Tides of Rythe trt-2 Page 23

  “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 from 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 w
ill 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.

  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 d
ecisive 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.

  “He lives yet, Sister,” she told her, turning her eyes to Tirielle. The sadness in her face brought Tirielle’s fear to the fore. There was something in her words, a hint of something that Tirielle did not want to voice. She turned her head away from the battle. She could not watch.