The blood dripped off the enchanted blade. In a matter of heartbeats, the steel shone bright and silver once more. Jehral sheathed the sword and again walked through the gully to reach his other two mounts.
Sighing, he took the reins and again led them forward over the treacherous down slope, exhausted but determined as he headed for his final destination.
Jehral had promised Ella to do anything he could to help, and he was a man who lived by his word.
Sarostar beckoned.
Jehral’s journey took him along a winding road past fallow fields and through lush forests. He changed horses regularly but could see they were blown, both of his mounts foaming white at the mouth.
As he rode, he pictured the bloated bodies of the revenants and again saw the single revenant kill four of his men, all armed, with nothing but its hands. He remembered the last war, when a small army of Akari revenants had crushed the Hazarans at the Gap of Garl. He needed to hurry.
He looked up at the sun. It was perhaps midday. He was close to Sarostar now and could see a bridge spanning one of the Sarsen’s many tributaries. Jehral kicked into a gallop. Below the bridge he saw a mighty waterfall, and in awe of the great drop, he was distracted by the plummeting cascade.
As he reached the far side of the bridge, Jehral was attacked.
He saw a flicker of movement but was too slow to react as a spear point thrust up at his chest from somewhere below. Part of his consciousness told him it was an ambush, even as the spear hit the center of his chest, throwing him out of the saddle and sending him catapulting through the air to land heavily on the ground. Only the leather cuirass he wore under his clothing saved him for being impaled.
Adrenalin surged through Jehral’s body as he shook his head to clear it. Behind him he heard the roar of men rushing to the attack. Jehral leapt to his feet and drew his sword; thankfully the scabbard was still at his side.
His opponents halted their mad charge as Jehral shifted, head scanning to keep them all in his vision.
There were four of them. They wore light armor and no insignia, and at first Jehral thought they were bandits, but then he saw their features looked Tingaran. These men had tattoos, but they also didn’t look like military; they had the swagger of men from the street.
“You fool, Pedron,” a lean man, evidently the leader, said to one of his fellows, the warrior holding a spear. “We could have let him ride past.”
The accent was definitely Tingaran. What would Tingarans be doing here, close to Sarostar?
“I don’t care, Dan. I want his horses,” Pedron said.
“You imbecile! You can’t even ride!”
“I’m hungry. I haven’t had meat in weeks.”
Jehral watched the exchange in bemusement. He took the opportunity to activate his scimitar. “Al-maia,” Jehral spoke softly. The runes on the shining steel lit up with fiery colors.
The leader, Dan, swore. “He’s got an enchanted blade.”
“It’s worth a lot more than they’re paying us,” Pedron said. “Whoever kills him gets it!”
Pedron rushed Jehral with the spear while the others circled to the left and right. Jehral pretended to look uncertain, taking a few steps backward, but then he dashed forward and knocked aside the thrusting spear to whip his scimitar across Pedron’s throat.
Jehral spun, and before the leader could slash at his back, he took the scimitar through the backswing and into the leader’s attack. His opponent raised his sword to block, but Jehral’s blade cut through the steel, shearing it in two. Dan was suddenly holding half a sword, with a stricken expression on his face.
Jehral waited again, panting as he once more stepped back to keep his three opponents in sight. He feinted at the Tingaran on his left but turned right, and his superior swordsmanship immediately showed as they all took the bait. A slashing blow took a swordsman in the chest, and the man went down.
Jehral blocked a thrust, swiping the blade out of the way, and then shifted to stab at the leader’s abdomen. His opponent nimbly drew back, but even so, the blade bit into his side. The leader went down.
The last of the ambushers came at Jehral, but defeat was already in his eyes. He looked in surprise at the gash the scimitar left across his chest and then fell to his knees, blood welling around him as he died.
Jehral deactivated the sword, and his chest heaved as fatigue set in. He was exhausted from the frantic ride, and the fight had taken still more of his energy. The leader, Dan, looked up at him with wide eyes as Jehral approached.
“What are you doing here?” Jehral demanded, crouching beside him.
“We . . .” the leader coughed and choked. “We . . .”
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his chest shuddered as the life went out of him.
The lands around Sarostar were supposed to be safe, yet here these men were, on the outskirts of Altura’s capital itself.