Restoration Read Online Free Page B

would find out what in the name of night they were doing here. “Go!”
    I left my horse at the top of the rise, and then crept silently down the dark hillside through a thick stand of pines. When I was no more than halfway down, orange light flared from the valley and a man screamed in mortal agony. Piercing the black wall of the night came the terrified wail of a child. Abandoning stealth, I ran. A dark form lay sprawled on the ground just at the edge of the trees. Blaise ... and I could spare no time to see if he lived.
    The cottage was already burning when I reached the base of the hill, and one of the Derzhi was standing in front of the door, sword drawn. Evan’s whimpering cries came from behind the man. Gods of night, he was still inside! But I could not take on the door guard, for the other two namhirra were also in view. In the wavering shadows beyond the fire was a small group—a man huddled on the ground, another man—the second Derzhi—behind him bending his head back and holding a knife to his throat. The third namhir, tall, thin, his arms folded calmly in front of his chest, stood in front of the two, barking a question. The crumpled man responded with a harsh, sobbing curse.
    Gordain was going to die. No matter what enchantment I cast or what feat of arms I might be able to muster, the distance between us was too great. I could not possibly move fast enough to halt the knife of a namhir.
    â€œThey will live, Gordain,” I cried, offering the good man the only gift possible as I sent my dagger spinning through the night to catch the door guard in the heart, and then raced the heart breakingly long steps to plunge my sword into the second namhir’s back. As I yanked the blade from the lifeless Derzhi, I glimpsed Farrol’s stocky form streaking from the woods toward the burning house. I had no choice but to trust him to do what was needed, for the third assassin drew his sword and attacked.
    â€œThe sorcerer slave himself!” he cried gleefully as he met me stroke for stroke. “Flushed you out like a hungry kayeet.”
    I had fought few humans in my career as a warrior—my opponents had always been the monstrous manifestations of demons—but I learned quickly that the namhir was among the most skilled of his kind. Simple illusions—itching, boils, crawling spiders—would not disrupt the focus of such a killer. He knew I was a sorcerer. And my son’s terrified wailing fed my anger so sorely that I could not allow myself the time for more impressive, and thus more difficult, workings. I had to rely on my sword and my fists. Once, that would not have been a problem—I was very good at what I did—but the badly healed wound in my side was proving treacherous. Every time I raised my sword, my right side felt as though it were tearing open.
    I tried to back the warrior into the fence of the goat pen, but he seemed to have the lay of the farm imprinted on his mind. Just before I had him trapped, he ducked and rolled and leaped to his feet behind me. I pressed him again, toward the flames, ripping my blade across his chest. Not deep enough, for he did not falter. Rather he worked me sideways toward the new-plowed field, hoping, no doubt, to tangle my feet in the soft earth. I whirled about and landed my boot solidly in his back. He stumbled, but did not go down. My son’s crying became short bleats of terror, and I dared not think why Farrol’s shadow was still flailing about between me and the fire.
    â€œGet them out,” I screamed, and brought my sword down on my opponent’s shoulder. Dark blood gushed from the wound.
    Still the namhir fought, dodging my blows and kicking at my knees, smashing a thick wooden stave into my back. The blow staggered me for a moment, and only a desperate recovery prevented his sword from following. But the namhir was human, and I had been trained to fight demons. With my next blow, I shattered his