The sound of clashing steel broke the silence. A cry of panic erupted from the bewildered crowd. All around the square soldiers clad in black emerged, tossing their deceitful robes of white onto the ground and raising their weapons high. They attacked everyone in sight, hacking and slashing even the innocent. Guards rushed to stop the onslaught. Many of them died before they could even draw their blades.
Lord Serant’s bodyguards sprang into action. The small contingent flashed as a burst of white lightning into the surge of the dark, and it was temporarily thrust back. Wielding huge two-handed battle swords as a child would a toy dagger, these men were obvious masters, their skill and expertise unmatched on the field.
The dark warriors paid a grave price for their fall; however, Serant’s guards were simply overwhelmed by the number of the enemy. For each they cut down, two warriors lunged forward in the fallen’s stead. They did not shame their lord as the last man crumpled to the ground, a mortal wound in his side; they had given the others much needed time, a chance to prepare.
The dark warriors were non-selective in their blows. Their blades struck out in every direction. The dead and dying littered the square. Cries of pain and anguish filled the night, even above the din of clashing steel. Darkness began to fill the square as the torchlight was slowly smothered and with it came chaos, which the dark ones used to their advantage.
The innocent tried to flee the square, dragging those who could not make it on their own, but the dark warriors hacked them down as they fled. No one was allowed to leave the square. More of the dark-clothed warriors began filing in from the adjacent byways, as the two forces, one considerably smaller and determined, the other larger and stronger, faced each other.
The rear guard was fully mounted and sought to protect those they honored. Fifty brave souls crashed into the encroaching wave of dark. Their ornamental armor gleamed defiantly and proudly in the pale red light of the square. Their weaponry was varied and though it had all been meant for ceremonial purposes, it was highly functional and well crafted. They bore pikes and spears with great forked blades; some had full-handed swords, others lances, but all poured forth, driven on by anger and anguish to a ferocity that bit into the enemy and would eventually cause their downfall.
Father Francis was mounted next to Keeper Q’yer and the chancellor. They had a momentary reprieve while the dark warriors dropped back to regroup. The three weighed the odds; heavily outnumbered though they were, their protective guards were also on horseback. The enemy was on foot. Hopefully, the defense would last long enough for reinforcements to arrive from Imtal garrison.
The former lord of the Western Territories and empowered lord of High Province stared coldly at his assailants. He looked to Calyin, with one single thought on his mind. He must protect her. He had sworn an oath that he would forever watch over her; he would not fail. Anger also flowed through him. In his territories, though they were not as civilized as here, nothing like this could ever happen. He spat on the ground. If he survived, his honor would demand retribution. He vowed he would kill Chancellor Yi for his incompetence. One stroke of his blade would end the old man’s life and provide partial compensation.
Sister Catrin knelt over her fallen sister. Jasmine had taken a nasty blow to the head and was unconscious. Midori and Catrin placed her upon her mount, then they also remounted. Midori cried out in anguish; Adrina had been taken from her so easily. One moment Adrina had been beside her; the next she was gone and Jasmine lay on the ground. The will of the Mother flowed inside Midori, its power strong and cleansing. A similar flow came to Sister Catrin, yet her anger was not washed away.
The short reprieve was over; the dark warriors had regrouped and now attacked from all sides. The mounted guard plunged again into their midst; their weapons danced in the dull light of the square. Horses trampled over the fallen as they moved outward. Although the attackers were greater in number, they were no match for the superior guard.
The small force seemed to be turning the battle around. Now the enemy was feeling the cold of the rapier. While horses trampled the fallen and claimed what remained of their threads of life, the riders lashed out, finding new victims. But even in the face of the vicious assault by the mounted guard, the enemy did not retreat again. They continued to pour forth almost as if they welcomed death.
Keeper Q’yer concentrated all the energy of his will into a single thought. He cried out to those at the palace and the city garrison for help. He beseeched them to find the urgency in his desperate words and hurry to the square. He did not know if they heard his call, only that his cry went forth. He would have to wait, as would the others, to know if the garrison soldiers would come.
Father Francis could feel the power of the Father within him; to disturb a ceremony of passing of a great one was an outrage. The call of the Mother also came to his mind. He looked to the sisters; he saw that Jasmine was unconscious. He stared beyond her to Midori, who nodded her head and thanked the Father. He reached out and embraced her center. The two were linked together. A warm feeling came over them both. Wild emotions of the joining of both the Mother-Earth and the Great-Father pulsed throughout their entire being. Great power was coming to the fore.
A whirlwind of thought flowed from one mind to the other. Father Francis saw an image of Midori in his mind. They embraced each other, releasing the power as their bodies locked as one in spirit and in mind. A wall of flames shot from the earth, running in a wide arc until it formed a great circle, leaving only the rear guard and the dark warriors in the open. Oddly, the great wall of flames circled the road before the garden of entombment and coronation.
Keeper Q’yer slumped over in his saddle, all his energy spent, in the thrusting out of that one hopeful summons. The twang of release as scores of bowstrings settled back into place, combined with the whine of arrows flying through the air followed by cries of agony, rose above the cacophony of battle. The wall of flame had come just in time to save the inner group. The last of the mounted guard regrouped around the flames, although of fifty, only six remained. They raised their swords high one last time and charged, unafraid and willing to offer their lives for the ones they were devoted to. Arrows pelted them from all sides, and before the first man swung he died.
The five continued on undaunted. Among them were a bladesman, two pikemen, a former huntsman who wielded a double-bladed spear, and a swordmaster first-class. None of them knew this as they shot forth to certain death, each focused on a single line of sight.
For one man, it was the tower of a city church that he wished to reach before he died. For another it was a tavern that lay six blocks north along the eastern side of the square; he could not see it though he knew it was there. For still another it was his home and his wife and child that lay beyond the eastern side of the square.
Not one of the small company reached his goal, yet as each died in his turn, the simple goals seemed to lose their purpose, and as the last man fell, he looked back at the wall of fire, wishing those within luck and survival.