Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

In the moon’s glow, his blade, his armour, and his eyes would shine bright.

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.

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.