Exile's Honor

But something was going to happen—

Something awful was going to happen—

Then a sickening blow to the soul—

—that should have sent him to his knees—

—told them both that Sendar—

—Sendar, his patron—Sendar, his King—

For a moment, just a moment, he leaped skyward, out of his body, and found himself looking down on the field of battle where tiny creatures fought and died. There he was, the sole target of a circle of Tedrel elite, who had forgotten their primary mission in the face of his attack. He continued to fight like a night-fiend, despite the fact that he wasn't 'there' anymore.

Another blow, nauseating and disorienting, struck him; his attention snapped to the battle line.

Sendar was cut off from the rest of the Valdemaran forces, with only his bodyguards for protection. He fought like a demon, and so did they, but even as Alberich realized what peril they were in, three of the bodyguards went down, leaving only Crathach, Jadus, and Talamir to fight with him. There was a blur of motion just under the noses of the Companions. A shriek of pain that came from the soul of Taver as well as the body, and Taver flung up his head.

Then a burly hulk with an ax swung at Talamir.

No—not at Talamir—at Taver! At the exposed neck—

—of the King's Own Companion—

Nothing could have survived that blow to the neck, no matter how heavily armored. Taver went down, blood gushing from the severed throat, neck snapped, Talamir with him, leaving the King's right flank open.

No!

Alberich howled in protest, uselessly, silently—but suddenly Jadus was there, between the King and the axman, and the ax came down—

This time, not across a Companion's neck, but across Jadus' leg. The Companion, reacting to his Chosen's agony, shied sideways, leaving Sendar unprotected.

As if in a nightmare where time slowed to a crawl, yet nothing could be done to stop what was happening, Alberich saw a hundred fighters moving at the same time. Saw the mob close in, like a pack of rabid dogs, shoving Crathach into Sendar's side, hemming in the horse and Companion so that neither could move.

Watched as too many weapons to count pieced first Sendar's Companion, then Sendar.

Flicker of blue—and a wave of sickening horror smashed him back into his body. But he knew what he had seen was real.

Sendar, the King of Valdemar—

—was dead.

That was when a shriek of berserk rage tore the throat of every man and woman in the army, and sent them against their foes in a killing frenzy such as no Valdemaran had experienced in three centuries or more. He and Kantor rode that wave of bitter, mindless hatred, rode it and used it and let it use them, until it ran out—

—and the foes ran out—

—and left them, like every other surviving fighter on the Valdemar side, exhausted and sickened; blinking at the carnage around them, peering at death through eyes that streamed with agonized tears, in grief and mourning that would never entirely be healed.

17

THE taste of blood was in his mouth; the sweet-sickly stench of it in his throat. His nostrils felt choked with it.