Craig Saunders - Tides of Rythe

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 decisive 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.

“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.

“Follow my lead,” said Disper, his voice gnarled but untroubled. He did not seem moved that his brethren fought without him. He was motionless on his steed, the three men’s horses snickering behind his, their reins loose in his hand. “If we fall, I am to take you to safety. We will wait here.”

His tone brooked no argument. Tirielle did not feel inclined to argue. The fight had not left her, but she could see the sense in it. If the Sard could not defeat the enemy, they would need as much of a lead as they could get.

Make it back, willed Tirielle.

In moments the triangle broke aside for the mounted Sard. The charge was swift and decisive. Striking down at the Protectorate from above, heads were split and collarbones shattered. The enemy wore no helms. They had little time to regret it. Quintal’s horse wheeled among them, kicking out and barging aside warriors as if they were saplings to be trampled. The horse was a valuable weapon. There was much of warfare the world could learn from the Sard. Their experience, their unique talents, would be needed if she were ever to defeat the Protocrats. No warrior she knew could have stood against the Protocrats, who fought like Tenthers…if they had been born of demons. They were unbelievably swift. Had it not been the Sard fighting them…

It was carnage, and Tirielle lost sight of j’ark among the havoc. Quintal’s horse forged a path through for the Sard — they no longer tried to hold the bridge, but fought their way to the other side, slaying Protocrat’s on each side, swords hacking into the enemy from all sides now. There was a moment when the Protectorate forces held, and then, like a cork from a bottle, like fell back from the bridge. On open ground the Sard could bring five horses to bear, and Roth, too, was a dervish among them. It never seemed to tire of the slaughter.

The last of the soldiers fell to Quintal’s sword. A few had been knocked over the side of the bridge, and were floundering in the deep, filthy canal. Disper rode forward, and Carth and Typraille mounted. j’ark was revived and Tirielle’s heart leapt with relief. She loved him and she did not care if the emotion was not returned. She would be torn apart again, should he fall. She had only ever loved one man before, and she had thought her heart would wither in sorrow when he had died. She could not bear such a loss again. If only she could hold her love in, be cold, barren…but she could not. She was a creature of passions.

He had to be helped into the saddle, but once there he seemed to revive a little. He looked like a beggar in his blood soaked and filthy cloak, compared to the Sard in their shimmering white cloaks, but his head was held high, and even with his pale face she thought him the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

But there was no time for fancy.

The Sard wheeled. Ordinary tenthers appeared, if tenthers could be considered an ordinary threat, streaming out of the alleyways and thoroughfares of Beheth’s city streets. At least they had been distracted, searching the west of the city for Roth. The eastern gates should still be clear…