Up the road, where the cloaked figure and a number of others stood, an angry shout went up in a voice that chilled her, though she had no idea why.
The four marauders on foot before her slowed, trying to maintain her attention so that she would not notice the two others approaching from the rear. She waited, keeping her back to the closer phalanx, until she knew they were close enough, and then spun and jumped, laying on the two closer ones.
The sword rang out with a note of vengeance, the flames leaping from the blade, as she struck, two-handed, first across the eyes of one, then returned a quick sweep back, slashing the throat of the other. With her eyes closed she could not see the flashes of astonishment on their faces before they began to drown in their own blood, but she had already turned to set against the charge from behind her.
She was laying about her capably, slashing at hands that tried to subdue her, lunging away from poles swung to knock her feet out from under her, following the patterns of her training and her deep elemental bond to the ancient weapon, when Anborn reached the carriage.
The heavy thudding of his crossbow firing, catching the assailants’ notice for a split second, gave her the opportunity to drive her blade deeply into the stomach of one who had rushed her from behind, impaling him as he reached for her. Anborn fired again, a double bolt shot that dropped another horseman, then turned to behead a foot soldier who was trying to knock Rhapsody to the ground with a polearm.
With the speed and synchronicity born of training from the same master, the two silently divided up the attackers, turning their attentions to the targets each had chosen. Anborn reloaded one-handed and fired again, taking down a horseman who was charging, then turned the hilt of his sword upward, clenching his teeth, and brought it down with all the strength he could muster on the head of the marauder who stood beneath him. Following his lead, Rhapsody dodged and ran, leading those on her into the path of his bolts.
Another shout went up from the road, a ringing voice shouting orders, as the figure in the cloak began striding toward the fray.
From behind him another group of seven men on horseback rode forth, barreling down the road, as the archers dipping their arrows into the flaming barrel again.
The last of the fourteen immediate attackers vanquished, Anborn urgently put out his arm to her, leaning forward in the saddle.
“Rhapsody! Come!”
She leapt over the writhing body in front of her and ran to Anborn, reaching for him, preparing to be hoisted onto the horse before him.
Archers, aim for the horse,” the seneschal said. “Caius—take the rider.”
She was within a half-dozen yards of Anborn when the beautiful black stallion lurched and stumbled, then crumpled to the ground, throwing the General, who had himself pitched to the side, tumbling headfirst off its back.
Her concentration shattered, Rhapsody gasped in horror and bolted for her friend. She covered the last few feet by sliding to her knees, covering him with her body, desperately checking him for signs of life. His clothes were burning; she snuffed the flames with a word, struggling to stanch the tears that had sprung into her eyes.
The General lay on his back, his eyes glassy but focused on her. He attempted to smile, his clammy hand trembling as it patted her, in a futile gesture of comforting reassurance.
“Get out of here, you pretty fool,” he whispered hoarsely. “You are outnumbered, and they are coming.”
In the distance the seneschal peered through the flames, and saw her bending over the body of the rider.
Whore, muttered the demon. Miserable, rutting whore.
Rage burned in his brain, a fury that was his own, not that of the F’dor.
He grasped the hilt of Tysterisk, not breaking his stride, and pulled it angrily from its scabbard.
As the elemental sword of wind came forth, it brought with it a gust as stiff as a gale. From the burning forest floor a wind-devil rose, funneling currents of air that caught the sparks from the burning carriage and swept them through the forest glade, igniting it. The green leaves, hithertofore resistant to the smoldering fire from the carriage, succumbed to the hot, burning wind and tore with flame, lighting the sky with an intensity vastly brighter than daylight.
The seneschal gestured to the horsemen.
“Dismount,” he said sharply. “The horses will not know they are safe from the fire with me. Follow.” Rhapsody felt the fire rise, felt the heat around her increase to the point of scorching, watching the skin on Anborn’s face begin to blister with it.
She looked over her shoulder to where the riders and the cloaked figure had been, and saw that they were still coming, moving quickly through the flames.
She turned back to the General, who was starting to go gray, even in the bright orange light of the burning forest.
“You must help me, Anborn,” she said softly. “Live; I need you.”
The General blinked but said nothing.
Rhapsody bent closer and whispered in his ear. “I cannot escape them,” she said. “I cannot see well enough; there are too many of them. I cannot allow Daystar Clarion to fall into their hands; you understand the import of this.”
The glassy eyes of the General cleared for an instant, then began to cloud over again.
Quickly Rhapsody traded swords with him, rolling him onto his side and slipping Daystar Clarion beneath his rigid body, then took his hand and concentrated on his true name, speaking it to heal him, to make him whole with it.
“Anborn ap Gwylliam, heal,” she commanded in her Namer’s voice. “Rest in curative slumber, appear lifeless until these men leave.” She chanted his name over and over, keeping an eye on the shapes approaching rapidly through the billowing smoke of the fire.
The General’s eyes cleared, and the color returned to his skin at her words. He tried to rise, but Rhapsody pushed him gentry back to the ground and bent so that her lips were next to his ear.
“The sword will protect you from the flames,” she whispered. “Keep it safe, Anborn. The foresters will come when they see the fire; if you wait here, and feign death, help will come. Can you hear me?”
Anborn nodded slightly and closed his eyes.
The marauders were now within twenty yards. Rhapsody leaned over Anborn, her chest against his shoulder, and kissed his cheek.
“Live, live for me, Anborn,” she said. “Get word to Ashe about what happened here; tell him, the children, and my Bolg friends that I love them. Remember that I love you as well.”
The General squeezed her hand. An understanding passed between them, the instinctive shared comprehension of the duty, of harsh reality, and of what Kinsmen do when death looms.
Rhapsody stood, Anborn’s sword in her hand, struggling to regain her concentration, and stared into the swimming conflagration before her.
The figure in the cloak gestured to the others.
Three of the men stopped and trained their crossbows on her.
The other four, armed with swords, knives, and poles, began circling, splitting up to surround her.
As the marauders closed ranks around her, a detail occurred to her, pathetic in its irrelevance. She concentrated on the fire within her, calling forth a sliver of flame that licked up the blade of Anborn’s sword, a pale imitation of the rolling waves of Daystar Clarion, so that if her assailants had discerned the fiery blade they would not notice the difference. The irony and insignificance to her impending confrontation made her snort with wry amusement.
“Drop your weapon,” said the figure in the cloak in the common tongue.
There was something chillingly familiar in his voice, an aspect that made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. She stood stock-still, refusing to dignify his command with a response.