Niall had always fought with unrestrained passion. The Dark King was in the thick of the fight, swinging at Hounds and Ly Ergs and Vilas. Glass shattered over Irial and rained down on him. With it came the remains of a bottle of merlot. The dark wine dripped on Irial, but he stayed exactly where his king had told him to stay: kneeling in the midst of the chaos of a beautiful bloody battle. For several minutes, Irial remained kneeling in the midst of the fight, which now included a full three score of faeries. More than a few faeries took advantage of the melee to pelt things at him or at the walls and ceiling. Debris rained on him. At least three blows struck him. He didn’t ignore them, but fighting while kneeling was a new challenge. Finally Niall came over and grabbed him by the upper arm. “Get up.” Irial obeyed—which was the point of the exercise. He brushed bits of glass from his arms and shook splinters of wood from his hair. “Stay next to me or next to Gabe,” Niall demanded as he swung at an exuberant thistlefey.
