The prisoners were creating havoc throughout the camp, but a core of soldiers had formed up near the main gate. Any who came towards them died in a flurry of flashing swords and blood. Amber knew the heatplate would have exhausted itself long ago. The black-clad soldiers moved forward as cohesion returned to their number.
Behind her on the platform of the tower, Amber heard the two guards scream as they were blinded. As the light began to ebb, Amber turned back to the platform, one of her hands held in front of her eyes, the other holding on to the low rail.
Against the brightness she could see the two guards, struggling to stand, clutching on to the rail for support. These two men had thrown orbs into the middle of Amber's fellow prisoners; she couldn't begin to estimate how many had been killed.
Amber moved forward, her eyes mere slits against the glare, and kicked with her leg. She pushed first one guard, then the other from the top of the tower, hearing satisfying screams and crumpling thuds when they hit the ground.
Her work with the nightlamp done, Amber again took stock of the revolt as she descended the tower. The flash of light hadn't been as much of a distraction to the soldiers below as she had hoped it would be, and she realised that in moments the prisoners would give up hope as they realised they couldn't escape through any of the gates, and with few weapons they couldn't hope to defeat the guards.
Amber still had her flashbombs. She ran back to where the guards stood blocking the gate and joined the prisoners.
As she rallied the prisoners in a final surge at the guards, and sparks of light burst in the soldier's ranks, breaking them apart, Amber saw movement on the other side.
39
"THAT'S the signal," Rogan said.
"Are you sure?" Amelia whispered.
"Lord of the Sky, woman, what else is it?"
Rogan and his hundred men were crouched in a clearing, hidden from the road by a screen of trees. He had taken his men as close as he was able, but the frequent patrols of the enemy meant he couldn't be as close as he would have liked.
Rogan stood, all efforts at silence forgotten. "Men," he cried. "Do you see that light? That's the light of a brave woman and her fellow prisoners who are at this very moment rising up to give us this one chance, and to give us this beacon to tell us they are ready, and lead us to them. Are you with me?"
"Yes!" shouted Rogan's hand-picked Halrana.
Rogan drew his zenblade and pointed it ahead. He started to sing, his voice a deep baritone, and first his zenblade and then his armoursilk lit up with fiery colours of emerald and gold and starbursts of purple. He began to run, heedless of how much noise he made, throwing off the shackles of the hushed resistance, finally able to take the battle to his enemy's heart.
Rogan's men rushed past him like a wave of the ocean splitting around a tall rock. He ignored the pain in his leg and the stitch in his side, the occasional faltering of his voice and the way he had to lean on Amelia to keep up with the slowest of his men. He was running, and once again his weapon was in his hands.
Rogan settled into a wincing, lumbering gait, but eventually he was able to wave Amelia away, and was pleased to see he could stay with his men. He allowed his bladesinger's song to fade; it was simply too difficult. Soon all Rogan could hear was the puffing and panting of the men as they ran. He concentrated on putting one leg in front of the other, listening intently. Finally he could hear it.
"Do you hear?" Rogan asked Amelia, who was handling the mad dash surprisingly well. "Sounds of fighting."
"It mustn't be far now," she panted.
Ahead the dirt road passed a guard station, the black-clad warrior who manned it looking in the direction from which the sounds were coming, scratching his shaved head as if wondering what to do.
Rogan's lead man cut him down with a single slice at his legs, the next brown-clad warrior then opening up the guard's throat, barely pausing as they ran past.
Rogan felt proud then. He knew these men, all of them, and a few months ago most of them had never held a sword. They would remember this moment until the end of their days.
The shouting and clashes of metal grew louder, and Rogan could now distinguish screams of agony from roars of triumph, the shrill cries of women from the calls of people holding on to their courage with every bit of strength they possessed.
A steel wall suddenly barred their way; they had arrived! Rogan prayed it wasn't too late. Through the bars Rogan could see people fighting, falling, fleeing, and dying.
Rogan's men threw themselves at the gate, but it held fast. Through the narrowly-spaced lines of steel, some of the Black Army's soldiers could be seen turning to take stock and prepare themselves for this new threat.
"Make way!" Rogan roared, even as he brandished the zenblade over his head.