Phoenix Rising by Jason K. Lewis Page B

not hide the relief in his eyes. “Master Tyll,” he addressed the ragged prophet, “my men and I have business elsewhere…”
    “Aye, begone.” Tyll waved a hand in casual dismissal.  
    “No hard feelings I hope, General?” Jhan Guttel smirked, then turned and quickly departed with his men.  
    The tavern stood all but deserted beyond the ragged half-circle of zealots.
    Conlan counted twenty-one men with Marek Tyll. Four against one. Not odds that they were likely to beat, even with swords. He was glad of Jhan Guttel’s departure though; his nine would have turned a difficult task impossible. There will be time to track that one down... If we survive.
    Martius cocked his head to one side and glared at Tyll, his eyes unblinking. After a long moment he spoke. “Are you a deserter?” His voice was soft, almost gentle.
    Tyll did not seem to notice. He pointed a crooked finger at Martius. “You have seen the gods. They have returned.” His face turned crimson. “Why would you deny them?”
    Martius pursed his lips. “I asked you a question.” His voice was pitched low now, but commanding nonetheless. “Are you a deserter?”
    “Sir?” Conlan touched Martius’s arm. What in all the hells is he doing? Marek Tyll was clearly beyond reason. Trapped, perhaps, in some warped world of his own making. A deserter, maybe, but he might have been driven mad by the bloody insanity of battle itself.  
    Conlan glanced towards the corner of the room to where Syke – or the phantom of her – had appeared, but there was no trace of the crimson goddess. The hawk had flown.
    Marek Tyll’s eyes took on a lucid cast; just for a moment, they shone bright with the light of understanding. “Pah!” he spat. “Heretic!” Then he turned and walked away, flanked by his two giant bodyguards.
    The rest of Tyll’s men charged in a mad scramble to reach the heretics before them. In his eagerness, one man tripped bringing two more down with him.
    Martius drew his sword. “Back to back!” he barked.
    Conlan needed no further instruction. His blade squeaked against the wood of his scabbard as he drew it. For a heart-stopping moment he thought it had jammed, then it pulled free.
    A man swiped a meat cleaver at Conlan’s head. He ducked the blow and sliced his blade into the man’s groin. It was an automatic riposte, drilled into him through years of training. Martius had said that he did not want unnecessary death, but Conlan’s body was trained to slaughter. Now, after weeks of frustration, it jumped eagerly to its task. The man screamed and fell to the floor, his life pumping away onto the dusty planks.
    “We cannot hold, sir.” Conlan kicked an attacker’s kneecap; the man howled and leaned forward. Conlan brained him with the pommel of his sword. He, at least, may survive.
    “We don’t seem…” Martius dodged a knife blade and ripped his short-sword up in a tight arc. The blade sliced through the attacker’s shoulder and he fell back with a scream. “… to have much choice.” He stabbed forward, his eyes shining with fury or joy and another zealot fell back.
    Is he still enjoying it? How can he smile at a time like this?  
    Conlan barely blocked a club. It grazed his shoulder and glanced off the site of his injury from Sothlind. The old wound twinged. A shock of pain coursed down his arm. For a moment, the vista before him morphed and he was back in the valley battling the horde once more.
    However, this rabble of zealots were no warriors. They were not heedless of their own safety as the Wicklanders had been.
    A flash of silver caught his eye. A wickedly curved knife aimed at his left side. He turned instinctively, but he knew he could not stop it.
    An image of Syke flashed through his mind, her eyes blazing with power and death. He wondered if he would meet her in the afterlife.
    A short sword slammed down into the knife wielder, the hand and knife sheared clean off. Darcus didn’t pause. He swept his blade up and