Shadow War - Deborah Chester [136]
His longer reach enabled him to finally slide over the guard of the bleeding man on the left. Caelan’s sword ripped open the man’s chest. The Madrun croaked out a final incomprehensible word of defiance, probably a curse, and fell.
The remaining one screamed defiance and charged, but Caelan had seen that move before. He ducked recklessly under the man’s arm and spitted him full length on his sword.
The Madrun’s eyes flew open wide. He stared at Caelan in disbelief; then blood filled his mouth, and he sank into death.
Caelan pulled free his sword and wiped it clean on the man’s back.
Straightening, breathing hard, he slung sweat from his eyes and glanced over his shoulder.
His eyes met those of the girl’s. Hers were clear, horrified, and steady.
“Come,” he said.
She hurried to him, sidestepping the dead men without hesitation, and took his hand again. “Well done,” she said, and only the breathlessness of her voice betrayed how fearful she’d been.
It was a warrior’s compliment she gave, and her understated praise pleased him. He wondered where she had learned to do that. Perhaps from her warlord father. Perhaps she, alone of all the women he had met, understood what it meant to glory in the combat, yet to suffer for the aftermath of death and silence.
“We must hurry” was all he said as he swung away from the fallen men. He would not grieve for this enemy.
Together, he and the empress hastened onward.
A few minutes later, he pushed through a door and stumbled outside into the darkness. Barrels, stone amphoras, and casks filled the area. Dragging in a deep breath, Caelan looked around to get his bearings. They were somewhere along the rear of the palace, on the northwestern side, close to the delivery entrances for provisions. The mighty walls of the compound towered above him, seemingly invincible, their dark sides reaching up to the inky sky.
But no matter how thick or how high the walls, if the gates were opened, they counted not at all.
Caelan swung left, pulling her after him. “This way,” he whispered.
They ran down an alley stacked with barrels and crates, half-seen obstacles in the darkness.
At the corner, however, torchlight flared orange in the distance, and behind them tongues of fire began to lick at upper-story windows.
Caelan plunged to a halt and peered around the corner. The parade ground stretched out ahead of him on his left, a vast distance filled with a melee of fighting men. The sight heartened him. If the Guard could hold the Madruns here, there was a chance of regaining the palace.
But right now, that was not his concern. He swung his gaze right, toward the stables, and saw bunches of Madruns trotting past. Fire could be seen blazing through the windows, and there came the neighs of panicked horses.
Elandra clutched at his cloak, her shoulder brushing against his armored back. “You said the stables,” she told him. “How can we reach them?”
Caelan shook his head. “Too late. The emperor is gone.”
“But—”
A wave of sudden exhaustion, borne by defeat, rolled over him. He pushed it off and measured the distance to the stables with his eye, only to swear in frustration. Impossible to get there with so many of the enemy around.
“I will leave you here,” he said, thinking aloud. “If I can get a horse, there is still—”
“No,” the empress said firmly. “They will kill you.”
“But—”
“Look at the main gates,” she said, pointing. “Can we ride through them even if you did get horses?”
He turned his head and saw the massive bronze gates shining in the light of the bonfires and burning barracks. A group of guardsmen fought valiantly there, but they were outnumbered. As Caelan watched, screaming Madruns cut down the guardsmen and swarmed at the gates,