Rook Fenwall's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

Rook backed onto the stairs. The lance dragged against the stone. Above him the claws scraped closer, and he had no horse, no way to charge. A swung lance would glance off the hide like a stick off a wall. He needed speed. He had none. So he set the lance down and searched the dead knights' chamber for anything else that could break a beast on foot. He found it under a fallen shield. A warhammer, its head thick with carved runes, heavy enough that even his arms strained to lift it. He swung it once. The air moved. This weapon did not need a horse. It needed a man who could stand and strike. But the runes meant nothing to him, and he did not know if crushing force alone could crack a hide that turned good steel. He held two weapons now, and no time to test either. Feet slapped down the stairs behind him. Rook spun, hammer raised. A boy stumbled into the chamber, small in a squire's blue coat, a short sword loose in his hand. Rook knew the face. The squire who had once carried his shield, before the creature took everyone. Rook had thought him dead with the rest. "You left me at the ridge," the boy said, breath ragged. "I climbed down after you. I found your wyvern in the hollow." He swallowed. "I couldn't reach you in time. So I brought something that could." Behind him, a shape filled the tunnel mouth. A boar, huge, its flanks buckled in iron plates, tusks longer than knives. It snorted and stamped, and the floor shook. Edmund Fairheart held its harness with both fists. "The wyvern wouldn't fit the tunnel," Edmund said. "This one would. He carries a rider. He carries a charge." Rook stared at the beast. His hands still ached from the hammer. He looked from the crushing weapon to the mounted lance leaning on the wall. The boar's eyes rolled white, but it held. It would run. It would carry his weight and the lance's weight straight into the dark. The drag of claws grew louder above. The creature was near the stairs now. Rook made his choice. He set the warhammer aside and took up the lance. He would not fight on foot. He climbed onto the boar's armored back, and the beast held firm beneath him. He leveled the lance forward, its stone point steady. "Get behind me," Rook told the boy. "When I charge, do not follow." Edmund stepped back against the wall, sword shaking in his grip. Rook squeezed the harness. The boar bunched under him, ready to bolt. He had a mount. He had the lance. The one wound that could pierce the horror was his to drive home now. Down the black passage, the creature came into the light, and Rook kicked the boar into a run.