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rose, the blade of a dagger flashing in the gloom.
A bright spray of arterial blood jetted forth, and I flung myself sideways to avoid it, dragging Imriel with me.
“Well done, little one,” Kaneka said complacently, watching the Âka-Magus twitch and die, runnels of blood flowing across the floor and pooling in the spaces between the flagstones. “I was hoping to kill one of his kind.”
Ignoring her, I rose to my feet and sought Joscelin.
It was not going well.
Scrambling, he retreated desperately, his sword angled in front of him, driven backward step by step, no longer on the dais, but forced the width of the hall. Tahmuras advanced relentlessly, his morningstar swinging. Each strike, Joscelin deflected more slowly, turning his shoulders into the parry and retreating to resume his guard, his notched and bloodstained sword held ever lower. I could see his arms tremble with the effort of it, his feet seeking purchase on the slippery stones.
And Tahmuras pursued him with implacable vengeance, striking high, striking low, the spiked ball flailing, never losing momentum. It happened; it had to happen. The ball landed, a glancing blow to one knee. Joscelin staggered, dropping his guard, and the mace lashed out again, crushingly hard, against the upper part of his left arm.
I heard his cry of pain, saw his left hand slip nerveless from the hilt, and Tahmuras with his grief-reddened eyes gave a grim smile, swinging the morningstar. The spiked ball whipped around Joscelin’s blade, and the chain caught and held.
The Drujani jerked hard on the haft of his weapon and Joscelin was disarmed, the sword clattering onto the floor. I shoved the knuckles of one hand into my mouth, stifling a cry. In a last-ditch effort, Joscelin spun, grabbing one of the hall’s few torches from its sconce and brandishing it like a blade, right-handed. Step by step he retreated, thrusting the flames at Tahmuras’ face as the giant stalked him, driving him back toward the center of the hall. His left arm hung, dangling and useless. He ignored it and parried one-handed, the torch weaving streaks of light against the darkness, fending off the inevitable final blow.
I had forgotten Imriel.
He was fast; so fast. By the time I thought to halt him, he was already in motion, darting across the corpse-strewn hall, pouncing on the hilt of the Cassiline sword.
“ Joscelin !” he shouted, his voice high and ringing.
They paused, the combatants, turning. Imriel heaved the sword, and sparks flew as it skittered across the stones. Joscelin cast the torch from him, hurling it point-down like a warrior planting a spear ...
... directly into the uncovered firepit.
With a sound that shook the very rafters, a column of fire ignited, the Sacred Fire of Ahura Mazda, a living, twisting thing of flame, gold and saffron and red, stretching toward the domed ceiling. Tahmuras was a vast shadow before it, stock-still in dismay, his mouth open to utter a cry of repentance or anguish. Joscelin never hesitated, snatching up his sword with his good right hand. With a single lunge, he ran the giant through.
It was ended.
Fifty-Seven
NO ONE could have anticipated the aftermath.
What I remember most, once the column of flame spent its initial fury and sank to a moderate blaze, is the old Chief Magus Arshaka, his rheumy eyes filled with tears, arms outstretched in blessing, his lips moving in prayer as he knelt before the Sacred Fire, bright flames illuming his filthy robes. I remember it because I had no time for it.
I went straightaway to Joscelin, sitting on the bloodstained stones and gasping for air, his right hand clasped loosely about the hilt of his battered sword, his left arm cradled in his lap. He smelled of scorched wool and hot metal. “The boy?” he asked, eyes rolling to meet mine.
“Alive,” I said, my voice choked. “Alive, my love.”
“See?” Imriel knelt in front of him, his face anxious. “Joscelin, see? I am here.”
Joscelin nodded and closed his eyes. “See to the others,” he murmured. “I’ll not die of a broken arm.”
I got to my feet. “Stay with him,” I said to Imriel. “Do you hear me? Stay with him, or I swear, I’ll kill you myself.”
“I will.” Imriel’s voice broke on the words. Huddled on the flagstones, he looked at me with his mother’s eyes, and such an expression in them as hers had never held. “I promise, Phèdre, I will.”
It would have to do. While the surviving Drujani and Tatars,
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