Even with the assistance of Pathfinder magic and helpfully shifting woods, by the time Mace reached the camp, the situation was dire.
He and the Agent took cover behind two trees as they peered through the chaos. Fires had sprung up near the paddock and in several tents, most notably their supply depots. For the very first time since coming to Shaman, Mace was grateful they didn’t have any explosive ordnance – if they had, he’d be coming up to a crater now, instead of a raid. A raid, or a massacre? It appeared the camp had been caught almost completely unawares. Where were the perimeter scouts? Why hadn’t an alarm been sounded sooner? Mace’s heart sank to his feet. He hadn’t trained them well enough for this inevitable attack.
You were one man. And there isn’t time to dwell on what could have been, now.
Josephine. Mace breathed a huff of relief, reached out across their bond, like grasping the hand of an ally. Where is Tristan?
South side, in the trees. You’d better hurry.
Just then, he heard the shouts. “The Prince! The Traitor!” Mace cursed, fastening his two spare clips to his belt. If he’d only known, he could have grabbed more before leaving Earth. If he’d only known…
And now they were dying. They were practically children, most of them, but Mordred’s guard were showing no mercy. Mace could see Pete, the boy who’d served Gawain the night he’d arrived, lying face-down in the mud. His jaw set. He drew his sword with one hand, kept his gun in the other.
“Let’s make a mess.”
Stepping out from the tree, he made for the nearest guard, slashing diagonally across his back. Sabriel put a bullet in him to keep him down, as they stepped over the prone figure. The sound of the gunshot made everyone in the field look over, briefly shocked by this rare and worrying disruption. Good, he thought. Now you know the fucking cavalry is here. Several men and women in blue turned toward them, lifting their bows. Mace raised a forcefield as arrows sailed toward them – they hit the barrier and fizzed as they fell.
“Follow your king!” Mace shouted to the newly unburdened rebels. Mercifully, they remembered enough of their training to cover each other as they turned South. This left a cluster of drawn swords for him and Sabriel to dispatch. Three-to-one? He’d seen worse odds. One of them began conjuring a fireball, but Mace let Equilibrium wash over them, rushing out of him like a shockwave. It felt like being suddenly submerged – that undefinable sense that tapped into magic felt deadened, distant. Let’s see how good you are with nothing but your weapons. Beside him, Sabriel smirked, and cocked her pistols.
Bringing her along had been a fantastic decision. They left a trail of bodies in their wake. Thunder clapped above them as a sudden squall sprung up over their traverse, a wave rushing out to lap over their ankles. Thoth? Mace could only hope they were together.
It wasn’t difficult to find them, once they’d crossed the camp; they were practically surrounded by the seething mob. It was immediately apparent that the orders had been to kill Mordred’s rival, at whatever cost. Mace didn’t dare call to him yet, for fear of distracting him. But as he moved toward a gap in the chaos, Mace and Sabriel darted in to protect his retreat. Josephine appeared in that moment, tackling a woman in blue to the ground in a flash of tawny fur.
With his body between Tristan and danger, he glanced at the boy over his shoulder. “We’ve got you,” he shouted, “go!”
|
|
