gritted his teeth. His eyes clenched. Mine is not self, but servitude to Jehovah thy God.

  Holy light burst from him in a flash that brought screams. More claws. More talons dug into his armor. More scrapes against metal. Another attempt to use his own sword against him, this time slicing at his helmet, making his neck twist painfully sideways.

  He sent another burst of light to explode outward, but it was too weak. He was getting weak. His will was dissipating against their onslaught. His muscles were beginning to ache with exhaustion. He couldn't breathe. His head was filling with noise. His faith in himself was fading, hope was falling away.

  Swimming.

  Mud.

  Dirt.

  A rock pounded his helm.

  He called more light to burst outward. Too weak. He was fading. No air. Focus. Vision was becoming narrow. Focus.

  Air. Nothing.

  Darkness.

  "Ask and we will provide all that you desire..."

  Light. Weak.

  None of them were deterred, none took flight against the searing burn of the light that charred and reddened their pale skins.

  They were emboldened.

  Jehovah, Thou art with me, Draka emboldened himself in defiance of his own fading will.

  Vigora rammed through them. Her hooves narrowly, purposely, missed him to trample the ones that didn’t take flight fast enough. Draka was on her before he made air return to his lungs.

  Mud spilled from his helm. Darkness twisted away from his vision. His head stopped spinning. He heaved to fill his chest with air, focusing on that spear ahead of him, focusing on holding himself upright in the saddle.

  Vigora carried him to the spear. He grabbed it as they passed. His fingers barely gained a grip, but he used her momentum to raise it. The swarm tried to keep up with her charge for the dark one, but they weren’t nearly fast enough.

  He tightened his grip on the haft as strength returned to his fingers along with oxygen to his lungs. Vigora galloped faster, carrying him beyond the speed of the wind, beyond the speed of any charge, for his target.

  The dark one screeched and dove for the trees. The swarm rose high into the sky. Draka spurred Vigora to go to her limits, to go as fast as her legs could carry her. As he took in deeper and deeper breaths, he fixed his eyes on the dark one ahead. He lifted the spear with the newfound strength brought to carried from his breaths to his arms. He bent his legs and widened his knees. She understood what he intended.

  “Smite her to whence she came.”

  Draka let the shield fall from his arm and launched himself from the saddle to be carried by wings of holy light from heaven. Vigora turned from beneath him to circle around.

  He gripped the spear with both hands, lifted it high over his head.

  The handle twisted and the spikes protruded.

  The light brightened, filling him with power, with strength far beyond that of any mortal man, as it enveloped him. It carried him into a high arch for the dark commanding harpy.

  It turned to meet him with a wide eyed, fanged, ear piercing shriek. The light thrust him at her. He brought the spear down, splitting the air itself with the power of the Holy Spirit flowing through him.

  She was a black cloud of twisting tendrils right as his spear would have impaled her. Its tip stabbed deep into the dirt, a thrust that would have driven her down regardless of her strength or stance. Debris erupted around him. But she had returned before he reached her. Barely.

  The remaining monsters were bolstered by their Lady’s defeat. They dove for him. He met them with the spear, swinging the spiked end like a club, only barely aware of the burning sensations from the wounds on his back and chest. The aches in his muscles were nothing more than soft pangs of recognition that he struck true.

  Vigora was charging to meet their flanks. They both struck the diving swarm with precision. The steel crushed bones and spikes splayed flesh. His legs carried him in leaps and tumbles from their strikes, though he grunted and hissed with each and every movement as the divine strength flowed out of him with each use. Vigora rammed them out of the air into his swings with high jumps. They crisscrossed each other as he waded through them.

  He threw the spear once he had his shield. Each time, he battered his way through them to reach where it pinned the creature it had killed and threw it again until the last of them dissipated in the same way as their leader. Tendrils swirled around blows that would have ended the few who escaped his killing blows.

  He and Vigora slid to a halt near each other. They alone stood in a field of monstrous corpses and their severed extremities.

  He scanned over the misshapen and trampled mounds of dirt for twitches and movement, for any surviving wounded among his foes. The ground was still, reflecting the moon in the puddles of ichor broken only by ripples of the wind and the detached limbs planted in them.

  “Recover and cleanse thyself.”

  Draka gathered his sword and awkwardly mounted Vigora. There was a painful numbness transforming into an ache he knew would overtake him. He lolled and rocked on the saddle. There wasn't much time before...He squeezed his knees for her to return home.

  The Clevlans were safe while the enemy legion recovered, at least for another night. Victory. But his armor was damaged and he knew he was nearly spent on holy oil.

  He was now vulnerable against their kind.