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“Wait!” Cathan cried. He stopped in his tracks, turning to run after the Knights. “What are you doing?”
Hearing him, Gareth twisted in his saddle and shook his head. “This isn’t your fight, lad.”
“But… there’s only six of you, and there’s-” Cathan broke off, waving at the onrushing horsemen.
“Yes,” Gareth said, “and Draco Paladin willing, it will be enough.”
Their eyes met through the slits of his helmet, and Cathan saw a determination that made him pull up short. He had never seen a man glad to die, but here it was. He couldn’t know for sure because of the helmet, but he felt certain the Knight was smiling. Eyes stinging with tears, he turned around again and ran back toward the bridge.
Ilista was standing beneath a looming statue, urging villagers across the chasm, when she heard the first clash of steel on steel. She turned, already knowing what she would see. She’d heard Gareth call to his men, and had known his intent. Even so, a gasp racked her throat when she beheld the Knights.
They had spread out across the path, the thi
It couldn’t last. The Scatas’ officers bawled at them, shouting furious orders, and quickly the soldiers firmed up, their ranks closing once more. They came on again, swords rising and falling, spears thrusting with vicious precision. Gareth’s men held firm, but even so they soon suffered their first loss: a red-haired Knight of the Crown who took a spear through his breastplate, then collapsed with a crash. His fellows didn’t pause, though: quickly the Knights spread out further, evening the spaces between them.
Watching, Ilista felt a rush of emotion-admiration, dread, sorrow, guilt. Another Knight went down, his neck pouring blood where a Scata’s sword had nearly severed it. The others spaced out again, spreading even further. It was too little now, though, and the line started giving ground, fighting with redoubled fury as they backed their horses toward the bridge.
Someone caught her arm, snapping her back to her senses: Tavarre. His eyes were alive with stubborn fire. “Your Grace!” he exclaimed. “You must get across! I’ll keep people moving here-go with Beldyn!”
He pointed, and she looked. While she’d been watching the battle, the young bandit-what was his name?-had gotten to Beldyn and was escorting him across the bridge, surrounded by throngs of villagers. Swallowing, she signed the triangle over Tavarre. He pushed her away, propeEing her after the monk.
Quickly she reached the bridge and began to follow Beldyn and the young bandit. Halfway across, she looked over the bridge’s crumbling rail, then quickly away. The gorge was deep, the foaming Edessa so far below that it seemed a white line tumbling among the stones. The wind gusted across the bridge, flapping her robes, threatening to fling her out into the void. She shut her eyes a moment, taking deep breaths, and pushed on to the chasm’s far side.
When she reached it, she glanced back. Only three Knights remained, fighting furiously as they backed toward the gorge. She shook her head at the sight, wondering how Gareth and his men could stand before the press at all.
Beldyn was to her left, waving from where he stood with young Cathan-that was his name!-at the foot of the statue that had completely fallen to ruin. Bits of rubble overgrown with moss and ivy lay scattered about the carved warrior’s feet. He gestured, beaming, and she went. Beldyn’s eyes were shut, his face blank, and he clutched his medallion in his hand.
“You must be my eyes, Efisa,” he said. “Tell me when to act.” Bowing his head, he began to pray.
Ilista wasted no time. Hitching up her robes, she climbed onto the shattered statue’s pedestal and looked back. The last of the refugees were on the bridge now, clumped together as they made their way across. Tavarre and Vedro brought up the rear, shouting obscenities and waving their arms as they herded the villagers along.
Farther on, she saw a flash of sunlight on armor as Sir Reginar fell before the Scatas, dropping to his knees with a sword wound in his side, then vanishing into the press. Sir Gareth, the bravest and stoutest, was alone now, almost at the chasm, battling furiously. His horse was gone, and his armor was awash with blood, though she couldn’t tell how much was his enemies’ and how much his own.
“Be ready!” she called to Beldyn.
Somehow, Gareth held the bridge. His sword snapped as he parried a slash from a Scata, and the blade glinted as it tumbled into the gorge. He didn’t seem to notice-undaunted, he fought on with the weapon’s broken stump. His shield, battered and gashed, finally split in two. He flung the pieces at the riders then drew a dagger from his belt.
“For the Lightbringer!” he bellowed, and hurled himself at the soldiers with the last of his strength.
Then he was gone.
Ilista stared, horrified, as Gareth disappeared among the Scatas. Shaking, she looked to the bridge. The last of the refugees were stepping off the span now, Tavarre and Vedro shoving them onto solid ground. The first of the Scatas started across, a thicket of spearheads extended before them. Ilista swallowed, touching her medallion.
“Now, Beldyn!” she cried.
At once, the young monk opened his eyes. Blue fire danced within them as he flung out his right arm, then he raised his voice in a shout that lashed the air like a thunderclap.
“Pridud!” he cried. Break!
A rumble shook the ground, startling the villagers and making the Scatas’ horses rear. The bridge shuddered, dust and chips of stone showering into the chasm. The noise of the tremor echoed among the hills, like the growl of some long-vanished dragon.
Sparks flared from Beldyn’s fingertips as he turned his outstretched hand palm upwards. “Pridud!”
The earth trembled again, louder and harder. On either side of the chasm, men drew back, shouting in terror. The headless statue collapsed altogether, tumbling into the gorge, and spider-web cracks spread across the bridge, shaking flagstones loose. The soldiers on the span turned, desperate, trying to flee to their fellows.
With a snap, Beldyn’s fingers curled into a fist.
“PRIDUD!”
The silver light flared around Beldyn, blossoming from his hand to engulf him, then flashing outward in a rippling wave that struck the bridge like a dwarf-smith’s hammer. As it did, the ground shook so violently Ilista had to clutch to the ruined statue’s ankle to steady herself. Everywhere, men and women stumbled and fell. The bridge bucked, twisting horribly as more and more cracks widened all over it. The Scatas all but hurled themselves back toward solid ground beneath Beldyn’s holy fire.
With an awful rending sound, the bridge burst asunder, sending stones and soldiers and horses alike thundering into the frothing river below. At the same time, Beldyn began to fall as well, his knees buckling as Cathan reached out and grabbed him, easing him to the ground.
The refugees walked on as the sun disappeared behind the Khalkists, the first stars agleam in the darkening sky. They moved slowly, their pursuers left behind, stranded by the bridge’s collapse. The deaths of the Knights weighed heavily on them all.