Thread of Frost

Ch. 38: Battle of Tarhalla

"Webb!" Sophie shouted.

She was a whirl of silver blades, her dark hair flying about her like a banner. A sunhound lunged, and Sophie dispatched it with a well-placed knife to the throat. A lump rose in Isaac's throat. At this distance, Isaac thought, she could have been Anna. Their fighting technique was almost identical.

"Webb!" Sophie threw another knife. "We could use some help."

Ah.

Right.

Isaac lunged forward. The meat cleaver cut through fur and flesh, a natural extension of his arm. A pulse pounded in his ears. He'd forgotten how good this felt; the rush of battle, the song of blood. He carved a path to Sophie.

"We need to evacuate," Isaac called.

She kicked with her good leg. "I know."

"Where?"

"Doesn't matter," Sophie said grimly. "Just get them out."

Isaac cupped his hands. "Tristan!" He swung his meat cleaver, connecting with a hound's snapping teeth. "Get people to the woods. We'll meet by the crooked tree."

Tristan hesitated. "I can help."

"You are helping," Isaac said.

Tristan fiddled with the lump in his pocket. "Okay. But you're not allowed to die, Webb." His voice was stern. "Don't do anything brave and heroic."

"Duly noted," Isaac said.

He sprang onto an overturned cart. Tristan sprinted for the nearest house, slamming his fist against the door. Owain shifted, and Isaac caught a glimpse of a white cat racing beneath a table towards a knot of frightened villagers. Good, Isaac thought, slashing with his sword; get them out. Get everyone out.

Isaac dispatched one sunhound.

Two.

The fight raged on. Isaac was lost in the rhythm of it, the push-pull of battle. His mentor Aedyon's words came back to him: look at the target, not the weapon; guard your left. His meat cleaver was an extension of his arm. Funny, Isaac thought, that the very people Aedyon had taught him to kill were the ones that he was now determined to save.

"Webb!" Sophie shouted.

He turned.

The square was clearing out; bodies lay across the cobblestone, the fountain soaking through cotton clothing. Sophie limped towards the woods; she was supporting the weight of a man that was twice her size, and her dark hair was falling out of its ponytail.

"There are too many of them," Sophie called.

A hound sprung. Isaac dodged. "I'll draw them away."

Sophie shook her head. "No need. I don't think their vision is very good." She stumbled slightly, adjusting her grip. "They won't follow."

"Is that everyone?" Isaac asked.

He slammed his meat cleaver against the sunhound's head; it tumbled to the floor. Sophie's mouth tightened.

"I think so," she said.

Isaac scanned the square. "I'll do one last sweep."

Sophie nodded. He could hear their footsteps fading, the cadence a strange click-click-shhh as she dragged the stranger towards the woods. Blood pounded in his ears. The battle was over, Isaac thought, but his body hadn't caught up yet. Every muscle was tensed, every part of him primed for the next swing.

Isaac prowled through empty houses. He flipped over wooden beams and looked under carriages. Smoke poured from burning buildings, stinging his eyes. The meat cleaver wobbled in his hand. He could feel the adrenaline seeping away, turning his muscles and bones to jelly.