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Inzillomì had marked the loss of Târik with cold fury. She had mistrusted him long before turning to his guidance, and almost felt that she had lost a son now that she had placed her life in his hands and he had given his to save them. Mandos keep him in high honor. she thought grimly, catching a sweeping blade with her fan and running the unfortunate soldier through as he tried to regain his motionless blade. She felt sick at heart at the loss of these brave young guards; they fought fiercly for reasons as good as her own... simply different. Whether for their own ideals, or through fear, and she could not judge them bitterly... she had seen too much sorrow at the hands of judgement to inflict it on such pitiable lads as these.
Her face was white as new fallen snow, pale as those dying from her strokes. It was her life or those of the King's Men. Those she loved best in the world stood in the balance. Now was not the time for mercy. She argued with herself, blocking and defending unthinkingly. The karibor beneath her reared, kicking, and dispatching a man just out of reach. If now is not the highest and hardest time for mercy, then what is? Should not these boys be treated with the kindness that seems so foreign to them? Do not they need it most?
Abarzadan had disappeared from the fray. Inzillomì had not seen him leave, but she could not place him in the midst of the fighters... or on the cold road with those slain.
A sharp tug nearly pulled Inzi from the saddle. Kâthaanî, who had been riding pillion until the group could retrieve the rest of the mounts, had been pulled from her place, trying fruitlessly to keep hold on her mother. Inzi turned, straining her back, to see Kâthaanî pull her dull silver blade from its sheath, ducking a blow from a large guard. The girl had been silent through the trip and remained so now. As she pivoted, trying to find purchase through her opponent's armor, a scream cut through the air, piercing it's way through even the heavy rumble of thunder. Heat lightening played across the low clouds, blinding Inzillomì. As her eyes cleared, she did not see her daughter. She searched the area madly, noting her husband shouting an unheard message to a bearded man she barely recognized. Azarmanô fought on horseback, bow and blade in hand. Tiru also rode, his own mount as much weapon as he required. With silent messages, transferred unthinkingly by feel, the faithful servant guided his karibor with deadly accuracy. Guards lay on the ground in verying states of pain, clutching broken bones, unable to fight. Marsillion was deeply engaged with several opponents but seemed capable. Kâthaanî was not standing. Inzillomì swept the ground fiercly. She froze as the earth shook. Her daughter lay still on the unfeeling road, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her.
"We flee!" came Abârpânarú's shout through a moment of unexpected silence. "No time to ponder, we flee!"
Inzillomì didn't move.
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