Sir Aldric Brightblade's Arc

Chapter 3 of 5

Aldric crouched behind a boulder and counted the men on the fort's walls. Six, maybe more. Torches moved along the ramparts. The gate below stood shut and barred. Rowen knelt beside him, breathing hard from the climb. Two knights against a fort full of armed bandits. Aldric knew what a straight charge would buy them. They would die on the dirt before they reached the cells, and Father Matthias would die behind them. "We can't ram that gate," Rowen whispered. "They'd cut us down from the walls." "Then we don't ram it," Aldric said. But he had no second plan. An arrow buried itself in the dirt between them. Both knights spun, swords half-drawn. From the shadow of a pine stepped an elf, bow already loosed and nocked again. Red hair spilled from her hood. Her green eyes held no fear of them. "You two are loud," she said. "I've watched you fumble up this slope for an hour." Aldric kept his blade ready. "Who are you?" "Someone who's watched this gang burn farms for a season." She lowered the bow. "Sylara Windwhisper. I want them gone as much as you do." She tilted her head toward the fort. "Two swords at the gate is a funeral. But I've marked their watch. There's a drain on the east wall, below the kitchen. One man can slip through while the guards look the other way." "One man," Rowen said. "And the rest of us?" "I keep the wall busy." Sylara drew an arrow and tapped it against her palm. "Every torch I snuff pulls their eyes. Give me the dark, and I'll give you a door." Aldric weighed it. One quiet way in beat one loud way to die. "Rowen, you take the drain. Free the priest. I'll wait at the gate. When you open it, we run them out." They moved when the moon slid behind cloud. Sylara's first arrow took a torch clean from its bracket. A bandit shouted. Men crowded that side of the wall. Rowen crawled low along the stone and vanished into the drain. Aldric pressed flat beside the gate, heart slamming. She worked fast. Torch after torch went black. The guards cursed and chased shadows. Then, from inside, Aldric heard the bar scrape. The gate swung inward. Rowen stood in the gap, sword bloody, a thin man in a torn robe clutched against him. Father Matthias. The priest's wrists were raw from rope. He looked at the holy sword in Aldric's hand and wept. "Go," Rowen said. "Now." They ran for the pines. Behind them a horn blew, long and furious. Torches flared back to life along the walls. Aldric glanced back once. A broad figure stood on the rampart, black beard, fist raised against the dark. Garrick Bloodhand, roaring orders. They had the priest. But the relic stayed inside, and now the whole fort knew their faces.