Elantris - Brandon Sanderson [273]
Raoden burst from the water, gasping reflexively for breath. Galladon and Karata jumped back in surprise. Raoden felt the cool blue liquid streaming from his face. It wasn’t water, but something else. Something thicker. He paid it little heed as he crawled from the pool.
“Sule!” Galladon whispered in surprise.
Raoden shook his head, unable to respond. They had expected him to dissolve—they didn’t understand that the pool couldn’t take him unless he wanted it to.
“Come,” he finally rasped, stumbling to his feet.
Despite Lukel’s energetic assault and Shuden’s powerful attack, the other townspeople simply stood and watched in dumb stupefaction. Lukel found himself desperately fighting three soldiers; the only reason he stayed alive was because he did more dodging and running than actual attacking. When aid finally did come, it was given by an odd source: the women.
Several of Sarene’s fencers snatched up pieces of wood or fallen swords and fell in behind Lukel, thrusting with more control and ability than he could even feign to know. The brunt of their onslaught was pushed forward by surprise, and for a moment Lukel thought they might actually break free.
Then Shuden fell, crying out as a sword bit into his arm. As soon as the Jindo’s concentration broke, so did his war dance, and a simple club to the head knocked him from the battle. The old queen, Eshen, fell next, a sword rammed through her chest. Her horrible scream, and the sight of the blood streaming down her dress, unnerved the other women. They broke, dropping their weapons. Lukel took a long gash on the thigh as one of his foes realized he had no clue how to use his weapon.
Lukel yelled in pain and fell to the cobblestones, holding his leg. The soldier didn’t even bother to finish him off.
Raoden dashed down the side of the mountain at a horrifying pace. The prince leapt and scrambled, as if he hadn’t been practically comatose just a few minutes earlier. One slip at this pace, one wrong step, and he wouldn’t stop rolling until he hit the foot of the mountain.
“Doloken!” Galladon said, trying his best to keep up. At this rate they would reach Kae in a matter of minutes.
Sarene hid beside her unlikely rescuer, holding perfectly still in the darkness.
Hrathen looked up through the floorboards. He had been the one to spot the cellar door, pulling it open and shoving her though. Underneath they had found a terrified family huddled in the blackness. They had all waited quietly, tense, as the Dakhor moved through the house then left out the front door.
Eventually, Hrathen nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, reaching over to lift the trapdoor.
“Stay down here,” Sarene told the family. “Don’t come up until you absolutely have to.”
The gyorn’s armor clinked as he climbed the steps, then peeked cautiously into the room. He motioned for Sarene to follow, then moved into the small kitchen at the back of the house. He began pulling off his armor, dropping its pieces to the floor. Though he gave no explanation, Sarene understood the action. The bloodred gyorn’s armor was far too distinctive to be worth its protective value.
As he worked, Sarene was surprised at the apparent weight of the metal. “You’ve been walking around all these months in real armor? Wasn’t that difficult?”
“The burden of my calling,” Hrathen said, pulling off his final greave. Its bloodred paint was now scratched and dented. “A calling I no longer deserve.” He dropped it with a clank.
He looked at the greave, then shook his head, pulling off his bulky cotton underclothing, meant to cushion the armor. He stood bare-chested, wearing only a pair of thin, knee-length trousers and a long, sleevelike band of cloth around his right arm.
Why the covered arm? Sarene wondered. Some piece of Derethi priest’s garb? Other questions were more pressing, however.
“Why did you do it, Hrathen?” she asked. “Why turn against your people?”
Hrathen paused. Then he looked away. “Dilaf’s actions are evil.”
“But your faith …”
“My faith is in Jaddeth, a God who wants the devotion of men. A massacre