Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Trilogy) (34 page)

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 t
he 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 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.