Rather than pressing the attack, the remaining Aedolian stepped back, unnerved by the death of his companions. He seemed to have no relish for a heroic duel, and turned his head to glance down the trail behind him. That’s when Jakin leapt.
He was fast, almost as fast as Pyrre, fast enough to close the distance and thrust his knife through the gap in the helmet and into the brain, but not, Kaden realized with horror, before the soldier could raise his blade. The two fell to the ground, the Aedolian dead where he lay, the sword he still clutched buried in Jakin’s stomach. Kaden started to run to him, but Tan stopped him with a hand on the arm.
The monk wasted no time catching his breath. “He’ll be dead in minutes,” he said, as though that settled the matter.
Kaden tugged his arm free and turned to the fallen man.
He had pulled the sword from his body and rolled onto his back, blood welling from the deep puncture. Pain creased his face, and when he spoke, his words were weak, his lips flecked with blood and spittle. “The base of the Talon,” he managed weakly. “Pyrre will meet you at the base—” He broke off as coughing racked his body, squeezing his eyes shut with agony. Kaden made to cradle his head, but Triste stopped him.
The girl’s gown was badly ripped, her jaw trembling, her breathing heavy, but she hadn’t panicked. If she didn’t have Tan’s stony resolve, she did, at least, seem in control of herself, and she pushed Kaden out of the way gently but firmly, then took the dying man’s hand in her own and pressed her other palm to his brow. “Thank you for saving our lives,” she said simply. The two remained motionless, like a statue carved from the mountain. Then, for the first time since the two merchants had arrived at the monastery, Kaden saw Jakin smile, the spasms that had racked his body subsiding.
“Go,” he said weakly, then closed his eyes. “I will wait here for the god.” With a final squeeze of his hand, Triste nodded, then stood, unshed tears in her eyes.
“There is nothing more we can do for him,” Tan said. “Come.”
They had just started to run once more when Kaden remembered his candlestick—the only weapon he had. It was just a few paces behind, and heart hammering in his chest, he turned back for it. The unlikely weapon had yet to prove its value, but it would be foolish to leave it behind for the sake of a few more seconds, seconds that couldn’t possibly make a difference. He was bending to pick up the bloodied silver shaft when he heard the panting and scrambling. Someone was coming, climbing the far side of the small rise just a short stone’s throw away. Cursing himself for a fool, Kaden snatched the candlestick and spun about to chase after his companions. The voice stopped him cold.
“Kaden! Help me!”
He stared as Phirum Prumm hauled his bulk up over the rise. The monk was sweating and shaking, his robe ripped away from one shoulder, blood from a gash on his forehead running down over his quivering jowls. His chest heaved with the effort of running up the path. How he, of all people, had escaped the carnage below, Kaden had no idea. All he could think was that Phirum was in danger because of him, because of the soldiers he had somehow brought down on them all, and he had to find some way to help.
“Can you keep running?” Kaden asked.
Phirum’s eyes widened still further, as though the question terrified him, but then he looked behind him to where the ruddy flames from the burning monastery flickered against the clouds, the roar of the fire punctuated by curses and screams. He turned back to Kaden and nodded.
“All right,” Kaden said, taking a deep breath. “Keep a hand on the belt to my robe. You’re still going to have to run, but I can help pull you some, especially on the uphills.”
“Thank you, Kaden,” the youth replied.
Kaden just nodded.
“Let’s go,” Tan said. The older monk started to double back, but Kaden waved him on.
“We’re coming,” he replied.
Without another word, the four of them turned from the ghosts of the dead and the cries of the living to race into the emptiness of the night.