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They only made it a few steps backward.
Sorasa turned toward the entrance hall and freedom, Corayne safe in her grip.
Again the lightning crackled up the assassin’s spine.
Thirteen figures stood across the entrance hall, their forms sharp against the dying light spilling over the marble. As the undead writhed up from the vaults, so did the Amhara slither into the castle.
We are surrounded.
“Run,” Sorasa said again, softer now. Her arm unwound from Corayne’s body, one hand pushing her to the side, to the other corridors branching away. “Run.”
Corayne stared, sputtering. Her lips moved, shouting something Sorasa would not hear. She did not have the focus for it. There was only the Amhara ahead, the undead behind.
Garion was the same. Like Sorasa, he shoved Charlie away without warning. The priest fell hard but scrambled back to his feet.
“Run, church mouse,” Garion echoed, all his charm forgotten.
Andry gathered them up, Corayne and Charlie, pirate’s daughter and priest. He was their protector now. Not a squire, but a true knight, his armor donned and sword raised. Sorasa spared a single glance for him, meeting Andry’s stare. His warm eyes were black with fear, but he nodded to her. Slowly, he backed all three of them down the other corridor, away from the crossing of assassins and undead.
“Keep them safe, Andry,” Sorasa whispered.
“Follow me,” a voice said, grave and cold.
Sorasa gasped, the tiniest flicker of relief jumping up in her. “Isibel.”
How the Monarch found her way past the assassins, Sorasa did not know, but this was not the time to ask. And this was Isibel’s own fortress, her own castle. Certainly she knew it better than anyone alive.
Isibel beckoned from farther down the corridor, her armor shimmering like a mirror. Blood splattered every inch of her, but her silver hair hung free, making her seem paler in the fading light. Her ancient sword, brutal and cruel, looked worse than her armor.
“Come,” Isibel said, raising a hand to Corayne and her Companions. “I know the way.”
There was no time to argue, nor hesitate.
Corayne spared one last look for Sorasa, before Andry dragged her off. Charlie fought Andry’s grip, too, but he was no match for the squire. They disappeared after Isibel, fleeing both the crossing of the passages, and the two-pronged attack on the castle.
In a heartbeat, they faded from Sorasa’s thoughts, her mind clearing, until she felt only her dagger, and the pulse of her own heart.
A rapier swished through the air, dancing lazily in Garion’s hand. His body relaxed, fluid as a dancer as he dropped into his fighting stance. Beneath his mahogany curls, his face was bone white. He knew the danger as Sorasa did.
The clang of weapons sounded behind them, the Elders of Kovalinn standing their ground against the undead army welling up from the vaults. Their grunts of exertion echoed off the stone walls and up to the ceilings, ringing the entire castle like some horrendous bell. As their swords and axes swung, chopping limbs and severing heads, the corpses rasped. They dragged themselves inexorably up from the vaults in a grim tide, flooding Tíarma from below.
Sorasa swallowed hard.
There would be no Elder rescue from the Amhara. The Ashlanders were challenge enough.
She could only pray for the immortals behind her, and hope they held the passage. Hope someone arrived in time to save them.
Hope Isibel has the sense to get Corayne out of here, even if it means carrying her down the cliffs herself.
They were pinned, Sorasa and Garion, nailed down between the vaults and the entrance hall. Their only advantage was the high ground, small as it was, with the entryway sunken below.
The last rays of sunlight bled over the floor, and battle still raged in the field. Sorasa could hear the distant thud of catapults, the twang of arrows. Her heart rose up in her throat. Again she prayed, this time for a familiar silhouette to charge up the street. Broad shoulders and golden hair. A furious disposition.
She shook away the useless hope, squaring to the Amhara.
The Amhara only stared back, waiting for their exiled kin to strike.
Sorasa took whatever they would give. She hunted for opportunity, reading every face, noting every name, every weakness, every strength. Cataloguing all she knew of them in a heartbeat. Anything to give herself the upper hand.
