The King Rolen's Kin: The Uncrowned King - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,13

raced to protect the boys, it felt wrong to leave the others to face the invaders. They'd been considered either too young or too old to fight. Only the thought of Lenny and the rest of the little boys huddled defenceless in the mystics' sanctum kept him going.

Behind and above him, Fyn heard Sunseed shouting orders and Hawkwing yelling. He remembered holding Hawkwing's finger in place when it had been severed during weapons practice. Despite going white with pain, Hawkwing had joked while they waited for the healers. His friend had lost his finger and now he'd lose his life.

And Fyn was running away.

The sudden clash of steel and shouting told Fyn the main force of Merofynians had reached the central spiral stair. His heart swelled with pride because his fellow acolytes did not hesitate to defend the abbey.

Doubling over to catch his breath, the old abbot paused at the bottom of the stairs. Fyn almost collided with him, pulled up short, and peered past the two masters down a dim corridor. He could just make out the silhouettes of five lightly armed scouts, and beyond them were the double doors of the inner sanctum, securely bolted no doubt by Feldspar who was hiding inside. A pair of lamps lit the doors.

The abbot nudged Fyn, signalling for quiet, then entered the corridor. Silent in his slippers, the abbot crept up behind the last man and stabbed him under the ribs, a hand over his mouth. Shocked, Fyn froze. He could not reconcile this efficient killer with the kindly, wise old abbot.

Even as the abbot eased the body down, the man's companion turned and drew his sword. In the narrow hall, it scraped across the wall throwing an arc of sparks. This gave Silverlode time to run him through, while the abbot pulled his knife free.

Fyn hated to see an animal suffer, let alone a person. The man who'd been stabbed in the back was trying to breathe, blood bubbling on his lips. He was as good as he dead, but still he struggled.

The intruders' leader signalled the last two men to deal with the abbot and his companions, before going on.

The corridor was just wide enough for two men to stand side by side with weapons drawn. Fyn gripped his knife in his left hand, sword in the right, heart hammering.

The warriors, both seasoned veterans half the age of the masters, fell upon the old monks. Fyn knew enough swordcraft to recognise the monks' skill but their attackers were merciless. How did old Silverlode see the strokes, when he couldn't see well enough to read? Fyn felt he should help, but the pace was too furious and the space too tight to intervene. A barrage of attacks drove Silverlode back. Just a fraction too slow, the old monk failed to block. The top of his head flew off and hit the wall, followed a heartbeat later by his body.

Silverlode's attacker, a man with a scar where his right ear had been, turned to him.

Sound roared in Fyn's ears. Everything felt unreal.

He was vaguely aware of a flurry of movement behind the man as the abbot dispatched his opponent and prised his sword from the body.

The one-eared warrior's sword arced towards Fyn. Too late, his own weapon moved up to deflect it. Efficiently, the abbot caught the one-eared man from behind and cut his throat. The sword flew from the warrior's nerveless fingers.

Blood sprayed Fyn, hot and shocking.

'Are you all right?' the abbot asked.

Fyn could only nod.

The abbot stiffened and looked down as a sword point appeared from his chest.

With a savage kick, the leader of the intruders freed his sword and shouldered the abbot aside to charge Fyn.

Still reeling, Fyn side-stepped the attack, deflecting the strike with a circular motion that drove his attacker's sword hand into the wall, leaving the man's body open for a knife attack through the lacings of his chest protector. Fyn lost his grip on the knife hilt as the man slid down the wall, glaring at him even as he died.

Fyn gave him a wide berth. Stepping over the bodies, he dragged the abbot to a clear patch then knelt in the pool of blood that covered the floor. 'I'm sorry, so sorry.'

Blood covered the abbot's chin and his breath bubbled in his chest, but his eyes fluttered open and he recognised Fyn. He tried to speak. Failed. His hand felt along his waist sash for his keys. Tugging them free, he thrust the