In that moment the difficulty of his song, the searing pain in his chest, and the aching of his leg were as nothing. Rogan was the blademaster. The activations poured from his throat, strong and clear, and Rogan planted his legs on the ground, took his zenblade in both hands, and swung once, twice, and a third time. It was a move Rogan had devised to fight Veznan nightshades and Tingaran avengers.
With a sound like a tree being struck by lightning, the zenblade cut through the steel as if it was nothing. Sparks flew in a fountain, raining down on the black-clad soldiers on the other side of the gate, and Rogan completed his arc, kicking fragments of molten steel out of the way and then leaping through to the other side.
Against the blademaster, the stunned prison guards didn't stand a chance.
Rogan's men poured through the opening he'd created, taking the enemy warriors down one-by-one. The superior numbers of the Halrana and Rogan's training instantly began to tell, and with renewed vigour those of the prisoners who held swords continued the fight. Rogan despatched one man with a thrust to the upper chest, and then turned on his heel, making a complicated twist of his wrist and taking a second Black Army soldier's head clean off. A Tingaran with a blood-drenched sword and the sun-and-star tattooed across his shaved head came at him with his sword raised; Rogan opened him up with a sweeping blow.
They kept coming at him, and Rogan kept taking them down. The corpses piled at his feet, and as again Rogan thought about what he'd heard went on in this camp, he snarled and launched himself at another soldier, taking the battle to them.
Rogan's song came strong and fierce, and the blood slid away from his armoursilk as the magic prevented it from sticking, so that he looked new and green as a blade of grass, lit up by the morning sun.
"Marshal, there are a bunch of them in their own camp nearby," a male voice called, cutting through Rogan's battle haze. "They're fleeing into the forest."
"We have to let them go," Rogan said, panting. He lowered his zenblade, realising there weren't any more of the enemy to kill. The pain came to him then, and he grimaced as he felt the soreness in his leg come back a hundredfold, his throat hoarse and his chest wheezing.
"Rogan?" a soft voice said behind him.
Whirling on his feet, Rogan saw a young woman gazing at him intently, a stout piece of wood in her hands that she'd evidently been using as a club. She was a pretty thing, and he instantly felt his heart go out to her when he saw the bruises on her arms and the splashes of blood on her dress.
"What?" he panted.
"I'm Amber."
"You're too young," Rogan blurted. When she'd said she was an enchantress he'd pictured a matronly woman with steel-grey hair and a parade-ground voice. He looked then at the young woman's eyes, and with the wisdom of his years he could see that she had seen much, too much perhaps. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Thank you," she said, "I know it can't have been easy for you. We couldn't have held much longer."
He still couldn't believe this was the woman who had organised the revolt. Rogan, a man uncomfortable with women at the best of times, suddenly knew then what he needed to do.
"Can't have been easy for me?" he said, shaking his head.
Amber's eyes began to well.
Rogan took Amber by the shoulders, looking down at her from his height. "I am so, so sorry, for what you've been through here. It's over now." He repeated the words twice more before she seemed to realise. "It's over," he whispered, opening his arms.
Amber fell forward, as the girl let go of the iron restraint she'd held over herself, realising her ordeal was over, and fell into the fold of the grizzled warrior's arms.
"They took him from me," Amber said as she sobbed.
"Shhh," Rogan said as he hugged her. "I know they did."
Rogan felt a squeeze on his shoulder, and, opening his eyes, saw Amelia give him that special look she gave him alone. He let Amber cry herself out, and rather than feeling proud of what he'd done here, he cursed himself that he had taken so long, that any of the prisoners had spent one second longer here than they needed to.
Finally Amber let go of him, and he saw the strength once again go into her brown eyes, the full lips become set with determination.
As Rogan felt the rage build within him, he let it feed him, and give him energy. He gathered himself for the long night ahead, and, looking around him, he saw his men do the same.