Draylon understood now why the other guards merely watched. Yarif moved with sinuous grace, twisting, turning, rolling—though the movements might aggravate his healing back. His opponent panted, swinging wildly, never connecting.
The knife in Yarif’s hand appeared pitiful compared to a sword, yet, based on the amount of blood covering the guard, Yarif had gotten in a few good cuts.
They should end this already and be on their way, but maybe the guard could give them necessary information.
A high-pitched hum swept by, then athunk.The guard fell to his knees, an arrow through the throat.
A battle cry sounded around them.
Then came armed men.
Chapter Thirty-three
Yarif’sworldtunneleddownto the man in front of him, gasping out his last. Then came the cry and the unmistakable sound of steel against steel. Rolling, he grasped the fallen soldier’s sword.
Five of them, against how many? And Draylon already fought. He might be tiring. No time to think now. Yarif picked a target, homing in on the soldier standing out of the fray. Before he got there, another man jumped in front of him. Unlike their escort, he wore no distinctive colors or uniform and what looked like homemade armor.
While they had numbers, they might lack skill.
Yarif hoped so.
“Leave no survivors!” a large man shouted in Delletinian.
Oh, no. Yarif hadn’t just been saved to lose his life now. He also had no intention of becoming a young widower. Draylon made vows, and by the deities, he’d watch Yarif grow old, see what they could become to each other.
With a “Yah!” the attacker charged.
Never give away your intent,Captain Unger used to say.War cries, grunts, groans, and other noises provide your opponent with information to be used against you.
Yarif remained quiet, twisting out of the way and turning before his attacker regained his footing. With a booted foot to the ass, Yarif pushed, sending the man headlong into another attacker’s blade. The two stared at each other, shock and horror in their eyes, until the first man’s eyes slid shut.
Draylon’s blade sent the second to join the first.
With a nod to Draylon, Yarif waded back into the fray. Knowing how many they were up against would help, but however many, they were down by at least two.
Draylon’s back connected with Yarif’s. While Yarif had never before fought like this, there was comfort in Draylon having his back. Knife in one hand, sword in the other, Yarif struck and parried, all finesse gone in the face of an enemy never adequately trained in combat.
A blow came his way. Yarif nearly ducked, leaving Draylon exposed, before catching himself. Instead, he blocked, the shock of metal on metal reverberating up his arm.
The attacker’s raised arm left his midsection vulnerable.
Yarif struck, burying the knife blade in the man’s belly and twisting. The man fell backward, taking the knife with him but dropping his sword. Yarif grabbed the fallen blade. The weight differed from the one in his right hand, throwing him off balance. He’d rather have a knife.
Another man replaced the dead one. Then Yarif lost himself in simply using all he’d been taught to stay alive. One after another after another. When would it end?
Yarif’s arms grew leaden; he no longer felt Draylon at his back. Where were the three guards who’d helped? For that matter, where was Draylon? Blood soaked Yarif’s clothes. His or someone else’s, he couldn’t tell.
He’d been taught speed and agility, using light weapons and no armor. The hardened leather Niam insisted on dragged Yarif down, as did the heavy sword.
Parry, thrust… No, that wasn’t how to use a broadsword. Fire raced up Yarif’s arm, yet still, he didn’t scream. How had so clumsy a swordsman gotten through Yarif’s defenses? On and on,clang, clang, clang, screams and cries, the scent of blood and gore heavy in the air.
Then a punch from someone outside his vision caught him in the jaw. Down Yarif went, taking the man’s legs out from under him, then diving on top, dragging his sword across the man’s neck before jumping away, just as another attacker brought his sword down, cleaving the dying man nearly in two.
Yarif took advantage of the distraction, driving his blade into the new attacker’s gut.
No way he could keep this pace much longer. He panted, arm stinging and steps sluggish. Suddenly there were more voices, and the clanging increased.
Had more attackers arrived? But no! These men—and women—wore green and red, their metal breastplates emblazoned with an eagle. Glendoran soldiers?
