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

brow, but at least the Lady’s greatest Tree sheltered her from the worst of the sunlight. She was tiring too quickly. A sword sneaked in at her side; she pivoted on her feet and caught its edge with her armor. In battle, she had never felt so closely pressed.
    She would die here, she felt certain of it; she would die alone, with no comrades and no other warriors of her once-great line, her once-great God. At last.
    And then, without warning, she felt the pressure of the Swords lessen. She spared a glance up and saw someone new enter the fray, brandishing a sword as if it were a hat, and he in the middle of a flowery bow.
    “Take that, scoundrels! Quake in fear!”
    She almost laughed out loud.
    “Have no— mmph —fear, Lady!” The black-clad man said. “We’ll be— urk —out of this in a minute.” Through some quirk of luck, he actually managed, albeit clumsily, to parry the weapons that his—and her—enemies raised against him. His shoulders seemed to shake as he tried to brace himself for their weight and ended up teetering back on his feet.
    “Don’t talk!” she shouted back, breaking one of her former weaponsmaster’s cardinal rules. “Fight!” If he could. Suddenly, she was no longer alone; some strange, dramatic young oaf, from God alone knew where, had chosen to enter battle, on her side. And if she couldn’t kill the two that she fought against, she wouldn’t be in time to rescue him.
    For one second, her sword was in midswing. A heartbeat later, another explosion tore through the air. Her blade, trailing light and danger, passed harmlessly over what remained of the Sword’s head. There was no blood; no bits of flesh or bone were left to rain down upon her. Ashes, the acrid smell of cooked meat, and the black smoke of burned fat were all that remained of the Sword’s face. His body fell. She dodged it, and put an end to the Sword that stood spellbound in shock.

    And then there was silence.
    The odd, loud stranger stood, arms crossed, face wreathed in an obviously self-congratulatory smile. At his feet lay two Swords; neither moved. And both were charred beyond recognition.
    There, in the shadows of leaved canopies, she could see tufts of white hair and the wreckage of a priest’s robe. All around, in armor that was smeared red or black, lay what remained of the Swords. She counted carefully and hoped that her memory was up to the task.
    Fifteen. One priest. That left only one unaccounted for.
    “Well, Lady,” the stranger said loudly. “It appears that I arrived in good time.” He lifted his sword and swung it back into the scabbard that hung too low on his waist. Or at least he tried. He narrowly avoided splitting his thigh open the first time.
    She moved as if he hadn’t spoken; her feet were light upon orvas, grass, and moss—and careful, as she vaulted over the great roots of the tree. The young priest who had obviously been this squad’s leader was nowhere in sight.
    They had a moment’s respite, then. She used it to find Darin. It wasn’t that hard; he lay beneath the headless body of the first man to fall. Darin hadn’t moved at all; a careless observer might have taken him for one of the dead.
    Erin was not careless. “Darin?” She turned him over gently and cut away at the ropes that bound his hands.
    He opened his eyes, looked up at her wordlessly, and then threw his arms around her neck, not minding the blood or the sweat or the smoke smell. She held him, but briefly. “We won.”
    “Indeed,” the stranger said, “we did. Say, did this belong to the antiquated old priest?”
    They both turned to watch as the man began an exaggerated hobble toward them, digging the staff of Culverne into the dirt to emphasize his mime.
    Darin was unamused. He let go of Erin at once, got unsteadily to his feet, and then stomped off across the ground. “No,” he said, grabbing it firmly and yanking it out of the man’s hands. “It doesn‘t.”
    “Well, it certainly doesn’t