The Crown of blood

VI

Hearing his name being called, Ullsaard snapped out of his fugue. He recognised Noran's voice just outside the pavilion, and heard the familiar sound of a sword blow. The general was on his feet in a heartbeat, throwing off the blanket. Unsheathing his sword, he dashed through the pavilion to the door, where he found his two sentries fighting against other soldiers.

Past the melee, Ullsaard could see Noran lying on the ground, blood bubbling from several wounds. He had no time to spare a further thought for his friend as a legionnaire lunged towards him with a spear.

Ullsaard used the flat of his blade to slap aside the attack and jumped into his attackers, slashing his sword backhanded into a man's face, cutting through nose and cheek. The legionnaire staggered back as blood spilled from the wound, but Ullsaard noticed a blank look in his gold-tinted eyes.

More soldiers had been roused by Noran's cry and they came running along the street with their weapons ready. Ullsaard kicked the feet from under another attacker and brought his knee up into the other's face as he fell, breaking his jaw. The man surged to his feet, spearpoint aimed at Ullsaard's chest. The general stumbled to his right to avoid the thrust and righted himself in time to duck beneath another swinging spear tip. He caught the shaft of the weapon in his free hand and wrenched it from the legionnaire's grasp. Without hesitation, the soldier came on again, swinging his shield against Ullsaard's shoulder.

Rolling with the blow, Ullsaard came to his feet and spun the spear in his left hand so that he was holding it overhand. He jabbed the point into the throat of the next man to come at him, the spear cutting through the side of the legionnaire's neck in a gush of arterial blood. The general waded into his assassins, using his sword to parry thrusting spears, his own finding limbs and guts and faces with each lunging blow.

Even wounded, the traitors tried to fight on, impervious to grievous injuries that would kill a normal man. One by one, they were slain by Ullsaard and those who came to his rescue; one by one, that golden light in their eyes dimmed and disappeared.

When the last of them was dead, Ullsaard tossed aside his spear and ran to Noran's side. Crouching down, he saw his friend's tunic soaked with blood from neck to knee and the ground was red beneath him.

"I'm sorry," Noran said weakly, flapping at Ullsaard with a blood-slicked hand.

"No apologies," growled Ullsaard. "Save your strength."

Ullsaard's eyes quickly took in the injuries: a wound in the leg, three in the gut, one in the chest and two in Noran's left shoulder. It was a marvel that Noran was still conscious. Ullsaard gripped his friend's hand tightly, feeling the blood oozing between his fingers. Noran's eyelids were drooping and his breath hissed through his teeth in shallow gasps.

"Stay with me," said Ullsaard, putting a hand behind Noran's head and lifting him up. "Who else is going to keep Meliu happy while I'm away?"

Noran's eyes flickered wide. His words came in halting gasps.

"You know about that?"

Ullsaard grinned.

"Luia had you stitched up like a legionnaire's sack, but I wouldn't have any of it."

"I… I didn't…"

"Yes, you did, but I forgive you." Ullsaard looked over his shoulder at the legionnaires gathering around. "Fuck off, the lot of you. And fetch the surgeons."

With a grunt, Ullsaard hefted Noran into his arms and straightened.

"Never thought such a streak of piss could weigh so much," he said. Noran hung an arm limply over the general's shoulder. Ullsaard felt blood trickling down his back. He bowed his head to speak softly into his friend's ear. "I didn't mean to take your wife either, but I did. If you want her, Meliu is yours."

He got no reply as he carried Noran into the pavilion.