SEVENTY-THREE
To Sir Vyvin, the outcome of the battle was inevitable. The Kinshra were caught between the Imperial Guard and the remaining knights and militia that he commanded. All had witnessed Sir Amik’s fall, and the apparent death of their leader made his men fight with a suicidal frenzy. Even young peons bested men twice their age, ignoring wounds that would have felled stronger warriors.
They hacked their way through the Kinshra ranks to where they believed Sir Amik to have fallen.
It was Sir Vyvin who first reached the prone figure. The fallen knight’s head was cushioned on the flank of his horse, which lay dead beneath him. In his hands he held the two broken pieces of the banner.
Sir Vyvin knelt beside him. As he began to open the visor a pained grunt came from the man within.
Bhuler was alive.
“Do not open it,” he said. “The boys are doing us proud. Let them fight until the end.”
Sir Vyvin knew he did not have long to live.
“So it
Bhuler shook his head.
“He was too weak to join us. But I was not… and we needed our leader…”
A rider caught Sir Vyvin’s attention. It was Theodore.
“Sir Amik!” he cried as he knelt by Sir Vyvin’s side. “Tell me, sir, is there anything I can do?”
Bhuler stretched his hand out to Theodore, who took it reverently. “Bring Kara to me, Theodore,” he said. “For I am Bhuler, and I wish to see her.”
Theodore gaped in amazement. Sir Vyvin hushed him before he could speak.
“Go and bring Kara” he said quietly. “Tell no one of this, for only you and I know the truth.”
The squire nodded and mounted his horse, while behind him the remaining knights formed a defensive circle around their fallen leader, fighting any Kinshra soldier that came within their reach.
The rune fizzed brightly in Ebenezer’s open palm, lighting the chamber with a red glow. The small pebble gave off a plume of red-tinted smoke that gave the alchemist a sudden look of power. He had to concentrate on controlling the magic, however, rationing it so it would not burn too quickly-or even explode. The rune would last only a brief time, but he had a dozen more in his pocket.
“Marius?” he called as he stepped forward slowly. “Sir Tiffy?” He carried the magic fire with him and with each step illuminated more of the chamber’s dark secrets.
“I am here,” Marius said quietly, looking into the water at his feet.
There lay the traitor, opening his mouth silently in a muted plea, his hands clutched at a deadly wound in his right side.
“He is still alive,” Marius said, his face contorted in barely-restrained rage. “This is for Bryant” he screamed suddenly, “and the countless others who have fallen because of your treachery.”
The squire raised his right foot and placed it squarely on the traitor’s chest, pushing him down under the surface of the shallow black water, ignoring the pleading look in his eyes.
“Shouldn’t we take him back alive?” Ebenezer said. For a moment his concentration slipped and the rune flared dangerously.
“There may not be a city left to return to” the squire said flatly, staring down at the traitor, who splashed feebly in an attempt to get some air. “And you should help Sir Tiffy.”
Ebenezer moved to where the old knight lay, and crouched to place his arm around Sir Tiffy’s shoulders. The knight breathed steadily.
“I’ll help you when I’ve finished here,” Marius said. Ebenezer noted the tears on the young man’s face. “We’ll take Sir Tiffy back to the city and see what the situation is. If Falador still resists, then we shall join the fight, and if we win we shall return here to retrieve the bodies of Sir Pallas and Sir Erical.”
“What about him?” Ebenezer asked as the splashing ceased at the squire’s feet.
“I think this will be a suitable place for him to spend eternity,” Marius said as he drove his sword into the traitor’s body to be sure his betrayal was ended.
Together, the squire and the alchemist carried Sir Tiffy from the chamber, their way lit by Ebenezer’s burning rune.
None could stand against Kara. The blades of her enemies broke against her own, while their armour was useless against the adamant weapon.
A young Kinshra warrior covered his eyes with his hands as he grasped at his wounded forehead. Kara ran him through with a single thrust, then stepped behind him, withdrawing her sword to deliver a killing blow on the back of his neck.
With every enemy that fell before her, her rage only increased. She had forgotten mercy and put aside forgiveness.
Gar’rth fought at her side, without a weapon. He used his speed and hideous strength, clawing and sometimes biting. For he no longer resembled a human. His skin had taken on the grey hue, its thickness turning away the thrusts of his desperate enemies. His eyes were black pools of infinite darkness, and his jaw was grotesquely extended. And while each blow hurt him, none had cut him.
On her other side was Doric. The dwarf drove the edge of his shield into the stomach of a Kinshra soldier. As the man doubled over he smashed his axe into the man’s face, felling him instantly. The Kinshra will to fight was lost, and he watched with growing sadness as Kara slew men who were trying to flee.
Riding behind them, Castimir picked his targets sparingly. He, too, noted Kara’s rage. The wizard looked to Doric and the dwarf shook his head bitterly.
“I’ll seek Theodore” Castimir said. “There is no need for this to continue.”
With a grim look as Kara ignored a plea for mercy, the wizard turned his horse and galloped west.
Sulla looked back at his army. Dozens were running now, stripping their armour and discarding their weapons as they fled. It was turning into a rout.
“It is lost to us, Sulla,” one of his bodyguards said, using his name as if he were a common soldier. “Kara- Meir has defeated us!”
He held his anger. He knew no one could reverse the outcome of the battle now. It was better to live than to die.
“Give the order to retreat” he said. After a moment’s hesitation, a messenger left to convey the instruction.
Sulla closed his eyes in anger. He knew the Kinshra ways-as the commander who had planned and executed what had resulted in their greatest defeat for decades, he would be vulnerable to those who sought to remove him. And he knew such an end would not be quick.
He needed a victory.
Theodore rode east toward Kara’s banner. He knew she had deliberately led her soldiers into battle against the largest part of the Kinshra army, to personally slay as many of the enemy as she could.
The squire had ridden for only a minute when he heard the challenge. He pulled his mare up short and looked back to where a Kinshra horseman levelled a bloodied sword at him. Theodore raised his own sword and bowed his head in acknowledgement.
Both horses charged.
Both men yelled.
Theodore had practised for years in the lists of the knights, and he was regarded as one of the finest warriors of his group. But his enemy was a Kinshra officer with years of experience behind him.
As they closed, the squire leaned forward to extend his reach, intending to run his sword through his enemy’s throat. Yet somehow the Kinshra officer parried his blade and delivered a stroke of his own, striking Theodore’s breastplate and knocking him from the saddle. He landed painfully.
Swiftly the squire stood, his breathing tortuous. The blade hadn’t penetrated his armour, but the fall had winded him.
The Kinshra warrior turned his horse slowly, taunting him. The man sheathed his blade and pulled from his belt a morning star. He swung the weapon in slow circles, which became faster as the iron ball pulled at the chain. With another cry, he charged.
