though, he thought he could, too.
He took up his place beside her on the pathway and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Her head hung in despair, but his was proud. He saw the battle ahead. It was what he lived for.
But what terror could life hold for a man of war? He watched in amazement as the creature snapped free of one bond with a cry like thunder. It knocked both of them to their knees. He struggled against the wave of sound, and gained his feet, pulling Tirielle up along side him.
With a huge effort the revenant pulled with both clawed hands, straining against the last chain. With a terrible groan of breaking rock it came free. Trailing the chains, hanging in the lake of fire, it turned its baleful gaze on the interlopers.
The revenant finally free after aeons in tormenting chains, stamped a foot and issued its challenge. It lumbered forward as far as it could go, and with a snarl that shook the mountain clawed at the two of them.
They tumbled underneath the blow. Shorn took his sword in both hands and was instantly upon it. It towered over him. It did not see him roll between its feet, but felt the sting of his blade slicing into its ankle. It kicked out, one giant foot smashing Shorn to the ground.
The mercenary rolled from his fall and rose again. He winced at the pain in his ribs — it hurt worse than a kick from a horse. A rib was broken, for sure, but he did not have the luxury of licking his wounds.
The revenant howled in anguish, but what was a mere nick with a blade compared to an age of torment, a life in chains? It turned ponderously in the space it could, forcing Shorn to back away toward the edge of the lake. Flames lapped at his cloak. He was drenched in sweat from the heat — perhaps that was what stopped him from bursting into flames.
A massive, leathery fist came crashing down, as though the creature intended to squash him like an insect, but Shorn was rolling to one side and swiping as hard as he could at the inside of the creature’s wrist. His sword dug deep, and steaming ichor ran from the wound, splashing the ground where Shorn had been…Never stop moving. Shorn did not need to remind himself to move, to run and leap and strike where he could. He could not reach the creatures bones, but he could strike at tendons — he knew enough of the body to know where tendons hid beneath the skin, and what damage the severance of one could do to a man. This creature was no different. Its structure was the same, even though its skin was as tough as hide, thick and hard. It had claws instead of nails, two massive curving eye teeth and drooled fire, but what was it, if not an animal?
Even Shorn, attacking with all his fury against the beast, could feel its anguish. It knew nothing else but to fight. It spoke no more garbled words, but roared in incoherent rage at each stinging cut he made on its thick skin, smashed and stamped and bled fiery blood. The platform on which Shorn danced and whirled, on which the revenant bled, was sticky and dangerous with blood. One slip, one wrong move, and he would be squashed. There would be nothing left of him but bone and gristle.
He did not despair, though. The beast was slow, and it bled. If it bled, it could die. All things of flesh and blood died, in the end, if they lost enough blood. If he could just cut through the Achilles tendon…he slashed again, and was rewarded with a deafening howl.
He could not longer hear anything, but he could feel the heat, the burning in his broken ribs and his heart pounding against his chest.
It seemed like it had lasted an age, before he saw Tirielle standing before the creature on the pathway, head held proud, her arms wide in supplication.
“No!” he cried out, as he saw what she meant to do.
He would not let her sacrifice herself to the creature. There would be no death but the revenant’s here today. He ran, aching all over, covered in burning blood, and dived, crashing into her body as the revenant’s hand swept down to pick her up. How could he stand by while the beast tore her life from her frail body? How could he let her die for him, even though she did not know him?
They both tumbled to the floor, and Shorn looked up, pushing Tirielle away.
“None of us will die this day! Now get back!”
A fist smashed the path and he dodged just in time, skipping away from it and hacking wildly at the hand. He was rewarded as the tip of its finger fell free into the lake of fire.
He wasted no more time on Tirielle, but twisted inside and hacked through the tendon at the wrist. The beast’s cry was terrible, the pain in his head from the sound of it terrible and tangible. Then it swung its useless hand, and the bony ridges of its knuckles smashed into his back. His broken body flew through the air.
The last thing he heard before he tumbled into blackness was Tirielle’s shouting, somehow he could still hear (but dying, he thought, dying, as consciousness faded).
“Take your sacrifice, take me and let this end. I will die for him,” she shouted above its roar.
Perhaps it heard. Perhaps not. For Shorn, all was silent.
Chapter Ninety-Four
Klan’s snarl rivalled that of the revenant.
“I will pass!”
The Sard were uncharacteristically silent. But Typraille spared some energy for a grin both wide and, to Klan, infuriating. As his rage grew, so did his power. The Sard were now holding back Klan’s burning rage and a river of molten rock that was pouring around them.
Renir longed to escape, to plunge through the blackness behind him, where perhaps a cool death awaited him. But somehow, he doubted it. He imagined behind the Sard was the safest place he could be.
He was unused to feeling so useless. He could do nothing to aid the Sard. If their powers could not hold the snarling Protocrat back, then he would merely die a fiery death in moments. He glanced nervously at Wen, but both he and the Bear seemed calm, stoically accepting of whatever end might be in store for them.
Klan Mard raged, untouched by the molten rock pushing against him. It was as though the wall of flames that pour from his eyes was solid, and Renir realised with growing horror that the Sard’s heels were being pushed backward. They were being pushed toward the darkness between the ancient doors, and whatever lay behind it, toward the wizard.
If they went in, all would be lost…but then Roth had dived through. Perhaps…no, it was not worth the risk. To fail now, to fail at the last, when so many had been sacrificed.
Renir steeled his heart, and prepared to die. A voice from within calmed him with soothing, loving words. At least he would not be alone. He knew with surety that there was a certain kind of life after death. It brought peace to him.
He watched, as calm as his two remaining friends, as the Sard were inexorably pushed back toward the gate.
The Protocrat’s face was a rictus of malice, evil in the flesh, but he found himself uncaring, unworried. He was free.
Slowly, the Sard were losing, but the voice in his head gave Renir hope.
Chapter Ninety-Five
The beasts hand came down to take Tirielle, Drun watching in frozen horror, when tumbling through the blackness came a creature blazing with fire, elemental fury hurling toward the screaming revenant.
Twice denied the Sacrifice, another warrior faced the foe.
Roth’s hurtled along the pathway, leaping over Tirielle with a roar, onto the revenant’s outstretched hand. Its sharp claws dug into the swinging tree-trunk thick arm, and hand over hand it scaled the heights as though it were climbing a mountain.
Drun could do nothing but watch. Never in his long life had he felt so useless. Roth would ruin all their long plans. For it to die saving Tirielle would ruin all he had waited for. It would skew and shatter the prophesy. But
