Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [272]
Dilaf stumbled for a moment, lowering his weapon in surprise. Then the monk looked up with rage and plunged the dagger at Hrathen’s breast.
The knife slid off Hrathen’s armor, scraping ineffectually along the painted steel. Dilaf regarded the breastplate with stunned eyes. “But, that armor is just for show….”
“You should know by now, Dilaf,” Hrathen said, bringing his armored forearm up and smashing it into the monk’s face. Though the unnatural bone had resisted Hrathen’s fist, it crunched with a satisfying sound beneath steel. “Nothing I do is just for show.”
Dilaf fell, and Hrathen pulled the monk’s sword free from its scabbard. “Launch your ships, Eventeo!” he yelled. “Fjorden’s armies come not to dominate, but to massacre. Move now if you want to save your people!”
“Rag Domi!” Eventeo cursed, yelling for his generals. Then he paused. “My daughter—”
“I will help the girl!” Hrathen snapped. “Save your kingdom, you fool!”
Though Dakhor bodies were unnaturally quick, their minds recovered from shock no more quickly than those of regular men. Their surprise bought Hrathen a few vital seconds. He brought his sword up, shoving Sarene toward an alleyway and backing up to block the entrance.
The water held Raoden in a cool embrace. It was a thing alive; he could hear it calling in his mind. Come, it said, I give you release. It was a comforting parent. It wanted to take away his pain and sorrows, just as his mother had once done.
Come, it pled. You can finally give up.
No, Raoden thought. Not yet.
The Fjordells finished dousing the Elantrians with oil, then prepared their torches. During the entire process, Shuden moved his arms in restrained circular patterns, not increasing their speed as he had the time at the fencing class. Lukel began to wonder if Shuden wasn’t planning an assault at all, but simply preparing himself for the inevitable.
Then Shuden burst into motion. The young baron snapped forward, spinning like a dancer as he brought his fist around, driving it into the chest of a chanting warrior monk. There was an audible crack, and Shuden spun again, slapping the monk across the face. The demon’s head spun completely around, his eyes bulging as his reinforced neck snapped.
And Shuden did it all with his eyes closed. Lukel couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw something else—a slight glow following Shuden’s movements in the dawn shadows.
Yelling a battle cry—more to motivate himself than frighten his foes—Lukel grabbed the table leg and swung it at a soldier. The wood bounced off the man’s helmet, but the blow was powerful enough to daze him, so Lukel followed it with a solid blow to the face. The soldier dropped and Lukel grabbed his weapon.
Now he had a sword. He only wished he knew how to use it.
The Dakhor were faster, stronger, and tougher, but Hrathen was more determined. For the first time in years, his heart and his mind agreed. He felt power—the same strength he had felt that first day when he had arrived in Arelon, confident in his ability to save its people.
He held them off, though just barely. Hrathen might not have been a Dakhor monk, but he was a master swordsman. What he lacked in comparative strength and speed he could compensate for in skill. He swung, thrusting his sword at a Dakhor chest, slamming it directly in between two bone ridges. The blade slid past enlarged ribs, piercing the heart. The Dakhor gasped, dropping as Hrathen whipped his sword free. The monk’s companions, however, forced Hrathen to retreat defensively into the alleyway.
He felt Sarene stumbling behind him, pulling off her gag. “There are too many!” she said. “You can’t fight them all.”
She was right. Fortunately, a wave moved through the crowd of warriors, and Hrathen heard the sounds of battle coming from the other side. Eventeo’s honor guard had joined the affray.
“Come on,” Sarene said, tugging his shoulder. Hrathen risked a glance behind him. The princess was pointing at a slightly ajar door in the building next to them. Hrathen nodded, battering away another attack, then