Exile's Honor

All the more reason to keep the four of them on the ground.

Then it came—

A flash of blue.

On the left; attackers, fresh, unwounded, and seasoned, hidden in a ditchfull of bushes and about to emerge.

It wasn't much warning, but it was enough; he turned to the left, spotted movement and shouted, pointing with his sword to get the attention of Selenay's guards.

And they just popped up out of nowhere, a band of twenty, thirty—forty?—more?—suddenly materializing as if conjured—but they hadn't been, of course; they'd found cover and slipped through the lines, avoiding detection by avoiding fighting. It was a trick he'd used himself, and so had the bandits he'd fought.

And now, at last, he had something he could vent his own anger and fear against.

His blood pounding in his ears, he howled a curse at them; Kantor didn't need the touch of a heel. Kantor was just as eager for blood as he was. What Sendar could do, he could do, and for as good a cause—keeping Selenay safe.

Buying some time for her guards to react.

Before the Guardsmen on foot could rearrange their line of defense to meet the attackers, he was racing toward the ambushers. Not so far to go, after all; ten of Kantor's long strides at most before he crashed into the first knot of them.

Lightly armored, of course, much more lightly than he, to facilitate slipping through cover.

First mistake.

He got a brief glimpse of a swarthy face beneath a light cap helm—a true Tedrel, then. This was a group sent to capture the Heir. He swung his blade at the same time as he got that glimpse of target, and he felt the shock of his sword meeting flesh as he slashed across the line of the eyes. The man fell; Kantor made a ferret-quick turn to trample him. Then he and Kantor were among them, and for the first time, he learned what it was like to fight with a Companion as a partner.

He gave himself up to it. In fact, he gave himself up totally to it, to the terrible joy of killing, for the first time in his life. He would probably be sick later, but now—

Now, these beasts, these fiends, were here to murder his friends, his brothers and sisters, to enslave his country. They were going to take or murder that sweet, cheerful girl he'd come to admire so much, who was so very old for her few years, and yet so charmingly young. They, and others like them, were killing innocent, ordinary farmers like those boys and girls he and Selenay had met around the fires, old men like Dethor and women like Myste, mothers like his—

Now he and Kantor would kill them.

He felt Kantor's rage along with his own; Kantor reveled in the shock that traveled up his arm with every good blow—he rejoiced in the impact of Kantor's hooves on flesh. They moved as one in an awful and glorious dance of death, as Kantor's white hide and his white uniform and armor were spattered, splattered, drenched in red, as red blood ran down his sword arm and soaked into Kantor's legs. Kantor danced on bodies that crunched and screamed; he reared and kicked, hooves connecting with heads and bodies, before and behind. They were surrounded; Alberich didn't care. Let them waste their force on him! He was expendable; Selenay was not.

He used his shield as a weapon as well as protection, the heavy metal frame as a club.

And his sword made short work of those too-light cap helms, when he struck them at all. Mostly he went for the faces—the eyes, those dark and fierce eyes that held no pity and no remorse, only a flicker of terror when the blade came at them. He reveled in the terror. He wanted more of it.

He howled in protest when they slashed at Kantor's rump; Kantor screamed in rage as they cut through his armor into his leg.

They fought as he had never before fought in his life, without effort, with endless strength and energy, and in a white heat of rage that slowed time and sped his reactions.

And still they fought—and continued to fight—

The briefest possible flicker of blue hazed his vision for a moment, but not even his Gift could conquer this unbridled rage.