“Time to go,” said Carth, not puffing from exertion, but his voice heavy with sorrow.
“Good bye, brother,” said j’ark, and wiping his eye, turned away.
Their legs heavy from poison, or loss…it made no difference — they ran as hard as they could. The sounds of pursuit grew behind them. Tirielle felt a resurgence of her fear. They could not stand against this new threat, these red robed warriors, not without their swords, and armour. The time for hiding was over. Now, the only choice was to run.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Quintal burst through the door and Sia sat up with a start, although she had only been resting. He was clothed once more in his bright armour, his cloak covering the hide-bound sword.
“Unthor has fallen! We must get to our horses, the enemy will be here soon.”
She pushed the covers from her emaciated body and rose. He saw that she was already clothed.
“Then let us waste no more time. Take me to our horses. I will ride Unthor’s horse. We must get to Tirielle. She will not make it here in time.”
“You are too weak…” he managed to get out, before she interrupted.
“I am not, and there is no time. Now go!” These last words erupted in his mind with the force of fury.
Quintal nodded, swallowing, and dashed out.
In the common room the Sard stood, armoured once more. Their eyes were muted in the shadows of their helms, but grim determination drew each man’s lips tight. Cenphalph’s hand wrung the hilt of his sword in fury. Quintal took a moment to lay a hand on his shoulder, and nodded to the Sard.
“Be swift. Be true. Tonight we ride once more. To horse!”
Roth pulled the hated robe from its back, and unsheathed its long claws.
“Gods blessing, brother,” said Quintal under his breath, and strode out into the night, to face whatever enemy might come, as his god had intended.
In the moon’s glow, his blade, his armour, and his eyes would shine bright.
Chapter Fifty-Six
The moons ran toward the horizon, and in the east anticipation of Carious’ first light brought the birds from their sleep. A gentle song drifting from the eaves and the roof tops, waking early risers from their slumber.
Feet clattered on the cobbled streets, and the birds swarmed into flight.
Tirielle wanted to speak, to tell the Sard to slow, but she knew they already held back for her. j’ark and Typraille seemed none the worse for wear. The exercise had cleared their heads. Tirielle’s head was pounding with effort, her lungs felt as though a vice clamped down on them, her ribs tight and her spine aching. The sounds of pursuit grew behind them, and in a close by street she heard the call of another ten closing in. She willed her burning legs to greater effort, and drew aside Typraille.
He did not even spare her a look, but ran on, eyebrows drawn together in a dark frown. Whether at their predicament, or Unthor’s death, she could not tell. She did not have the energy to wonder. The pursuers were too close. There was no hope of losing them in the tight streets. Tirielle’s despair and fear was making her legs as heavy as her exhaustion.
J’ark noticed that she was flagging swiftly. She could not keep up, and he was weakening himself. Sometimes, he thought, duty weighs heavy on the soul. But he knew no fear, and since his birth in Sybremreyen he had known no fear. Perhaps knowing no fear he could never know true love. Soon, he thought in the deepest part of his mind, it would not matter. Whether he could break his vows for such a woman, whether he could allow himself to fear, to love, even to hate those who sought to slay them, he did not know. For now, the only thing that mattered was getting Tirielle to safety.
He could do nothing else. His purpose was to protect the Saviour, not to love her.
“Here!” he cried, slowing as they crossed a narrow bridge. He turned, taking slow, deep breaths. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Carth and Typraille took either side without prompting, their plundered swords held loosely in their fists.
Tirielle saw what they meant to do.
“No! It is not bravery, it is stupidity! We can still make it!”
“No, lady, we cannot. Here we can hold. We can hold long enough for you to get away. Make it count. Now run!”
“I will not!” she thumped j’ark on his chest. “I won’t let you all die here, not when we can still escape. With the others, with your armour…”
“No,” j’ark spoke softly, taking her arm in a gentle grip. “This is the only way. You must live. We will meet you if we can. We are not done yet.” With effort, he managed to change his grimace into a sad smile.
Tirielle could see the red robed warriors swarming along the sides of the canal, depict the details of their faces. To her, they seemed cast from the same die, statuesque faces pulled tight in fury and bloodlust. Their cloaks flew out behind them, their long hair matted against their faces as their sweat dripped. At least they felt heat. They were not demons.
“Please,” Tirielle pleaded desperately. “There are too many of them.” She tugged on j’ark’s grey cloak, vainly trying to move a man as strong as stone.
“Don’t waste this chance, lady,” said Typraille, not unkindly. “You know your fate. We know ours, and we are born of duty. Don’t make me take you over my knee.” His tone was light, but his message was clear.
She could do nothing else. To stay was folly. To flee felt like cowardice. She was abandoning them to death, but j’ark’s face told her he would take no more argument. He pushed her away with gentle hands, and turned his back on her without a further glance. With one last look at j’ark, she turned and fled toward the setting moons.
With a deep breath, j’ark put himself into a trance. It was slow in coming, the calmness that allowed him to forget the world and its worries. The mind could be as bold an enemy as a man with a sword. His thoughts of Tirielle could undo him. Slowly, as the first swordsman reached the foot of the bridge, j’ark swung his sword, getting a feel for the short blade, cracking his neck. His shoulder ached where he had taken a blade, and his arm tingled uncomfortably.
There was nothing wrong with his right arm, though, and the sword he held in his right hand was too short for a two-handed grip. He set his worries aside, pouring earth on them in his mind, burying them deep in a pit. If he lived, he would dig them out again and shine the light on them. A moment’s heaviness turned him to lead, then he felt the sun on his face, the breeze tugging at his hair, the clatter of the Protectorate’s leather boots on the wood…he blinked once, free at last, free to do what he was bred for, and turned aside the first blow, kicking hard into a soldier’s groin and cutting the Protocrat’s head from his neck with a reverse slash. Carth’s first blow sent an arm tumbling into the canal below, and Typraille roared defiance on his left.
The triangle was formed, and the soldiers broke over its head, falling to the shoulders to be slain.
It was an even match. The enemy could only come two abreast, for fear of hindering their sword brothers. The Sard fought as one. But no man could hold back a greater force for long. The bridge was narrow, but even so, the advantage lay in numbers. Even with the power of a god to hold him up, a man could not hold back the tide.
A sword flashed past j’ark’s cheek. Fear surfaced momentarily…what would it mean to die? To lose all he had found to live for…and a sword caught his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. He sought the calm fields within his mind, the open plains. He was again at peace.
A soldier fell to the paladin’s sword. Blood dripped from his sword, and he faced yet another swordsman. They all fought in the same style, like a Tenther, but they were faster, more refined in their strokes, parrying with ease. A startlingly fast riposte came in response to j’ark’s blow, whistling past his head. He took the Protocrat’s sword arm cleanly. The Protocrat drew a dagger without pause and charged onto j’ark’s blade. He could not wrench
