Broken World Book Two - StarSword by T C Southwell Page B

to
run down another road, heading for the city wall.
    Coming across a
group of soldiers building a barricade, he stopped for a moment to
rest, clutching his wounded shoulder. The men made no comment about
his inactivity, his obvious inability excusing him. Some shot him
sympathetic glances as they worked. He was now one of the
honourably wounded, he deduced, one of the many who only waited for
death, pitied by those who could still fight. A young soldier, no
more than a boy, gave him a flask, and he sipped the strong wine
before handing it back with a nod of thanks. Having regained his
breath, he hurried on towards the wall. His arm flapped at his
side, the pain slowing him and adding to his fatigue.
    Two streets
further on, he stopped beside a wall as a group of Riders thundered
past, chasing a young man who ran with panting gasps, at the end of
his stamina, and his life. As soon as the road was clear, Kieran
darted across it, only one street away from the wall now. The
grating clatter of a steed's hooves spurred his aching legs, but
his strength had all been used up. A blow jolted his shoulder and
hot breath blew against his neck as he was lifted off the ground.
The steed's teeth clamped the shoulder pad of his armour, one black
fang sliding past to impale his flesh with burning agony. Kieran
bellowed and raised his good fist to beat at the steed's muzzle,
but the horse shook him, sending waves of pain through him.
    With a flick of
its head, it hurled him against a wall, bashing his broken
shoulder. Kieran gave a choked cry as he slid down in a heap,
certain that death was upon him. A group of Truemen boiled into the
street and charged the Hashon Jahar that loomed over him, swords
raised. The Rider swung to face its new assailants, and Kieran
crawled away along the wall while the Truemen warriors clashed with
it. Within a few minutes, a dozen sword wounds in its flanks
brought the steed to its knees, and the Rider leapt down to engage
the warriors on foot. The Truemen fell like wheat before the
scything sweeps of its sword, and Kieran struggled to his feet,
desperate to get away before the Hashon Jahar came after him
again.
    Kieran loped
down the street, leaving the few remaining warriors to delay the
Rider. A final road to cross, and the mutilated brown wall loomed
before him. Gasping with pain and exhaustion, he scrambled over the
tumbled slabs and stones, sliding down the steep bank into the
moat. The oil, thickened by the fire that had swept it, gave way
under his feet in a thick, viscous ooze that clung to his boots.
His first step brought him to his knees as the sucking oil trapped
his legs. With one hand for support, he struggled across the thin
layer of tar that covered the moat, breaking through it to become
ensnared in the hot oil below. It soaked through his boots and
gauntlets to burn his skin, goading him with fresh pain. He
floundered through it, using his remaining strength recklessly in
his struggle to get free.
    As his hand
touched the soil of the far bank, a shadow fell on him, and he
looked up, expecting to find a Rider looming over him. Instead, a
group of civilians, women and children in it, reached down to help
him out, hauling him free by his armour's straps. Gasping with
relief as the oil on his legs cooled in the chill air, he lay down
to regain his strength as the people urged him to get up. They
clustered around him, and he realised that they thought he could
protect them. Cursing his empty scabbard and useless arm, he made
no effort to rise.
    A shadow passed
over him, and, with a great clank of armour and grating of hooves,
a Hashon Jahar leapt the moat to plough into the group. Its sword
slashed and blood flowed as the screaming group fled. The severed
head of a young girl thudded to the ground beside Kieran, spouting
blood into his face as it rolled past into the moat, its eyes open
and mouth stretched in her final scream. Shuddering with horror, he
raised his head to watch the Black Rider