Adamat grabbed the soldier by the front of his uniform. “You hear those shots? They’ve been ambushed in the front. It’s got to be a distraction. Charlemund will use that cover to escape.”
The soldier hesitated. “I don’t trust you,” he said slowly.
“Holy pit, look!” Adamat pointed toward the house.
The soldier whirled. Adamat brought his elbow down hard on the boy’s neck. “Sorry,” he said, taking the rifle. He pushed the boy’s unconscious form up against the firewood stack and looked about, trying to spot more of Tamas’s soldiers. He caught sight of one near the edge of the house, creeping about toward the front—more concerned about his comrades in the firefight than with anyone escaping out the back.
“Damn it, I’m going to be doing this alone.” He ran, half crouching, until he was fully behind the villa. He stopped behind a shed and listened. The shots had stopped. He ducked around the shed for a look. The back of the villa was an open portico, a sun garden with large parasols and awnings for shade. There was a thin gravel maintenance drive. A single-horsed carriage waited in the drive, with a familiar, miserable-looking driver. Tamas checked for guards—there were none. He ran forward.
“Siemone,” he said. The driver looked up. The young priest had a stricken look about his face—he was disturbed enough that he forgot to avoid looking Adamat full in the face. For a moment.
“What are you doing here?” Siemone said, averting his eyes. “Get out, before the arch-diocel sees you.”
“You’re helping him escape,” Adamat said. He grabbed the horse by the bridle.
“I have to,” Siemone said. He clutched the reins tight.
“No, you don’t. He’s an evil man, a traitor. Don’t help him.”
“You don’t think I know?” Siemone said. The words came out a sob. “I’ve known all along. I’m sorry I paid those men to kill you. Please understand, I could do nothing. I can’t be free of him. I’m glad you’re still alive. Now, get out of here before he comes. He’ll cut you down.”
Adamat took a deep breath. “Siemone,” he said, stepping forward.
“Don’t come another step,” the priest warned.
Adamat paused. “Please, Siemone.” He inched forward.
“Guards!” Siemone called. “Quickly!”
A pair of men rushed from the back of the house. They wore the garb of Church guards, and drew their swords at the sight of Adamat.
Prielight Guards. Elite soldiers in the employ of the Church. They protected the arch-diocels with their lives. If they got close to Adamat, he wouldn’t stand a chance. Adamat stepped back and took the rifle in both hands, hoping it was loaded.
He aimed for the first guard and squeezed the trigger. The shot resounded in the yard. The man took a few more steps and stumbled to his knees. The second ran past him, coming fast. Adamat threw down the rifle and drew his pistol. The blast took the guard directly in the chest. He grunted, a look of frustration on his face, and dropped. The first guard had slowly gotten to his feet. He swayed drunkenly. Adamat drew his sword and stepped forward. The man managed to parry four or five thrusts before Adamat landed a disabling blow.
“Siemone!” someone shouted. “We fly!”
Adamat turned. Charlemund ran from the back of the villa, cape over one arm, sheathed sword in the other.
“Go,” Adamat said. “Go without him! You can do it, Siemone!”
The priest squeezed his eyes shut and began to pray. Adamat swore, whirled toward Charlemund.
“You!” the arch-diocel grunted, stopping just inside the garden. He glanced over his fallen guards in disgust.
Adamat stepped forward, between Charlemund and the carriage. The pistol had been his only chance. Charlemund was the best swordsman in the Nine. He’d tear Adamat apart. Adamat raised his sword and swallowed hard.
Charlemund plucked at the string around his neck and tossed his cape aside. He drew his sword and cast away the sheath.
The attack came faster than Adamat could have imagined. Adamat parried by instinct only—he’d been considered a fine fencer long ago, but those years were past and he’d wielded little more than a cane sword since. Adamat fell back beneath the advance. He skipped away, retreating fast. The arch-diocel came on relentlessly, a stab here, a slash there, the tip of his sword mere inches from Adamat’s face and chest.
“A fine fencer” was a relative term against someone like Charlemund. Adamat felt worthless, like a child at his first lesson. These were no wooden training swords, though. When Charlemund flicked forward, effortlessly, he drew blood.