I wanted to shut my eyes or walk away, but I couldn’t. I knew if Braylar were to die, I had to see it. Not because I wanted to. I didn’t bear the man any love, but I didn’t have any desire to see his life end either. No, I had to see it because there was no one else to bear witness; it would fall on me to watch it in its entirety and maintain the record, complete what I’d begun.
But then I realized while I couldn’t possibly reach Braylar in time, I had something that could. There was a moment of indecision-I was sure if I left, Braylar would die in the brief time I wasn’t watching-but there was a small chance I could change his fate. I turned and ran into the woods, grabbing a loaded crossbow off the saddle of one of the Syldoon horses, and returned as quickly as I could.
The guard was still trying to squeeze the life out of Braylar. I raised the crossbow, sighted down its length, and tried to steady my hands. I didn’t trust myself to try to hit the guard-at that distance, even an accurate marksman had just about as much chance of hitting Braylar as the man choking him, and I was no accurate marksman. So I aimed for a column near the pair, high and to the right.
Waiting to exhale, I squeezed the long trigger. The bolt flew free and I tracked it as best I could. It sailed straight for the majority of its path, only beginning to arc slightly at the end. But that slight drop from where I’d aimed was almost enough to end the fight one way or the other-it struck the column in a small puff of dust just above the guard’s shoulder.
The guard’s head jerked and turned left and right like a bird’s, but he must’ve released some of the pressure on Braylar as he did. Braylar groped for his long dagger, twisting his body as much as he could to grab the hilt. The guard’s head snapped back down as he felt Braylar shift and he seemed to redouble his efforts to crush his windpipe. But my distraction had been enough. Braylar brought the dagger up fast into the guard’s side. The dagger didn’t penetrate the mail, or at least not much, but unlike Braylar’s fist, the guard seemed to feel this blow and Braylar jabbed again in the same spot. The guard let go of the haft with his left hand and punched Braylar in the face. Braylar stabbed at his side again, and the guard flinched once more, but when he raised his arm to deliver another blow, Braylar thrust the dagger up-the blade struck the guard in the throat, just above the mail coat and beneath the jaw. Blood sprayed onto Braylar’s arm and face. The guard rolled off, pulling the bloody dagger free. He pressed his hand against the wound and tried to stop the flow of blood that seemed impossibly bright in the sunlight.
Braylar got to his hands and knees, holding his own throat, head down as he coughed. But when he looked up, he saw the guard sitting near him and crawled forward. The guard tried to flee as best he could, crabbing away backwards, heels digging into the ground, right arm supporting him as he wobbled from side to side, still holding his wound. It was like two badly wounded insects fighting to the death. Braylar threw himself forward, ramming his elbow into the guard’s hand and throat, almost toppling over as he did. The guard fell onto his back and then tried to slowly rise. Braylar smashed his elbow into his throat twice more until the guard finally stopped moving.
Head down, Braylar knelt next to him, the sleeve of his tunic spattered with blood from elbow to cuff, his left hand on his own throat again. He crawled over to the dagger, wiping the blade on the dead guard before slipping it back into the sheath at his side.
He got to his feet, teetering as if drunk, and then turned and looked at the column that had been chipped by the crossbow bolt, and then up into the woods in my direction. Suddenly, for reasons I couldn’t understand, it seemed very important he knew who’d shot the crossbow. Braylar was bending down to retrieve his flail as I stepped out from behind the trunk of the tree to reveal myself, but then I saw him suddenly look to his right after he straightened.
The captain of the guards was struggling to regain his feet, leaning on the column for support, sword hanging limply from his mangled right arm. While Braylar could’ve advanced and finished him off right then, he stood there, waiting, hand on his throat.
The captain turned around, still using the column, and tried to hoist his shield into the air, nearly dropping it before finally getting a firm grip. His great helm swiveled slowly before it fixed on Braylar. He took a halting step, and pulled his near-useless left leg behind him, his shoulders crooked as he favored his bruised or broken ribs, the sword laid across the top of his battered shield, as he didn’t have the strength to hold it up with his injured arm alone.
Braylar rubbed the back of his arm across his face to mop up the sweat and blood coming out of his nose, and then he beckoned the captain on once.
The captain lurched forward, bent and broken, but undefeated just the same. There was something about this physical act of defiance that was moving, heroic even. He could’ve waited until he was alone and safe, or upon realizing that Braylar was still there, could’ve lowered his weapon and surrendered. Instead, he chose a path that would surely lead to his death. Perhaps he felt the wounds he’d sustained were severe enough that he was unlikely to survive, or perhaps he was too dazed to know just how badly he was hurt. But it seemed to me that he was cognizant and made his choice, resigning himself to death but not defeat.
Braylar had never whirled the flail heads around in dramatic circles before delivering a blow, preferring instead to send them in motion only during the actual attack. But he did so now, spinning the twin heads above him as he gripped the haft with both hands.
When the captain was five paces away, he pushed himself forward with whatever last reservoir of strength he had. Braylar let him come on and then stepped to his left as the captain dropped the sword off the shield and thrust it forward. The thrust missed wide and Braylar torqued his whole body into the final, twisting, vicious blow. The flail heads crashed into the side of the captain’s greathelm, caving it in as he fell forward. The blow was a tremendous one, and I was very glad the helm didn’t come free, because I didn’t want to see what kind of damage had been done.
The captain was surely dead before he hit the ground, but even so, his fingers didn’t release the sword even after he struck stone. This seemed to be his final defiant gesture, as blood began to pool around his helm.
Braylar squatted down beside his foe, the flail heads and the chains spooling on the ground as he touched the captain’s back with the tips of his fingers. He lowered his head for a moment before rising quickly. He retrieved his buckler, took one last, longing look in the direction the underpriest had fled in, then ran towards the sound of combat coming from the opposite side of the ruins.
Mulldoos and Hewspear had retreated from the first complete wall and archway and run towards the sound of combat, with their pursuers hesitating briefly and then following. The other underpriest’s guards, Syldoon, and Brunesmen had all moved to the same general spot near the front of the temple. Braylar was running towards the combat as well, and I saw another figure arrive-it took me a moment to realize it was Glesswik.
With everyone converging, it seemed that the Syldoon and the Brunesmen stood a decent chance of surviving the melee, but the outcome was far from certain. Two of the underpriest’s guards advanced on a Brunesman, who blocked the first three blows. He couldn’t block, parry, or avoid the next: a sword slashed him across his calf. He lost his balance, never to regain it again. The two guards closed in and threw a flurry of blows from two sides, battering him backwards into the steps-several blows didn’t compromise his mail, but still inflicted damage to flesh and bone beneath, and other blows struck him across the wrist and unarmored legs. Having dropped his sword, he tried to curl under his shield, but one of the guards kicked it aside and they both stabbed and slashed repeatedly. One guard thrust a final time in the thigh, and when he didn’t jerk or flinch, they both ran back down the stairs into the fray.