Page 99 of The City of Zirdai
Yates straightened, yanking his knife from Shyla’s leg. A hiss of pain escaped her lips. But when he pulled his sword free, she sucked in a deep breath. Without the blade in her leg, she was able to roll over and prop up on her elbows.
Rendor faced the captain. He too held a sword and a knife. His hard gaze promised no mercy. Her relief over his arrival was short-lived as worry for him dominated. No way was Rendor fully healed from being skewered by two swords even though it had been over sixty sun jumps ago. Also, as the captain of the guard, Yates was the best swordsman in Zirdai.
She wanted to tell him to leave, to save himself, but his posture radiated stubborn determination, which meant she’d have more luck convincing a stone statue than Rendor.
The two men stood in the middle of an intersection. Shyla hadn’t noticed before—probably due to running for her life—but it was one of the bigger ones with tunnels branching off in six different directions. Two druk lanterns illuminated the space and glinted off the blood pooling under her knee. She sat up and bent her injured leg. Lacing her fingers together, she pressed her hands to the wound to staunch the blood, pulling her thigh against her chest for added pressure.
“You’ve been replaced, Rendor. You’re weak. A traitor,” Yates said.
“And you’re not the true captain of the guard, Yates. You wereappointed.” Rendor’s derision was clear. “All the guards know you never fought for your position so you’ll never be their captain. Not while I’m still alive.”
“I can fix that right now.” Yates lunged, stabbing his sword toward Rendor’s heart.
Their blades crossed with a loud clang as Rendor blocked the thrust. Yates stepped in close and jabbed with his knife. Rendor pivoted his hips. Shyla’s blood on the tip of Yates’ weapon left a streak of red on Rendor’s tunic. Then the fight began in earnest.
Both large and muscular, they were evenly matched and equally well trained. Yates was stronger, but Rendor was quicker. They fought with brutal, efficient strikes, not wasting energy, not even speaking. It was silent except for the ring of steel, the shuffle of boots, and the grunts of the men that echoed off the hard stone walls. No finesse touched their moves, just a mindless drive to get past the other’s defense and kill him.
Shyla watched with a fascinated horror. The air heated with their exertions. The musky odor of male sweat reached her as their tunics dampened and their faces shone. Their breaths rasped. As the fight extended, Rendor’s injuries became apparent—a weakness in his left arm and a slight hitch in his right leg. Yates wasted no time in pressing his advantage. He knocked the sword from Rendor’s hand. It landed on the opposite side of the intersection. In other words, as far from Shyla as possible.
Fearing for Rendor’s life, she rummaged in her pack—not caring about her bloody hands—searching for a weapon or anything she could use to help him. There was nothing but her water skin and scarf. The water might make Yates slip, but it would also endanger Rendor. She wished she still had Tamburah’s statue. It was heavy enough to knock Yates out. If she could stand, she could wrap her scarf around his neck—
She almost smacked herself. Why didn’t she think of this before? She needed to get Rendor’s attention but didn’t want him to lose focus either—it could cost him his life. Using the wall to keep her balance, Shyla lurched to her feet. A hot poker of pain shot through her leg.
A loud clang sounded and Rendor’s knife went flying. Rendor grabbed Yates’ wrists and moved in close to him—too close for the captain to use his sword. Yates dropped the sword and broke Rendor’s grip on his right wrist. Then both men struggled for control of the remaining knife. Rendor dug his fingers into Yates’ forearm. Yates fought to break free, swinging Rendor around. They both hit the wall and the knife was knocked loose.
The fight turned into a wrestling match. But Yates was stronger and knew where Rendor’s weak spots were. He slammed Rendor into the wall. Shyla winced in sympathy as Rendor’s head bounced with a horrible thud. Dazed by the blow, Rendor lost his grip on Yates’ wrists. The captain wrapped his hands around Rendor’s neck and squeezed.
Rendor finally looked over Yates’ shoulder and met her gaze. Regret filled his. She yanked at her collar. “Pull it off!” she yelled.
Rendor stopped trying to pry Yates’ fingers from his throat—which he should have known not to do, but he did just suffer a blow to the head. Instead, he reached for Yates’ throat and ripped off the torque.
Drawing all her strength, she thrust out both hands and pushed with all her might.
Sleep!
Yates toppled to the ground, pulling Rendor down with him. Shyla limped over to help. By the time she reached him, he’d already removed Yates’ hands from his neck. He lay there panting.
“How long…will he…sleep,” Rendor asked between gasps.
“Not long.”
Rendor clambered to his feet, but he swayed as the color leaked from his face. She tried to steady him but with only one good leg she couldn’t support his weight let alone her own. They both toppled to the ground. She landed on top of him and he grabbed her instinctively.
“Maybe you should catch your breath before trying to stand,” Shyla said.
He grunted and closed his eyes.
“My weight on your chest is probably not helping.”
Instead of releasing her, he held her tighter. His body heat warmed her and, surprisingly, she didn’t mind the strong sweaty odor of Rendor—a mix of male musk with a hint of ginger. She breathed it in. It was a nice distraction from the throbbing in her leg. The hard vibrations from Rendor’s heart eased after a few moments. He opened his eyes and relaxed his grip.
“Better?” she asked, sliding off him.
“Yes.” He sat up and stood. This time he remained standing. “Can you walk?”
She held out a hand. Rendor grabbed it and pulled her, gently, to her feet. Putting weight on her bad leg caused considerable pain but it didn’t collapse under her—a small victory. She tied her wrap around her leg to staunch the blood and tried a few steps on her own. “Yes, but not far.”
The good news—Orla’s commune was only three levels away. The bad news—they had to climb up.
