“What are you doing here, Pharadon?” Guillot said, taking advantage of the momentary equilibrium in the room.
When Pharadon looked at Gill, his concentration must have slipped, for Vachon gave a strangled shout of “Shut him up!”
One of the Spurriers made to strike Gill with his free hand; Gill dodged to the side and kicked. The Spurrier turned as he dodged, swinging his sword arm toward Gill. With a quick move of his still-bound hands, Gill disarmed the Spurrier and made the sword his own. Backing away quickly, he allowed himself a smile at the move he had just pulled—he hadn’t managed anything that fluid in quite some time.
He shifted position to trap the hilt of the sword between his thighs and sliced his bonds off. The sword was in his hand in an instant—a regular steel blade that he knew would be of use only against the Spurriers. He still wasn’t entirely sure who he was going to be fighting.
“Solène, would you mind coming over here and telling me what’s going on?”
“Sister, what are you doing?” one of the Spurriers asked as she gave Pharadon a parting look and stepped toward Guillot.
“Trying to make sure no one dies,” she said as she crossed the chamber.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered once she was in earshot.
“Looking for this temple. The Prince Bishop thinks it’s important, and he’s right. It could give him all the magical power he’s been after.”
“And you’re not in favour of that?”
“No, of course not.”
“But the Order. These are your comrades, aren’t they?”
“Not anymore. The Order has changed. I don’t want to see them hurt, though.”
“So they’re the bad guys?” Gill said, trying to pull sense out of it all.
“Not all of them. Maybe none of them. They’re just following orders.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Gill said. He raised his voice slightly. “Pharadon, what are you doing here? You said you were headed for the mountains.”
“I am,” Pharadon said. “As soon as I’ve done what I came here to do.”
One of the Spurriers finally took some initiative. A dagger whistled through the air and struck Pharadon in the shoulder. Letting out a grunt that sounded half animal and half human, he stumbled backwards. Vachon dropped to the floor from his position halfway up the wall and quickly got to his feet. He and some of his comrades went after the goldscale, who was finally starting to pay serious attention to the humans.
Gill swore. Who was he supposed to side with—a thug like Vachon, who was at least human, or a pair of dragons? The gold dragon belched out a jet of flame—not nearly so great as some of the ones Gill had experienced, but in a confined space, it was more than enough. Or it would have been, if the Spurriers hadn’t been given the Cup’s boon, which was obviously still working, as none of them were even singed. The dragon seemed surprised that its weapon had no effect, but was quick to lash out with fangs and claws.
Two Spurriers came for Gill, who made his mind up as to what side he was on, at least for the moment. “Sorry, Solène,” he said. The Spurriers slashed at him from each side, one high, one low. Gill parried the first and carried the momentum from the strike down to divert the second. He fired in a quick thrust that cut only cloth, but smiled at how loose his body seemed to be. Joints that had complained with every movement for years were smooth and pain free. His muscles were responding faster than he could recall, and he had thrust twice more before he had even finished the thought.
The second thrust caught the targeted Spurrier below the collar bone. He cried out in pain and his sword arm went limp. Gill stamped forward, cutting low, then kicking the wounded man to the floor as he straightened. Another Spurrier joined the melee. Behind them, Gill could see the others, led by Vachon, herding the gold dragon into a corner. Solène had gone to Pharadon’s side. He didn’t have time to consider her choice to avoid the conflict, or curse her for not helping.
Guillot parried a thrust that was headed straight for his heart, then stepped forward and to the side, skewering his attacker through the midsection. He pulled the blade free and slashed at the final Spurrier confronting him, to buy a little time to catch his balance. With his weight back where he needed it to be, he launched into a rapid sequence of thrusts. The Spurrier batted them away, steel clashing and echoing about the chamber, his face a picture of concentration. He was good, had a fast blade.
The dragon roared. Gill’s enemy’s concentration faltered. His blade was a fraction too slow. A tidy thrust through the chest to finish him, and Gill was able to take a breath.
The gold dragon was cornered but the Spurriers seemed reluctant to get too close. They goaded it with their swords but none seemed brave enough to step within range of teeth or claws. Gill could see the expression of terror on the dragon’s face. It was bizarre to see the creature of so many people’s nightmares fighting for its life, afraid.
“Leave it alone,” Gill shouted, then winced—was he really telling humans to stop trying to kill a dragon?
Stepping out of the group, Vachon turned to face him. “You’d betray your own kind to protect this monster?”
Gill shrugged. “I’m not sure we are the same kind.”
Vachon smiled, the type of smile a bastard makes when he’s about to kick a puppy. Gill took his guard, and Vachon did the same. Vachon came at him like a bull, blade cutting like a butcher’s cleaver. Gill countered his blows, but his hand stung from the force of each deflected strike. A competent banneret who had spent years soldiering, Vachon clearly knew a sword wasn’t the only thing you used when you were trying to kill someone. Gill continued to parry, finding a smooth, flowing rhythm that reminded him of his youth, but he didn’t have the speed to get out of the way of a shoulder charge. Vachon knocked him to the ground and left him breathless. Guillot had grown used to dealing with that in recent days, so with barely a pause, he rolled to his feet as he fought to draw air into his lungs.
His opponent slashed at Gill with wicked cuts in rapid succession. Gill danced back on the balls of his feet, revelling in the sensation of ease, one he hadn’t enjoyed in years. It was this feeling that had made him want to become a swordsman. There was joy in it. Gill thrust; Vachon parried and riposted. Gill met the blade with his, but the strike was too wide. His body might be back in form, but the speed of his thoughts had yet to catch up.
Vachon barrelled into him, slamming him into the wall. Gill smashed down with the pommel of his sword, missing Vachon’s head and catching him on the shoulder instead. Wincing, Vachon stepped back and grabbed Gill by the front of his shirt. Vachon’s other fist followed, the guard of his sword threatening to rearrange Gill’s face.
Guillot managed to twist enough to dodge the worst of the blow, but it caught his left cheek and rattled his brain. Strong as an ox, Vachon pinned Gill to the wall with one arm, and pressed his fist into Gill’s throat. Choking, Guillot kicked at Vachon, who seemed oblivious. His eyes burned with rage; it was easy to see that he took joy in killing.
Gill tried to bring his blade to bear, but the best he could do was slide the edge along Vachon’s thigh. The sword’s previous owner had kept a keen edge on it, and Gill could see a flicker of pain on Vachon’s face. Gill kept sawing until Vachon roared and leaped back, hurling Gill to the side. Fighting to breathe, Guillot massaged his throat as he stumbled to his feet. He turned just in time to see Vachon coming for him again. Was there no stopping this beast of a man?
Limping now, Vachon was not nearly so fast as he had been. Gill lunged with everything he had and felt his blade connect. Then Vachon was on him, pummelling him with fists the size of small hams, batting Gill’s head from side to side. His vision narrowed and his mind grew distant. Instinct told him to twist the blade, which he did, before everything went dark.