Soul Fire

Soul Fire - Chapter 21

Behind Dathion, Jerodai charged, his yell an alarm for guards who would not hear him. One boy against eight men. In moments Jerodai would be dead. Ellishan could not match Jerodai. He would fall next. Dathion lunged forward, his sword raised in defiance.

He would die before either of them.

Dathion's blade led his assault, spearing for the shadowed man's heart. As expected, the illusion of vulnerability proved a ruse. With blinding speed that dizzied Dathion, the man's swords came together to parry his blow, before a torrent of retaliatory strikes threatened to hammer his sword from his hand.

In return, the song played firmly for Dathion. His arm jerked with its own frenzied speed. To his waist, neck, then legs, his sword flashed to match his foe. In just moments, Dathion's arm ached. He always moved a fraction slower, the momentum never his. Darting, black blades inched closer with every pulse of his racing heart.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun.

Dathion instinctively raised his sword in front of his face to parry twin strikes. Both of his opponent's blades struck from underneath, forcing Dathion's sword-arm high over his head. His foe kicked him in the chest, staggering Dathion backward a few steps.

There was a vital pause. Dathion's body bent slightly at the waist, his breath rasping in his throat as though his lungs had been punctured by the dread man's blows. His adversary was unconquerable, his speed unearthly - a foe well beyond Dathion's measure.

But no one else could face him.

Jerodai had yet to engage the other men. Everyone moved so slowly.

Except for the man of shadows.

Sweat stung Dathion's eyes. He sucked air into his burning lungs. The man who faced him simply raised his swords, blades outstretched slightly to the sides, inviting a thrust directly to his unprotected heart. He stood precisely as he had before their fight had begun, except now Dathion was bruised, winded, and without hope.

Dathion faced his doom. It was impossible to pierce this man's guard. How could he prevail against an opponent such as this?

Behind him, Jerodai reached the men who had chased them. Bitterness swelled within Dathion at the futility of their resistance.

But then, just as Asillia was poised to lose three of its most precious lives, salvation dropped from the sky.

From the rooftops sailed men on silken ropes, dropping amongst Jerodai's foes, spreading ripples of confusion and surprise. Like their adversaries, the newcomers also wore dark clothes to blend with the night. Glimpses of silver emblazoned on their breasts snatched glints from the bright light of the moon.

So did the blades of their flashing knives.

To Jerodai, this aid did not register. Something drove him - a previously untapped force - his answer to the foul purpose of their enemies.

Tonight, Jerodai truly became the son of Malithas.

The arm of Jerodai was no longer hindered by the uncertainty of panic. His sword did not slow from a sense of doubt. Tonight his weapon became the tool of a surgeon, each incision taught by a master of his craft, whose blood flowed hot in Jerodai's veins.

Against their enemies, long knives struck from above. The weight of the men leaping from the ropes bore some of their foes to the ground. The alley cramped the combatants with its tight space. Sounds echoed from the walls. Yells of hatred. Cries of pain. Curses promising revenge and death.

The son of Malithas joined the fray.

The first of the men assaulted Jerodai with a series of savage swipes, a mixture of thrusts and slashes.