Marcellus ducked low from one graven pole to the next, trying to stay out of the line of sight of Valdemar. By then the crowds had noticed his approach and roared in outrage, but Valdemar could not possibly know what they shouted. Sweat slicked Marcellus' face; the frantic beating of his heart drowned out the sound of the enraged mob.
Seconds had passed. Seconds were all he had left.
His injured leg throbbed, threatening to buckle under the pressure. A deranged snarl ripped from his throat as he cleared the last pole and bolted forward desperately. He gripped the shield as if it were a large discus. He had been a fair throw when competing in the Great Games. He would have to be perfect with his cast.
Valdemar emerged completely from the doors. They would close any moment.
The warlord turned. There was no shock in his face, no hesitation as he unsheathed his sword with all the speed of a striking cobra.
At that moment Marcellus hurled the shield.
It hummed as it left his hand. For a moment he feared he had aimed too low, but as if guided by an unseen force the shield suddenly tilted upwards, catching Valdemar directly under the chin. It exploded in a burst of splintered wood.
The sword sailed upwards, glinting in the morning light. Marcellus never stopped running, and as Valdemar tilted backward, he leaped onto the saddle and shoved Valdemar off. The warlord unceremoniously toppled to the ground in a burst of powdery dust.
Marcellus caught the hilt of the sword as it fell, striking the doorman who rushed out to aid his master. The great stallion whinnied and reared wildly. Valdemar rolled on the ground, snarling as he tried to avoid being trampled by his horse. Blood trickled unheeded from his face.
How many seconds have passed? How many do I have left?
Marcellus fought the stallion down. It was a Barbar, one of the rare breeds raised in the desert men called the Sea of Sand by nomad tribes that made their fortune in breeding and racing. Their great size, speed, and power characterized them from other racing breeds, in addition to their smaller heads and narrow muzzles. Shadowdancer had been such a horse. Marcellus knew how to handle their kind.
He jerked the reigns so that the stallion's flanks crushed the second doorman against the wall. As the man's bones cracked, Marcellus looked into the tunnel. Incensed guards ran toward him. Behind him, furious Bruallians — soldiers and peasants, priests and commoners — leaped and clambered down the walls. Heedless of the drop that caused many to damage themselves, they leaped on top of one another and staggered toward the scene. Those least injured raced to protect their lord and tear his attacker to pieces.
Valdemar's face was pure murder as he rose to his feet.
Now.
Marcellus roared and dug his heels in the horse's flanks. The stallion shot into the tunnel with a wall-vibrating neigh. The approaching guards had the option of leaping out the way or being trampled. Most chose the former, though one not swift enough met his end under the flashing hooves. Marcellus swung, and the only guard who thought to bring a bow fell with a gurgled scream.
The only thing louder than the stallion and the yells of the guards was the scream of feral rage that tore from Valdemar's throat; a savage roar of pure hate that swelled and chased them up the tunnel.
Sunlight tried its best to creep through the cracks of the exit door to show Marcellus how close freedom was. Only two guards barred the way. They drew swords, but fear shimmered in their eyes as they beheld him racing up the tunnel with a bloody sword in his hand.
They leaped out of the way as the stallion lowered his head and turned slightly to ram the barred doors with his shoulder. The heavy-hinged gate exploded outward as if made of rotted wood.
They sailed out of the stadium tunnel in an eruption of splinters, straight into the crowd outside. Spectators fell over one another in their haste to leap out of the way.
The stallion once again attempted to throw Marcellus. The people leaped back as he tried to fight the horse down. A few applauded as they watched him determinedly hang on somehow, unaware that he had just struck down their beloved lord.
His arms and legs trembled. It had already taken much to endure the abuse of the crowd, coupled with the half-healed wounds that still hounded him. But freedom perfumed his nostrils; the wind stroked his face and stirred his hair as though welcoming him home.
Guards broke through the cheering crowd, brandishing their weapons and yelling for him to dismount. Pandemonium resulted as they wrestled with the crowd to reach him while the people ran the opposite way to stay clear of the fighting.
Marcellus used the moment of panic to spur the stallion forward and shoot through the crowds. A wildfire flared in his chest as his heart pounded with the need, the animal urge to escape. Freedom or death were his only options.
Freedom or death.
Chapter 13: Valdemar
Valdemar gave the blade a vicious twist before pulling it out of the guard's belly. The man gurgled and lay still. Livid crowds buzzed around about like bees whose hive had just been robbed. They jammed the tunnel in numbers so thick that Valdemar was sure he could hear men choking to death from the lack of air.
Mindless fools.
He stabbed the guard one more time for good measure. The man should have been quicker. Marcellus would never have escaped if he had.
Just like you? You had him in your grasp and let him shame you in front of all your people. How does the great Lord feel now?
He slapped his temples with gauntleted hands. "Shut up, shut up!"
General Ganbatar Basilis pushed through the crowd along with a squad of knights in the glistening black and crimson scale armor of the Dragonist Order. Ganbatar had opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut at Valdemar's outburst. Valdemar glared at him, knowing he looked a disgrace. His raiment was soiled, blood dried in his thick mustache and tracked down his chin and neck.
"He will go west, toward the Dragonspine. But he will not get far; he is not familiar with the city. We will be able to get through faster and can cut him off before he can escape. Do not fire arrows at the man — you may hit Daemon. The horse must not be injured. And most importantly, Marcellus Admorran is to be brought to me alive. Now get me away from this filth." He flicked his hand toward the milling crowd. "And find me a decent mount. I will ride with you."
The Dragonists saluted and immediately cleared a path through the mob. They battered with their shields, sword pommels, and when necessary, the edge of their swords. Valdemar walked in their midst without regard as his thoughts pursued a frantic knight on a fiery steed.
MINUTES LATER HE TROTTED down the dusty streets surrounded by his Dragonists. Spectators swiftly found other places to be as black-garbed soldiers filled the lanes — the entire army unleashed on the city. It was only a matter of time. There was no chance the man could have cleared the winding streets. It was difficult to find a quick route even to those native to it.
Inside, Valdemar seethed. He was only too aware of how difficult Marcellus had made his situation. He — Lord of Bruallia, humbled by the legend of Leodia in full view of practically everyone in the city. The talk would surely spread like the plague. He would make an exceptionally painful example of Marcellus once they caught the man. And they would catch him. It was only a matter of time.