Father Thomas grabbed him by his other arm and was trying to pull him to the side of the road.
"One on the left," he heard Collin yell. "Two more on the right."
"Here come the rest," Fergus shouted as he fired an arrow.
He heard a man scream as arrows from both Collin and Fergus found their mark in his chest at the same time. Buzzing sounds from more arrows filled the air as the mercenaries began to arrive. To his right, Daniel went down with a shaft through his thigh.
When you're shot, it's usually the shock that kills you and not the wound, his father had once told him.
Mathew fought to clear his head. Twice he tried to form thoughts of wind or fire, but whatever connection he had to the ring seemed to have deserted him. Through a haze, he saw Lara and Father Thomas, swords in hand, standing in front of him.
It was safe to say that the last thing the mercenaries expected as they made their way up the remaining grade into the pass was the insane charge of Gawl, who crashed into them screaming at the top of his lungs and wielding his huge broadsword, followed by Fergus Gibb and his limping brother Akin.
Mathew managed to get unsteadily to his feet and draw his sword. To his surprise, instead of seeing just the black uniforms of Vargoth, he also saw flashes of scarlet and gold cloaks among them as well. He blinked and looked again. Soldiers of both the Elgarian Royal Guard and Duke Kraelin's troops burst into the pass. They were hacking down the Vargothans left and right. Meanwhile, Gawl, roaring his fearsome battle cry, waded in among them, dealing death with every massive swing of his sword. It was frightening to watch.
In the midst of the battle, Mathew spotted a tall figure on horseback clad in battered gold chain mail rise in his stirrups and yell out, "To me, Elgaria! Rally to me!"
A contingent of soldiers formed around the man and drove the mercenaries up into the pass. The Elgarians went mad, fighting with terrible ferocity. More black uniforms were going down before the onslaught than were standing.
Abruptly, four of the mercenaries broke away from the fight. "There!" one of them shouted, pointing at Mathew. "He's there!" and charged directly at where he, Father Thomas, and Lara were standing.
Mathew was having trouble focusing. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. Father Thomas and Lara stepped forward to meet them. The soldiers were barely twenty yards from them now. With the arrow still lodged deep in his shoulder, Mathew steadied himself and staggered to his right. Blood continued to flow freely down his left arm. He braced himself.
Mathew saw Collin dashing back to help, but knew he would never make it in time. The first soldier was nearly on them.
Then Father Thomas moved. With precise timing, he sidestepped the first man, ducking under his blade. In a flash he thrust his own sword deep into the man's side. The soldier screamed and crumpled, falling face forward to the ground. Mathew tried to get between Lara and the next man, but his legs seemed to be made of lead. He was close enough to see the beads of sweat on the Vargothan's face. The man's cold, hard eyes were intent on her. With his lips pulled back in a snarl, he thrust his sword directly at Lara's chest.
Lara saw it too. Just as Father Thomas had taught her, she executed the parry. Her hand yielded backward, turning the blade aside and using the man's own momentum against him. The mercenary realized what was happening too late, and tried desperately to twist his body out of the way to avoid the point of the blade she left in line with his chest. Shock and anger registered on his face, followed by surprise as he careened forward, impaling himself on her weapon. He was dead before he hit the ground. Lara put her foot on the soldier's chest and pulled her weapon free. The third soldier died when Collin's arrow took him in the back of the neck, firing as he ran.
Neither Father Thomas nor Lara was in time to stop the fourth soldier, who crashed past them and directly into Mathew. With every bit of speed he was still able to call upon, Mathew parried upward, sweeping his line from low to high, deflecting the thrust that surely would have ended his life. He immediately lowered his shoulder and drove forward, catching the man full in the abdomen. With the last strength left in his legs, Mathew lifted straight upward and arched his back, tossing the soldier over his head.
Off his feet, the soldier desperately reached for anything he could get hold of. He found the arrow lodged in Mathew's shoulder and grabbed it. The pain was excruciating. Mathew gasped in shock as breath left his body and a black curtain settled over his eyes.
33
Lower Elgaria, Town of Tremont
He had no idea where he was or how long he lay there. From somewhere far off, he heard voices, distant and faint. Gradually they got louder, and he felt himself swimming up to a world of light and sound once again. When Mathew finally opened his eyes and looked around, he found he was lying on a cot. His left shoulder was bandaged and his arm was held fast across his chest in a sling. He tested the shoulder, moving it just a bit. It hurt, but not objectionably so—less than he thought it would, actually. Cautiously, he began to orient himself to his surroundings. The terrible fatigue he felt earlier seemed to be gone, along with the headache. He rolled over onto his good side, propped himself up on one elbow and saw Lara asleep in a chair on the opposite side of the room. There was a blanket covering her. The light coming through the window was gray, making it difficult to tell whether it was early morning or dusk. Morning, he decided after a moment. Raindrops dotted the windowpane.
In the opposite comer of the room, his sword was propped up against a chest of drawers, and someone— Lara, he assumed—had folded his breeches and shirt and placed them at the end of his bed. With a start, he realized the ring was no longer on his finger. It was back on the leather cord, hanging from his neck again. He didn't even remember taking it off.
