Sunlancer

stepped forward.

He kicked it, startling it into a gallop.

'The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending!' he screamed, the words torn from his throat in torment. His lance swung down, into the attack position. 'Children should live, and laugh, and play!'

Red-priestess Beakasi swung around in surprise. Her face mirrored that stunned surprise for a few moments, then suddenly began chanting in a high, frightened voice, words Clarrin could not understand. Her hands moved in intricate patterns, tracing figures in the air.

damn's superbly-trained mount, the veteran of many encounters, plunged up the stairs at the gallop, never missing a step. 'The flame is the blessing, and not life-ending!' Clarrin roared as a warcry. 'Children should live, and laugh, and play!'

The priestess held up her hands, as if she could ward off the lance with a gesture. The long, leaf-shaped blade impaled one of those outstretched hands, nailing it to her chest as it struck her heart.

She shrieked in anger, shock, and pain. The crossbar behind the blade slammed into her hand and chest. Clarrin took the impact in his arm, lifting her up off her feet for a moment, as he signaled his horse to halt. He dropped the point of the lance, and the priestess' body slid off the blade, to lie across the altar.

Clarrin leaned down as he wheeled his horse and started back down the stairs, sweeping the young girl into his arms without slowing. The horse plunged down the steps at the back of the altar, and they were away, the child clinging desperately to him. Clarrin held her protectively to his chest, and urged his mount to greater speed.

So far, they had escaped, but their luck could not last for much longer.

He heard horses behind him. Close, too close. He looked back, his lips twisting in a feral snarl, ready to fight for the child's life, as well as his own.

The snarl turned to a gape, and the gape to a grin that held both elation and awe.

His own personal guard and fifty of his lancers, those that had served with him the longest, were following. Esda in the lead. Many had blood on their blades.

Clarrin slowed just enough for the rest to catch up with him. Esda waved an iron-banded torch — just like the ones carried by the priests. As they galloped past a rain-swollen ditch, Esda tossed the torch into the water. Green-yellow smoke and steam billowed up hi a hissing roar as they passed the place, and a vaguely man-shaped form twisted and jerked in the heart of the smoke, as if it were on fire.

Clarrin and Esda spat, and rode on, letting the evening breeze carry the smoke away in their wake.

The pursuit, when it finally came in the wake of blame-casting and name-calling, was vicious. Clarrin felt extremely lucky that they crossed into Rethwellan with twenty-six still alive.

Or rather, twenty-seven. Twenty-six men, and one special little girl, who could now live, and laugh, and play in the warm morning sun. Without fear, and without threat.

Fifteen days later, Clarrin crossed back into Karse, his men with him, all disguised as scholars. They quickly dispersed, each with provisions and a horse, and a series of uncomfortable questions.

There were more young ones to save.

And after all, at the right time and place, a question was more deadly than any sword.