fell back from Isana, back arched into a bow, clutching at his chest.
Isana shuddered and tried to shield herself from the sudden terror and panic in the Marat, but she did not release him from Rill's grip. The Marat heaved in breaths like a fish out of water, but Isana knew it would do him no good. The fury had stopped the blood in his veins, stopped the beating of his heart.
It was over in a minute. Isana found herself staring at a dozen frightened, wide-eyed children over the corpses of the Marat warriors she had killed.
Frederic appeared in the doorway, panting, a moment later. The young holder had discarded his shield, and instead carried a slender and half-dressed girl wearing a slave's collar and a dancer's silks. The girl's leg had been bloodied, and she leaned on Frederic, her face buried against his shoulder, weeping.
"Mistress Isana," Frederic gasped. "You're all right?"
"For now," Isana said. She moved to Frederic's side and helped him draw the girl over to the little barricade. "Frederic, you must stay here and protect the children. Hold this building. All right?"
He looked up at her, his face concerned. "But what about you?"
"I'll manage," Isana said. For a moment, the terror and pain and panic of those around her seemed to rise up in a wave that threatened to drown her. The corpses of the Marat lay on the floor, twisted and stiffening, their expressions agonized. She heard herself letting out a low, unsteady laugh. "I'll manage. I have to get to him."
Frederic swallowed and nodded. "Yes, Mistress."
She fought to take a deep breath, to control the emotions coursing through her. "Hold the door, Frederic. Keep them safe." Then she walked out the door of the barracks as quickly as she could and started toward the far courtyard again.
The battle, it seemed, was winding down. Corpses and the wounded lay everywhere. She watched as a Herdbane Marat came pelting around a corner, only to be ridden down by a pair of Marat on horses, spears run through his back as he fled. A blood-maddened direwolf threw itself at one of the horses, fangs ripping at one of its hind legs, bringing the beast to ground, while its rider leapt from its back and spun, spear in hand, to face the wolf.
Isana pressed on, past the command building, where a grim, grizzled legionare shouted to her to get inside. She ignored him and pressed on into the easternmost courtyard.
Here, the fighting had been worst, and the carnage was greatest. Not only had the dead been laid out here earlier in the day, but now hundreds more bodies lay on the ground, mostly Marat, though here and there the red and gold of a Rivan legionare's tunic stood out from among the pale barbarian bodies. She could have walked to the far side of the courtyard without setting a foot on its stones.
She began to pick her way across the courtyard, twice dodging aside as Marat fled past her, heading for the broken gates, eyes wild and panicked. She stayed out of their way and let them pass. Once, several Marat riding horses thundered through the corpses, hooves crushing indiscriminately, riding out the gate. Here and there, the wounded stirred, dragged themselves along, or waited quietly to die. The place was thick with the smell of blood, with the septic stink of ruptured bellies, and Isana's head was swimming by
the time she reached the broken section of wall, where she had last seen Tavi.
She had to crawl over a mound of rubble to reach the far side, steeling herself for what she was afraid she would see: her brother, dead on the stones. Fade, hanging at the end of a rope, strangled, or his neck broken. Tavi above, bled to death.
Instead, she found Bernard laying quietly against the base of the wall. His mail shirt had been unbelted and rolled away from where the mercenary's sword had pierced him, and the skin there was pink and smooth- newly crafted whole. She stumbled across the stones to her brother's side, reaching for his throat. She found his pulse, slow and steady and strong.
Tears blurred her eyes, even as she heard movement and looked up, to see Fade rising from his seat not far away. His throat was raw and abraded, his sleeve stained with blood, but the cut upon it had been crafted closed, pink skin clean and almost glowing.