Nights of Villjamur - Mark Charan Newton [196]
“Damn wind,” Denlin grumbled. Then he made a sign to the garudas.
As the birds seized hold of the ropes already fixed to the belts of their two passengers, Randur gripped his sword in readiness.
The crowd underneath began to riot while Denlin and Randur were pulled skyward, sailing above the scene below of thousands of citizens crammed between the walls.
A soldier-garuda shot toward them from one side.
Denlin looked up in time and aimed and fired. The arrow struck the bird-man’s face full on. The creature spiraled into the crowds below, which parted with a liquid elegance suggesting they now moved as a single entity.
Across the first and second walls, dodging arrows from the archer still standing. More arrows whipping from all sides now, but the garudas flew on regardless, hauling Randur this way and that, and it took determination not to be sick from the erratic flight.
The garudas landed simultaneously on the outer wall, with a skidding clamor of boots on stone. Then they released the men onto a surface that could only be four paces across, with nothing either side to keep them from falling to their deaths. More arrows sang past as the garudas took off and faded into the great cityscape above the rioting crowds.
Now for the hard part, Randur thought, as he turned to face the remaining soldiers.
He noticed how the guards had left Eir and Rika standing alone. Denlin kept taking aim from behind him but his arrows weren’t much use against the men’s armor. As arrows pinged off the metal, Randur drew his sword, and stepped forward to meet the first of them.
Their heavy broadswords suggested they would be slow in such a narrow arena, which brought a confident smile to his lips.
The first made a lunge at him, bringing his sword down to clang against empty stone, but Randur had skipped back and now flicked his blade up through the soldier’s hand, and as the soldier gaped at his wound in disbelief, Randur kicked behind his knee then pushed him over the rim of the wall. Randur drew his other sword and, one in each hand, stared warily at the two men directly in front of him.
Denlin shot an arrow into one’s face and with a gurgle he toppled to his death.
“Cheers, Den!” Randur cried out, and began carving into his opponents’ frenzied strokes with ease, one sword quickly across a face then, while the man instinctively pressed his palms to the bleeding wound, Randur kicked him off the side harboring the refugees.
A noticeable cheer of triumph from below.
Denlin shot yet another soldier directly in the face, his helmet snapping back into the face of another. Randur continued to ram his blade into any exposed segments of flesh.
Guards continued freefalling to their death.
Down below, soldiers were massing to try to subdue the rioting, not helped by the fact that certain hired thugs kept hauling them to the ground and dispatching them. Then people emerged from the crowds to kick and pummel their victims, venting long suppressed anger on the symbols of power in the city.
At the far end, further troops were gathering at the door giving access to the top of the wall. The few remaining guards approached him cautiously, thrusting their swords toward him reluctantly. Randur took them two at a time, tuning into his peripheral vision for guidance. Quick, subtle strokes. Deft footwork. An arrow from Denlin. It was soon over.
Randur glanced across the wall. Nothing between them and the women except perhaps fifty paces.
They ran.
“Rand!” Eir cried in relief, her brown robe flapping like a flag in the wind.
Randur arrived first and sliced through the rope securing her wrists while Denlin freed her sister. Randur handed a sword to Eir, who regarded it as if she couldn’t recognize its function.
“I taught you how to fight, but not to kill,” Randur panted. “I promise you it’s not much harder. You