she noticed. An easy climb down from the windows. Perhaps the snake had been watching them, waiting all night for the right moment.
She walked softly, searching for Typraille. There was a crumpled shape stirring on the floor at the archway, and she moved swiftly to it.
“I’m glad you’re alright, Typraille,” she said with obvious relief, pulling him to a sitting position. Still her eyes scanned the shadows, searching for enemies. In her imagination they lurked everywhere, but she knew she was being foolish. The assassin had not struck her as a man that liked company.
“I’m a fool,” coughed Typraille. “Snuck right up to me. Didn’t hear a thing.”
“I only heard him because he wanted to gloat, I think. j’ark’s alright, but he can’t move, either. I can’t very well carry the two of you.”
“The feeling’s coming back,” he said. “Look, I can move my hand. If I have to I’ll crawl out of here. Did you get it?”
“I did,” said Tirielle with a smile. “Time to move on.”
“High time,” said Typraille with a grin. “Give me a good stand up fight any day. I hate assassins. All that skulduggery gives me gripe.”
Tirielle laughed easily as j’ark approached them on unsteady legs.
“He got you, too, then?”
“Aye, he did, and good. I can’t feel my legs yet.”
“My arms are still numb, but I can walk. Come on, Tirielle, between us I’m sure we can make it.”
“Wait!” whispered Tirielle, and ran to the bookshelf. Only when she had once again concealed the secret room did she return.
“If I leave it open, and the readers find it, the Protectorate will one day find the secrets within. All would be lost. If we can, we will return. I don’t know when,” she added ruefully.
J’ark nodded. Typraille tried to add his agreement, but his head merely flopped loosely against his chest.
Slowly, painfully, they walked. j’ark and Tirielle carried Typraille between them, past stunned readers, ignoring their questions. It was far from a common sight in the halls of the library. Tirielle was glad she had spared them the discovery of the dead man.
Typraille grumbled about the indignity of it all from one end of the library to the other.
“The feeling’s coming back. I think I can walk on my own, now,” said Typraille as they reached the door. J’ark was dripping with sweat from his own efforts. “Bloody head’s pounding, though.”
“We’ll be fine by the time we get back. Let’s hope Carth and Unthor can give us a shoulder to lean on.”
“I hope so, too,” said Tirielle, rubbing her sore shoulder. “You’re far too heavy.”
“All that good tavern food,” said Typraille with a grin that showed he was beginning to feel back to his old self.
Tirielle opened the door into the night. She stepped out, laughing, and a blow crashed against her head.
The red robed warriors were too fast for j’ark and Typraille. Unarmed, unarmoured and weakened as they were, they were no match for the soldiers, who held their arms without much difficulty, no matter how hard they struggled. Tirielle found herself pulled roughly upright, her arms tight against her back. She writhed and bucked, using all her strength, but could not budge his grip. She finally stopped her struggling and looked up. Her heart sank instantly.
Unthor and Carth were held fast by the arms before them, and Typraille and j’ark in their state were no match for the wiry soldiers that held them. They strained against their captors nonetheless.
“Cease your struggling, dissidents,” barked one of the Protocrats, drawing his blade and holding it against Unthor’s throat, “or I will wash the streets with this one’s blood.”
“Kill him for me,” growled Unthor, rage in his eyes.
Tirielle saw Carth nod, almost imperceptibly, out of the corner of her eye.
She saw what they were going to do, and she had no way to stop it. All she could do was help. Her heart plummeted, and silently she wished Unthor luck.
Typraille’s head reared back and knocked one captor away from him, who screamed, clutching his broken nose. Everything happened in an instant. It was all too fast, and Tirielle could not find the calm that had saved her earlier.
As Typraille swung on his other captor, the Protocrat who held the knife against Unthor’s neck shouted, “Kill him!” But he would not get the chance. Unthor bucked in his grasp, pulling himself forward to free his arm enough to reach his captor’s sword. j’ark roared in anger as Unthor moved, as if feeling his pain. Somehow Unthor’s hand was freed, and he flicked a blade from its scabbard into the air. Tirielle watched it tumble for a moment, but before she had moved she saw an all too familiar arc of blood, black in the moonlight. Spray from Unthor’s torn throat.
“No!” she cried, swinging on the Protocrat that held her, stamping as hard as she could on his foot. As Unthor died, the Protocrat let him drop. It was his last mistake. Unthor’s hand whipped the long bladed dagger he wore from his belt and slashed the inside of his killer’s leg. More blood joined the growing river pouring along the cobbled street.
“No!” cried the leader of the strangely garbed Protocrats in fury. “She is to be taken alive!”
But it was too late. Carth reared against the men holding him, as though he had been merely waiting for his moment, swinging one around by the arm into the other. They met with a loud crack of heads. He caught the sword spun into the air by his fallen brother and was suddenly transformed from bull to panther. He leapt at the soldiers, silently setting to his work. Typraille was free, and took a sword from a downed opponent. He moved with painstaking slowness, barely keeping himself alive against the swordsman he faced.
“Kill them, but I want one alive, curse you!” The Protocrat who had slaughtered Unthor capered on his toes, shouting in rage at the men who fought Typraille and Carth. Carth was by far the more effective of the two. His blade danced, and even with an unfamiliar sword he was deadly and swift. The enemy fell before him, but they were many and he was alone in the fight. Soon he would be surrounded.
The soldiers they faced were not as easy as Tenthers, and they were not overconfident. They shrank back from confrontation, blocking Carth’s furious blows and stepping back, but all the time stopping them from fleeing, circling around the huge warrior.
”They are waiting for more to come!” cried out Tirielle, impotent despite her realisation. “Run, Carth, run!” She strained against the soldier holding her tight, then followed Typraille’s lead. She flicked her head backward, and was rewarded by a satisfying crunch. Loosed, she whirled round and rammed a dagger into the man’s throat. He fell silently, and she stabbed at the man holding j’ark.
j’ark’s hand snaked down to the soldier’s sword, and was moving as soon as the blade was in his hand. He was shouting as he tore into the Protocrats. His legs betrayed him in a lunge, and he took a sword in the shoulder. Tirielle realised that had the Protocrats not wanted prisoners, they would have all been dead already. These were not mere Tenthers. These creatures were something more deadly by far.
But she did not run. Carth took two more Protocrat’s down, and turned on the last three, his blade dripping blood. The remaining Protectorate turned and ran, shouting for more of their brethren.
As with all conflict, it seemed to take an age and Tirielle’s body was racked with pain, but it had been the work of an instant.
Unthor could not be dead. What could kill a Sard? Invincible, deadly warriors…surely he was just wounded… some ruse, to lead the Protectorate astray…misdirection, that was all it was. Then the stream of blood on the cobblestones chased her lies away.
He lay in a crumpled form on the floor, next to his killer. His eyes were glazed, and expression of all too human pain on his face. The Sard died as any other man, she realised with horror, and unbearable sadness for the loss of a friend. J’ark stood, head bowed over Unthor’s body. Blood no longer flowed from the wound, and his dead eyes stared at the cold moon.
All too human, Tirielle thought, her mind a blank. All too often she had seen the dead, but never one of her friends. She stepped beside the pale-faced Protocrat, and took his dagger from his weakened hand. Kneeling beside him, she whispered, “I would not sully my own blade with your blood.”
She plunged the knife through his chest, stopping when the tip hit the cobblestones underneath. Only then did she stand, and allow herself to weep.
Typraille reached out, and with one shaking hand drew their brother’s eyes closed.
