The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (books suggested by elon musk .TXT) 📕

thousands of them swarmed through the zigzag of barricades defending the Pass, moving sinuously past the barriers like shoals of fish, hurdling them, jumping onto the archers, raking their makeshift broadswords along the top of the barriers to cut whoever lay behind, their faces as they swept into the Pass feverish and pale, the animation of battle leaving them otherwise unchanged.  As they got too close the archers drew back, allowing other Legionnaires to drive forward with swords and axe blades, plunging into the teeming mass of citizens, swinging and cutting.  The battle was joined, Legionnaires and citizenry locked in combat, the maddened populace of the city gaining valuable metres at first, pushing the former back along the walls of the Pass, bearing hatchets and mallets that swung viciously at their foe, gashing and stunning them, penetrating them with their swords and specially constructed spears, overcoming them with sheer numbers.  Soon, however, the Legionnaires’ height advantage tilted the fight in their favour.  Mounting pikes and halberds at the foot of the barricades designed to confuse the enemy’s footing, they massed at the point of the heaviest concentration of numbers and fought back at them.  Jens rallied a group of his men around some citizens who had broken past the first barrier, spearing the one who led them.  It was Jens who drove the sword home into the man’s guts, yet before he twisted and removed the blade he looked into the other’s eyes and saw a faint light of recognition reflected back at him.  He stared at the man.  It was the caretaker of one of the gardens.  Toc, wasn’t it?  He felt seized in a grip of confusion, a momentary wave of disgust at what he had done sweeping through him.  Toc smiled at him in what he thought was relief, released from whatever spell had been cast on him.  In that moment he felt a sharp sting in his lower stomach.  He looked down, feeling for the source of the pain with his hands, blood dripping from them as he lifted them once more, blood everywhere, escaping his body with disquieting speed. He fell to the earth, clutching his injured stomach.  One of Toc’s comrades stood over him with a raised sword in his hand, the sharp end soaked red, bearing it down on him now to finish him off.  He would have succeeded had Dechs not emerged seemingly from nowhere; swinging his axe blade with terrific force, he very nearly severed the citizen’s neck with a single stroke.  The man gazed at Dechs, uncomprehending, blood gushing from his neck in streaming jets, raining onto the already soaked earth.  Wordlessly, he mouthed a prayer.  Dechs knocked him back against his fellows with a powerful kick and the attacking party collapsed in a heap against the wall.  He turned back to his stricken Sub-Commander, crouching beside him as he produced a strip of cloth and tied it around the wounded area.  Jens moaned aloud as the other did his best to staunch the bleeding.  “It’ll pass,” he soothed.  He threw a glance at one of his men.  “Take him out of harm’s way.  If he dies, it’s on you.”  Swinging round to face the enemy, he tore into the fresh wave of attackers with his blade, slashing and cutting his way forward down the hill, roaring at his men to drive the foe back.

31.

The sounds of battle rang out well past the citadel, past the Gardens of Reflection, the parks and museums and markets, almost to the limits of the city.  The soldiers’ cries and clash of weapons sailed past the narrow woodland in which the Druid and the former crossling sat.

“We’ll have to move from here,” Daaynan told Mereka.  “It’s not safe.”

Mereka looked at him studiedly, something of her earlier alarm filling her expression.  In it he saw the expectation that had been building since the Englishmen had left them here.  This would not do, the Druid thought.  He could not hope to protect them both, not the way he was now.

“Are you feeling stronger?” she asked.

“I am recovering,” he told her “but the King is still present within me.  Given time, I can perhaps overcome him.”

“How much time?”

A wave of dizziness swept through him.  He leaned back on the bed of earth, breathing softly.  “Not much,” he said finally.

“I only ask because...”

He lifted one weak hand.  “I know why you ask.  This sickness in me might not leave before I can make a difference in this battle, but that doesn’t matter.  What is important is that I do what I came here to do.  I must find the Steward and put an end to him.”

Mereka clasped his hand in her own and gently lowered it to his chest.  “Daaynan, let’s just leave.  Go back to Carasan, or better yet Fein Mor.  I could stay with you until you got better.  Staying here doesn’t serve any purpose.  There’s nothing further you can do.”

“And leave the Englishmen behind?  Longfellow...”

“One Steward is as good as another, and besides it’s not simply one man you’re taking on, it’s the might of the entire Northern Army, not to mention that being Wade Torn told us about back in Dhu Nor.”

“The Tochried...” he closed his eyes as his surroundings began to swim out of focus.

“Daaynan!  Are you alright?”  She placed her hand on his forehead, felt the heat there and wiped it with the cloth she had earlier produced.  She stroked his face with her long fingers, alternately touching his forehead with the back of her hand.

“It comes in waves,” he reassured her.  “I’ll be fine.”  He tried to brush her hand away but failed in the attempt, unable to summon the strength.  He had been reduced to the status of a nursemaid’s charge, he thought bitterly.  A nursemaid who wanted him to give up his pursuit of the Steward as she feared for her own safety as much as his.  That might ensure their immediate survival but it only delayed