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Paedrin frowned with concentration. Closing his eyes again increased the speed as he plunged the Sword through the rider’s back, impaling him, knocking him from the saddle. He had buried the sword to the hilt in the rider’s back and the rider twisted sideways as he fell from the saddle. Paedrin released the blade to avoid being trapped in the fall. He felt the magic release him and landed in a low stance, one arm extended for balance, striking a pose.
The rider stood, still bearing the blade inside his body. No blood came from the wound. In one hand, he gripped the chained weapon, swinging it around toward Paedrin’s head. The Bhikhu ducked even lower and did a quick forward roll, then tried to sweep the rider’s legs from under him. But it was like striking a rooted tree. He felt the jarring impact, the immovable presence, and realized with dread he was facing a being that was not mortal. The chain came around again, and he barely managed to dodge it. The rider faced him, the blade sticking from his chest, and Paedrin felt his stomach lurch with the loss of his blade.
The other horse and rider still bore down on Baylen, and Paedrin saw there was no chance the Cruithne could reach the ramp in time, not against a charging beast.
The distraction nearly cost Paedrin his life. He arched backward, felt the sting of one of the ball’s spurs cut his chin and realized it had nearly knocked his head off. He flipped over and backward, landing on his feet again, his face burning with pain.
Paedrin charged the dark rider, inhaling, and felt himself soar up above his enemy. His momentum would have carried him far over, but he puffed out his breath and came straight down on him, landing on the shoulders. Paedrin slid down his back, found the hilt and pulled the blade free. He was backhanded by a gauntleted fist and an explosion of light danced in his eyes as he realized his cheekbone had been broken. Pain rocked him backward, but he had no time to think. Invoking the weapon’s magic, he sailed up and away, arcing toward the final charging horseman from behind.
Baylen had turned to face the attacker, squatting low and holding one of his broadswords in two hands to slash the beast’s legs out from under it—or get crushed himself. Paedrin infused the Sword with his need, increasing speed, and watched as Baylen executed his bold maneuver, lunging away from the steed while slashing at its forelegs with his sword. The rider had anticipated his intent and leapt free of the saddle as the horse was cut down. As Baylen rolled to his feet, the spiked ball struck him full in the chest, throwing him from his feet at least a dozen paces, where he landed on his back.
Paedrin swore under his breath and sailed past the horseman, banking slightly to pass him, and landed where Baylen had fallen. The Cruithne’s face contorted with pain. The front of his chest armor was caved in where the ball had struck him and red stains appeared around the gashes.
“Up,” Paedrin urged, grabbing Baylen’s hand, and helped pull him to his feet. “Hide in the ruins up there. I’ll find you.”
“Better than standing and fighting these things,” Baylen said, huffing and grimacing with pain. He massaged his massive chest and winced anew.
“Run,” Paedrin said, dragging him toward the ramp. The three enemies advanced relentlessly, one of their steeds thrashing in agony on the turf. An arrow was loosed and Paedrin knocked it aside with his blade.
“It’s the only way up or down,” Baylen said, nodding toward the ramp.
“I can get us down again another way. Getting up is the hard part. Go!”
As Baylen worked his way up the steep slope of the ramp, Paedrin left him and flew up to the top of the rock cleft. The promontory was a maze of tumbled stone walls and fallen buttresses. There were no surviving structures in place. Paedrin hurried in a full arcing circle around the entire structure, trying to quickly size up the dimensions of the ruins. It was as large as the Arch-Rike’s palace in Kenatos, except there was no city on an island beneath it. Every wall had crumbled to ruin, every bailey and rampant had been tossed down. At the center of the promontory, a dozen or so buttresses still stood, holding up a portion of a roof that had not caved in yet. Streamers of mist from the descending clouds began to smother the cleft, and Paedrin knew the visibility would be hampered shortly. He did not feel safe touching down on the ground yet, not without a chance to search for enemies, so he alighted on the top of the buttresses, on the apex where the stones joined to lend their strength to the roof. He touched it with featherlight weight, testing to see if it would give way, but the stone had survived despite the winds and storms of previous generations and it held him up well.
Mist crept in streamers along the stones, feeding down into the lengths below. How strange it was that mist should appear so suddenly, obscuring things when the day earlier had been . . .