Mathew swung his feet to the floor and reached for his clothes. The fact that he was still alive and Lara was sitting nearby, he took to be a positive sign.
He was quietly slipping his foot into his breeches, trying not to wake her, when he heard her say, "You have a cute bottom."
It surprised him so much he nearly lost his balance and fell over.
She laughed—a rich silvery sound.
"You nearly scared me to death," he said, catching his breath. "How long have I been asleep?"
"All of yesterday and through the night. The sun's only just come up," she said, glancing out of the window.
"Where are we?"
"In Tremont," she replied.
He realized that he was standing with one leg in his breeches and one leg out, so he hopped to the other side of the bed and finished dressing. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lara watching him. When he slipped his arm out of the sling to put his shirt on, she got up from the chair and quickly crossed the room to help him.
That was when he knew something was wrong.
Normally, Lara would have ordered him back into bed, but she was helping him. Not exactly in character, he thought.
He winced as she stood on tiptoe and pulled the shirt over his head, gently guiding his left arm through the sleeve.
"What is it?" he asked.
She looked up at him but didn't answer right away.
Mathew's chest tightened. "The others?"
"Shh," she said. "They're fine. The doctor's seen Daniel and he'll recover. He probably won't be able to walk for a while. Everyone else is all right. You should have seen Gawl. He's the most frightening thing. He really is the King of Sennia, Mathew."
"Then what is it?" he asked again.
Lara leaned forward, put her head on his chest and gently rubbed her face against his good shoulder. "When I saw that arrow strike you, I thought you were
Tears welled up in her eyes. A second later she began sobbing and kissing his face all at the same time. He al-
ways felt particularly stupid when women cried around him, and at that moment it was the last thing he wanted to deal with. But not knowing what else to do, he responded by stroking her hair and soothing
her until she calmed down.
"I love you," he whispered in her ear.
It was the first time he could recall actually saying those words, but they were natural and honest-—and he meant it with all his heart.
Lara pushed away from him and stepped back. She searched his face and found nothing but candor there. She pulled him closer to her and put her head back on his chest.
"I love you too," she said softly.
They stood there holding each other for a time. Neither spoke, but it didn't matter. Eventually, Mathew became aware of the voices he heard earlier, and realized they were coming from the floor below him.
"I'd better go," he said in her ear. "I need to talk with Father Thomas."
"He's downstairs. They're expecting you."
Mathew frowned. "Expecting me?"
Lara took a deep breath.
"You might as well hear it now. You'll hear it soon enough anyway. There's an Orlock army thirty miles from Ardon field. That's where our people are camped. Duren's soldiers and the Bajan army are expected in the morning. Since last night, our people have been busy holding off the Vargothans. They've been trying to break through on the Coast Road. No one can use the cliff passes anymore, thanks to you."
"Has there been any word about the Sennians or the Mirdites?" Mathew asked.
"Prince Delain says the Mirdites are making a forced march, but they probably won't arrive in time. Neither will the Sennians."
"In time?"
Lara looked like she was about to say something else but then decided against it. Instead, she turned and looked out the window, watching the rain.
"Lara." Mathew spoke her name quietly.
She didn't turn around. She just continued to stare out of the window, her arms crossed in front of her, holding her elbows. "I'm scared, Mathew." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Duren's on his way here, and we're so badly outnumbered. What's going to happen to us?"
"I don't know," he said quietly.
"There are so many of them. The stories they've been telling about what happened at Anderon are just—"
"Shh," he said, gently turning her to face him.
"But—"
He cut her off with a shake of his head.
She looked up at him expectantly, her eyes bright with tears. There was a mixture of hope and uncertainty on her face. He knew she wanted him to solve the problem, to make things better. Only he wasn't sure an answer existed.
Mathew hugged her again, then turned and quickly left the room.
Once in the hallway, he leaned against the wall as his mind was suddenly assailed by images of the mercenaries' faces looking up in horror at the tons of rock poured down on their heads. He closed his eyes tightly and took two deep breaths, telling himself they were the same people who had killed little children and women without mercy or compassion. An image of their faces buried beneath the earth and boulders almost caused him to stagger. Mathew clenched his jaw so tight it hurt. It seemed impossible to shut them out of his consciousness, but finally he managed it. He took another deep breath, then swallowed, located the staircase, and went down.
The room was filled with soldiers, at least twenty of them. They were dressed in the colors of the Elgarian army as well as in the brown cloaks of Duke Kraelin. It only took him a second to pick out Gawl seated against the back wall with Father Thomas and two other men. One was Jerrel Rozon and the other was the man he had seen in the pass.
The moment Mathew crossed the room, many of the conversations seemed to trail away. All four men at the table got up as he approached. Gawl, of course, dwarfed everybody. The King of Sennia's face relaxed into a smile that didn't seem nearly as intimidating as he remembered it. He extended a hand that swallowed Mathew's completely.
"This is the young man we were talking about," Gawl's deep voice rumbled.
