it free in time to avoid another sword thrust…Typraille blocked the blow…
On and on the fight raged.
Soon j’ark’s grey cloak was stained red, from their blood and from his. His face had grown pale, but he did not falter. As he tired, he became more ferocious.
The bridge became slippery, but the Protocrats did not slow their attack. In a daze, the three men fought them to a standstill, three holding more than fifty at bay. Each man they faced was an expert swordsman, but the triangle held the narrow pass. Where one man was forced to give, another’s blade filled the gap. The triangle was as immovable as rock, fluid as water. Blades fell, blood flowed and limbs rained down to the water below. Still they held, and tirelessly they fought. But they could not last forever.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The Sard’s horses flew across the uneven cobblestones as easily as they would have flown over grassland. Dim sunlight did little to lighten their dark flanks. Occasionally a shaft of dawn’s light snuck through the streets, glinting from the shifting armour, gems catching the light.
Roth sped ahead, following the distant sounds of battle. Whatever battle Tirielle had found, it would soon be too large to escape. They could not fight a war against the Tenthers, not alone. The daylight would bring more soldiers to the east of the city, and with it more danger. Their only hope of escape lay in swift and decisive action, and even swifter flight.
With a hoarse explanation to Quintal, it ran faster. Over a short distance, in the winding city streets, Roth was faster than the horses. It left the Sard behind and cut toward the fight, taking narrow alleyways and flying over bridges, where the Sard were forced to take the larger routes to the battle.
Occasionally a citizen stepped from his front door, on his way to market, or work, or to scamper home from his mistress’ bed to his own before his wife awoke. They jumped out of the way, or shouted in surprise. Roth paid them no heed. It did not matter now that the people of Beheth saw it. It would soon be gone from the city. A good riddance to it. It longed for the trees, for the rocks of its home. Too many years of its life had been spent in cities.
But for now, it had to save Tirielle. She was in danger, and it felt fear. Tirielle must live.
Its muscles began warming, a pleasant sensation.
It almost didn’t have time to stop and had to dive to one side to avoid crashing into Tirielle, who ran headlong, looking over her shoulder, straight at its companion. She skidded to a halt, panting to catch her breath.
“Breath steady, Tirielle. Tell me,” it said, breathing steadily as though it had not just run half way across the city.
“They’re holding a bridge two streets over. Unthor has fallen. Only Typraille, j’ark and Carth hold back at least an army of Protocrats, but they are no Tenthers. They are dying! Help them!”
“Run to the north. The Sard take the Al’rioth Avenue. You can catch them still.”It took no more time to explain, or comfort, but with a fearsome grin rushed off to join the fight.
As fast as it could, it sped through the alleyway and came out beside the canal. Fifty feet away, to the north, the three Sard held a bridge against a vastly superior force. As it ran, it saw one of them stumble, j’ark, it thought. They were tiring fast.
In seconds, it was among them.
Leaping over the Sard’s heads, diving into the midst of the battle, it tore into the Protectorate ranks. Blades caught against its thick hide, some drawing blood but most turned aside. Its claws slashed faces, its teeth tore at throats, and within moments it had opened a space in front of the Sard. It knocked one of the red garbed Protocrats aside easily with a powerful backfist, and the soldier flew into the massed men, felling three as he tumbled into their feet.
In the time gained Roth quickly pulled j’ark aside, dumping him at the back of the triangle.
“You are failing, friend. I will take the shoulder,” it told him. j’ark nodded, and fell to the rear. Roth knew how the Sard fought. Carth took the head as the Protectorate renewed their attack, Roth holding the right shoulder. Should the Protectorate win the bridge, it would be down to j’ark to hold. He took a knee and tried to catch his breath. His left arm had grown fully numb, and weakened, lights flicked at the edge of his vision. Calming himself, difficult with the pain, which nagged at his peace more than the clashing of swords and cries of anger and anguish, he watched the fight for a decisive moment.
He felt his brothers closing in, the sensation of a soft wind rising. The pain began to fade. If they could just hold a few minutes longer…
He saw that the Protectorate felt the cleansing wind come. Well they should fear it. Purity was anathema to them. They fed on fear and hatred. To feel the love of a paladin must pain them so. J’ark felt little pity for them. Instead, he prayed more of the expert soldiers would not come. A few minutes, a moment’s grace, and they would be on horses, away with the new dawn.
Hold, damn it, he thought. Gradually, the world darkened and the sounds of battle faded. The cool breeze cleared his brow, and with a smile of relief, he passed out.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“j’ark!” cried Tirielle from the back of her stumbling horse as she rounded the corner. He was slumped behind Roth, Carth and Typraille, sword beside his hand.
She urged her horse on, but Yuthran’s hand took her reins and held the horse back.
“No, lady, your place is behind the lines.”
She could not see his face within the shadows of his helm, and he did not wait to see if she had obeyed. Knees digging into the flanks of his horse he rode into the battle, drawing his sword.
She fell back, realising that there was little she could do with her daggers against the new foe that the Sard, in their armour and with their two-handed swords, could not. She growled in frustration and heeled her horse beside Sia’s. The Seer sat calmly watching, but there was deep sadness on her face. Tirielle wondered if her own face was a mirror to that emotion, eyes falling on j’ark’s motionless body.
“Follow my lead,” said Disper, his voice gnarled but untroubled. He did not seem moved that his brethren fought without him. He was motionless on his steed, the three men’s horses snickering behind his, their reins loose in his hand. “If we fall, I am to take you to safety. We will wait here.”
His tone brooked no argument. Tirielle did not feel inclined to argue. The fight had not left her, but she could see the sense in it. If the Sard could not defeat the enemy, they would need as much of a lead as they could get.
Make it back, willed Tirielle.
In moments the triangle broke aside for the mounted Sard. The charge was swift and decisive. Striking down at the Protectorate from above, heads were split and collarbones shattered. The enemy wore no helms. They had little time to regret it. Quintal’s horse wheeled among them, kicking out and barging aside warriors as if they were saplings to be trampled. The horse was a valuable weapon. There was much of warfare the world could learn from the Sard. Their experience, their unique talents, would be needed if she were ever to defeat the Protocrats. No warrior she knew could have stood against the Protocrats, who fought like Tenthers…if they had been born of demons. They were unbelievably swift. Had it not been the Sard fighting them…
It was carnage, and Tirielle lost sight of j’ark among the havoc. Quintal’s horse forged a path through for the Sard — they no longer tried to hold the bridge, but fought their way to the other side, slaying Protocrat’s on each side, swords hacking into the enemy from all sides now. There was a moment when the Protectorate forces held,
