“I’m a fool,” coughed Typraille. “Snuck right up to me. Didn’t hear a thing.”
“I only heard him because he wanted to gloat, I think. j’ark’s alright, but he can’t move, either. I can’t very well carry the two of you.”
“The feeling’s coming back,” he said. “Look, I can move my hand. If I have to I’ll crawl out of here. Did you get it?”
“I did,” said Tirielle with a smile. “Time to move on.”
“High time,” said Typraille with a grin. “Give me a good stand up fight any day. I hate assassins. All that skulduggery gives me gripe.”
Tirielle laughed easily as j’ark approached them on unsteady legs.
“He got you, too, then?”
“Aye, he did, and good. I can’t feel my legs yet.”
“My arms are still numb, but I can walk. Come on, Tirielle, between us I’m sure we can make it.”
“Wait!” whispered Tirielle, and ran to the bookshelf. Only when she had once again concealed the secret room did she return.
“If I leave it open, and the readers find it, the Protectorate will one day find the secrets within. All would be lost. If we can, we will return. I don’t know when,” she added ruefully.
J’ark nodded. Typraille tried to add his agreement, but his head merely flopped loosely against his chest.
Slowly, painfully, they walked. j’ark and Tirielle carried Typraille between them, past stunned readers, ignoring their questions. It was far from a common sight in the halls of the library. Tirielle was glad she had spared them the discovery of the dead man.
Typraille grumbled about the indignity of it all from one end of the library to the other.
“The feeling’s coming back. I think I can walk on my own, now,” said Typraille as they reached the door. J’ark was dripping with sweat from his own efforts. “Bloody head’s pounding, though.”
“We’ll be fine by the time we get back. Let’s hope Carth and Unthor can give us a shoulder to lean on.”
“I hope so, too,” said Tirielle, rubbing her sore shoulder. “You’re far too heavy.”
“All that good tavern food,” said Typraille with a grin that showed he was beginning to feel back to his old self.
Tirielle opened the door into the night. She stepped out, laughing, and a blow crashed against her head.
The red robed warriors were too fast for j’ark and Typraille. Unarmed, unarmoured and weakened as they were, they were no match for the soldiers, who held their arms without much difficulty, no matter how hard they struggled. Tirielle found herself pulled roughly upright, her arms tight against her back. She writhed and bucked, using all her strength, but could not budge his grip. She finally stopped her struggling and looked up. Her heart sank instantly.
Unthor and Carth were held fast by the arms before them, and Typraille and j’ark in their state were no match for the wiry soldiers that held them. They strained against their captors nonetheless.
“Cease your struggling, dissidents,” barked one of the Protocrats, drawing his blade and holding it against Unthor’s throat, “or I will wash the streets with this one’s blood.”
“Kill him for me,” growled Unthor, rage in his eyes.
Tirielle saw Carth nod, almost imperceptibly, out of the corner of her eye.
She saw what they were going to do, and she had no way to stop it. All she could do was help. Her heart plummeted, and silently she wished Unthor luck.
Typraille’s head reared back and knocked one captor away from him, who screamed, clutching his broken nose. Everything happened in an instant. It was all too fast, and Tirielle could not find the calm that had saved her earlier.
As Typraille swung on his other captor, the Protocrat who held the knife against Unthor’s neck shouted, “Kill him!” But he would not get the chance. Unthor bucked in his grasp, pulling himself forward to free his arm enough to reach his captor’s sword. j’ark roared in anger as Unthor moved, as if feeling his pain. Somehow Unthor’s hand was freed, and he flicked a blade from its scabbard into the air. Tirielle watched it tumble for a moment, but before she had moved she saw an all too familiar arc of blood, black in the moonlight. Spray from Unthor’s torn throat.
“No!” she cried, swinging on the Protocrat that held her, stamping as hard as she could on his foot. As Unthor died, the Protocrat let him drop. It was his last mistake. Unthor’s hand whipped the long bladed dagger he wore from his belt and slashed the inside of his killer’s leg. More blood joined the growing river pouring along the cobbled street.
“No!” cried the leader of the strangely garbed Protocrats in fury. “She is to be taken alive!”
But it was too late. Carth reared against the men holding him, as though he had been merely waiting for his moment, swinging one around by the arm into the other. They met with a loud crack of heads. He caught the sword spun into the air by his fallen brother and was suddenly transformed from bull to panther. He leapt at the soldiers, silently setting to his work. Typraille was free, and took a sword from a downed opponent. He moved with painstaking slowness, barely keeping himself alive against the swordsman he faced.
“Kill them, but I want one alive, curse you!” The Protocrat who had slaughtered Unthor capered on his toes, shouting in rage at the men who fought Typraille and Carth. Carth was by far the more effective of the two. His blade danced, and even with an unfamiliar sword he was deadly and swift. The enemy fell before him, but they were many and he was alone in the fight. Soon he would be surrounded.
The soldiers they faced were not as easy as Tenthers, and they were not overconfident. They shrank back from confrontation, blocking Carth’s furious blows and stepping back, but all the time stopping them from fleeing, circling around the huge warrior.
”They are waiting for more to come!” cried out Tirielle, impotent despite her realisation. “Run, Carth, run!” She strained against the soldier holding her tight, then followed Typraille’s lead. She flicked her head backward, and was rewarded by a satisfying crunch. Loosed, she whirled round and rammed a dagger into the man’s throat. He fell silently, and she stabbed at the man holding j’ark.
j’ark’s hand snaked down to the soldier’s sword, and was moving as soon as the blade was in his hand. He was shouting as he tore into the Protocrats. His legs betrayed him in a lunge, and he took a sword in the shoulder. Tirielle realised that had the Protocrats not wanted prisoners, they would have all been dead already. These were not mere Tenthers. These creatures were something more deadly by far.
But she did not run. Carth took two more Protocrat’s down, and turned on the last three, his blade dripping blood. The remaining Protectorate turned and ran, shouting for more of their brethren.
As with all conflict, it seemed to take an age and Tirielle’s body was racked with pain, but it had been the work of an instant.
Unthor could not be dead. What could kill a Sard? Invincible, deadly warriors…surely he was just wounded…some ruse, to lead the Protectorate astray…misdirection, that was all it was. Then the stream of blood on the cobblestones chased her lies away.
He lay in a crumpled form on the floor, next to his killer. His eyes were glazed, and expression of all too human pain on his face. The Sard died as any other man, she realised with horror, and unbearable sadness for the loss of a friend. J’ark stood, head bowed over Unthor’s body. Blood no longer flowed from the wound, and his dead eyes stared at the cold moon.
All too human, Tirielle thought, her mind a blank. All too often she had seen the dead, but never one of her friends. She stepped beside the pale-faced Protocrat, and took his dagger from his weakened hand. Kneeling beside him, she whispered, “I would not sully my own blade with your blood.”
She plunged the knife through his chest, stopping when the tip hit the cobblestones underneath. Only then did she stand, and allow herself to weep.
Typraille reached out, and with one shaking hand drew their brother’s eyes closed.
“Time to go,” said Carth, not puffing fro
m 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 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.
Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 23