The man next to him nodded and said simply, "I am Delain. Well met, Master Lewin. Well met, indeed."
With a shock, Mathew realized that he was standing in front of the Prince of Elgaria and immediately started to bow, but Delain stopped him.
"Time enough for all that later," he said, extending his hand. "I believe circumstances prevented our being formally introduced yesterday. Mathew, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir," Mathew replied, flustered.
Delain was an inch or two taller than him, with a slender frame. He possessed a fine rich voice and a handsome face, with dark hair that was going gray at the temples. On his forehead, about an inch over his left eye was a recent scar that ran into his hairline.
"Be seated, Mathew," Delain said, and he and the others seated themselves as well. Then he turned and addressed a grizzled-looking veteran with an eye patch at the table next to theirs. "Targil, this young man must be hungry. Do you think we might convince the proprietor to bring him some food?"
"At once, your highness," the man replied, getting to his feet. "I'll see to it myself."
"Oh, and Targil—"
"I know," he replied, holding up his hand. The man looked directly at Mathew with his good eye and gave him a quick wink before heading off toward the kitchen.
"The owner of this establishment is a sanguine fellow who tends to short the portions of inattentive guests with admirable impartiality," the prince explained.
Mathew smiled and nodded, mindful that Gawl had said they were discussing him.
"I see our surgeon has you wrapped up. How are you feeling today?"
"Quite well, your highness. Thank you."
"Delain will do. At the moment, I'm the prince of a kingdom on the verge of extinction, and the ruler of a country whose capital and palace have been destroyed. I should have seen this coming and acted sooner."
The apology wasn't directed to Mathew or anyone else in particular.
"Delain," Gawl chided from across the table, shaking his head slightly.
"No, my friend. The fault is mine," Delain said.
Mathew could hear the bitterness in his voice.
"My father and thousands of my people are dead because I failed to perceive what was going on around me. Unless we can find a way to stop Duren and the Orlocks, Elgaria will be lost."
"Well, we're not dead yet," Father Thomas said.
The others who stood around the table nodded in agreement, except Delain, who smiled sadly and scanned the room.
So much pain, Mathew thought.
"They're not invincible, your highness," Rozon said. "We've good men here yet and Duren is still a long way from his goal."
"Not as far as you might think," the prince answered.
"Then shouldn't we do something?" Mathew asked.
"That seems to be the question, doesn't it?" Delain answered. "But what? Man for man, I believe we could hold our own until the Mirdites and Sennians arrive to reinforce us. But this power of Duren's... I confess, I am at a loss as to how to fight against it."
"Our men do not lack courage," Jerrel Rozon said, "but it is difficult to send them against walls of fire and buildings collapsing about their heads."
The general added a brief nod of acknowledgment to Mathew.
"Forgive me, your high—Delain, but there are no buildings where the Orlocks are camped," Mathew said.
He heard the words coming out and felt his face growing red at the same time, but having committed himself, he had no choice but to proceed.
The prince looked at Mathew. "Your point?"
"I admit I don't know much about these things, but it seems to me we're waiting for Duren to come to us. So are the Orlocks, or they wouldn't have made camp. They would have attacked immediately."
Mathew glanced quickly at Jerrel Rozon, who folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his seat.
"The boy's right, Delain," Gawl said. "We're evenly matched with the Orlocks. I say we meet the problem before it meets us."
Delain glanced around the table and saw similar sentiment on the other faces. When he didn't respond right away, Mathew had the i
mpression the prince was wrestling with something.
"Let us say we do commit our army to engage the Orlocks," Delain finally said. "We'll still have to deal with Duren on the morrow, and thus far we have been less than successful in doing that. We lost at Anderon, Stermark, and Toland. We have fewer men now than we did three weeks ago, and if the information you provided Gawl is correct, it appears Nyngary and Cincar have cast their lot with Alor Satar. How can we hope to prevail against such odds?"
"We'll do what we can do—what we must, your highness," Jerrel Rozon said.
"There is enough blood on my hands already. The thought of thousands more . . ." Delain's voice trailed off and he stared into the large cup of tea in front of him, absently stirring it with his forefinger.
Mathew watched him carefully. While the prince was preoccupied with his own thoughts, it occurred to him just how heavy a burden Delain was carrying. Not just for himself, but for all the soldiers he led and all of the people of his country. They were fighting for its very existence.
"Duren holds a particular hatred for my family," De-lain went on after a minute. "It was to my father that he surrendered at the end of the Sibuyan War. I was younger then, not much older than you, Mathew, but I can still remember. I could almost feel the hatred flowing from him when he walked past me in the Great Hall."
Targil returned carrying a plate of eggs and cheese for Mathew. He looked quickly from Delain to Jerrel Rozon, and then at Gawl, before shaking his head and putting the plate down.
"Thank you," Mathew said. Targil replied with a curt nod and returned to his own table.
"I have decided to give myself over to Duren and sue for peace. At least it will stop more people from dying, and perhaps some part of what we are will survive."
Jerrel Rozon and Father Thomas were immediately on their feet. Gawl, however, remained where he was, watching Delain.
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 41
