‘I know – wait-’ He stepped past her, onto the track. ‘Wait, something’s coming – quick!’ He ran into the yard, Shurq Elalle following.
The Toblakai in the Tarthenal’s arms sagged, and Iron Bars heard the cracking of ribs – a moment before one of the gods slipped past the Avowed and slammed the side of his wooden sword into the Tarthenal’s head. The huge man toppled, dragging down with him the dead god in his arms.
Stunned, the Tarthenal tried feebly to extricate himself from the corpse.
With the last of his failing strength, Iron Bars leapt over to position himself above him, arriving in time to deflect a sword-blow and counter with a slash that forced the attacker back a step. From the right, another lunged, then spun away of its own accord, wheeling towards a thunderous concussion from a nearby barrow.
Where a tall, pale figure strode into view through a cloud of steam, a sword in each hand.
The Avowed, momentarily distracted, did not even see the sword-blade that slipped over his guard and, deflected at the last moment by clipping the hilt of his sword, slammed flat like a paddle into his right shoulder, breaking everything it could. The impact sent him flying, crashing down into the earth, weapon flying from a senseless hand. He ended up lying on his back, staring up through straggly black tree branches. Too hurt to move. Too tired to care.
From somewhere to his right he heard fighting, then a grunting bellow that sounded a lot like a death-cry. A Toblakai staggered, almost stumbling over Iron Bars, and the Avowed’s eyes widened upon seeing blood spurting from two stabs in the god’s neck, and a man gnawing on its left calf, being dragged along by its teeth, its taloned hands clawing up the god’s thigh.
Well, he’d seen stranger things, he supposed – no, not a chance of that -
The ground shook as another body thumped to the ground. A moment later, there was another dying groan.
Then footsteps slowly approached Iron Bars where he lay, staring up at the sky. A shadow fell over him. The Avowed blinked, and found himself looking up at a pallid, lean face, and two red, very red, eyes.
‘You did passably well,’ the stranger said.
‘And my Tarthenal friend?’
‘Struck in the skull. He’ll be fine, since I doubt there’s much inside it.’ A pause, then, ‘Why are you still lying there?’
Dust and smoke drifted out from the dark corridor. Turudal Brizad had drawn Brys back into the throne room, and the Champion now stood in the clear space before the dais.