Free Lady of Mercy (The Sundered, Book 3) by Michelle Sagara West Page A

searched for it before, you know.” His smile deepened; his expression took the aspect of his God. “Thank you for leading us to it.”
    “Enough, Tarantas,” the younger priest said. He was not so finely dressed as the older man and did not bother with the conceit of a beard that would be, at best, sparse. But he carried himself with the impatience of power. Erin knew him for the leader. He nodded to his Swords. She counted fifteen in all. “Take her. We don’t have time for pleasantries.”

    “You realize,” she replied, shifting her sword as she met Erliss of Mordechai’s eyes, “that I can’t allow that.”
    “We realize that it wouldn’t be your first choice.” He gestured, again without relying on words to form a command, and one Sword, weapon drawn, came to stand behind Darin. He lifted his sword; it glinted where it caught the light. Its shadow fell halfway between Darin’s shoulder and neck. “If you fight, we’ll kill the boy.”
    She looked for some sign from Darin; some acknowledgment of his fate. She searched in vain. He lowered his head, exposing his neck as if he could expect nothing better than a clean strike.
    “I see,” she said softly. Once or twice before, she had been in a very similar circumstance. And war had its mandate. If they killed Darin, they killed the last of Line Culverne. But if they did not, and that because she surrendered, they would shortly kill the last of both lines. Without fight, and without loss to themselves.
    I’m sorry , Darin. She raised her sword as she steadied herself against the back of the tree; the effects of the transition were still with her.
    And then the head of the Sword exploded. His weapon fell, unblooded by all save he, and his body toppled stiffly forward, knocking Darin off his feet.
    Lord Erliss wheeled, his eyes wide and then narrow.
    “It isn’t her power!” Tarantas cried. “It isn’t the magic of the Enemy!”

chapter four
    Erin barely had time to react before the Sword closest to her fell, clutching his neck. Wire, weighted on either side by small, dense balls, was tightly wrapped around his throat. And a very, very small portion of that throat had been exposed.
    “Kill her!” the young priest shouted, in a voice that seemed to have grown more distant. She didn’t dare look beyond the men that now circled to see where their leader lay.
    When the second Sword fell, she had no time to see the manner of his injury. Gallin’s sword moved her hand with an almost-tangible will; it was weightless, almost supple, for all that it was a southern blade. She saw its legendary signature—the flash and spread of green light across the air—and wondered if the Swords could see it, too, before they met its edge. She almost expected to hear a voice, some sign of Gallin, but in this she was disappointed.
    They tried to force her from the tree to open ground, where they could attack more easily, and with greater numbers. They chose the west to concentrate their drive, and she defended as heavily as possible against attacks from that quarter. It quickly grew impossible; where two men had stood against her, with the advantage of height and distance, a third, and then a fourth, came to join them.
    And in such close quarters, the speed afforded by light armor became much less of an advantage than the protection afforded by chain. She was fast, yes—she had always been among the fastest in any unit she had served—but she had no room to maneuver and had no shield with which to block.
    She called light; it came, sealing the two glancing blows she
had taken. She called fire, and it, too, came—but where it touched the Malanthi, it caused only pain, not death, only giving her a second’s respite, rather than a reprieve. These were weak of blood, these enemies, almost completely gray. Only the most powerful of all light could serve as a weapon against them—and she needed that power to heal herself if she was to continue her fight.
    Sweat beaded her