Sentinals Justice: Book Three of the Sentinal Series

by Helen Garraway

  The fight advanced and retreated, his opponents taking turns, wearing him down, darting back and forth, in and out of range, gradually pushing him back towards the cliff edge. Zin’talia managed to knock one soldier out, but she could only herd the others closer to Jerrol, which didn’t help him. She huffed as she tried to grab a soldier with her teeth, intending to pull him away, but she flinched back as his knife sliced her shoulder. “Ow, he bit me,” she squealed.

  “Zin’talia, wait. Stay clear.” Jerrol sighed out a breath of relief as she retreated, streaks of bright red blood trailing down her shoulder.

  The fight was helping warm him up, at least, loosening muscles that were stiff with cold. Jerrol managed to trip the man on his right. His right hand flashed out, his dagger skimmed the man’s neck as he fell, and Jerrol pivoted back to the remaining two soldiers, his left foot dangerously close to the edge. He still couldn’t tell what kind of fall lay behind him.

  They two men looked at each other and turned back to Jerrol, and they both rushed him together. Jerrol parried one blade with his sword, the other with the dagger, trying to push them both back, but the momentum was with them. They forced him over the edge. Zin’talia screamed in Jerrol’s head as he fell.

  Yaserille skidded to a halt and clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent a squeal of horror escaping. She backed out of sight. Her blood ran cold as she tried to control her ragged breathing. She had picked up Jerrol’s tracks well east of Retarfu, but she was too late; the Captain was gone. Those idiots had pushed him off the cliff.

  A white horse was threatening to push the other two men off the cliff as well, rearing and screeching in anger. One shoulder was a brilliant red against her pure white hide, blood seeping from a nasty wound.

  The two remaining men picked their way back from the cliff edge, avoiding the horse’s flying hooves. They brandished their swords and the horse retreated. With a show of bravado, one of them dusted his hands off as if the fight had been easy. The other inspected the Captain’s sword, which he had torn out of his hand as they had pushed him over the edge. They turned to their fallen comrade and shoved the body across the snow-covered ground and then pushed him off the cliff as well. Retreating from the edge, they returned the way they had come, glee at being able to tell the grand duke that his problem had been solved, clear in their voices.

  Jerrol tried to still his panic. His gut roiled in terror at the memory of falling; the rush of frigid air as he flailed before he hit the rock ledge. He gasped for breath, shaking at the effort as he gripped the rock, afraid to let go. Holding himself rigid, he firmly told himself to stop panicking. It would get him nowhere. He pushed his feelings of inadequacy deep down inside and took a deep breath as he opened his eyes.

  “There,’ he thought, “it’s not as bad as you thought it was. Not good, but not the end.” His legs were dangling over the crumbling edge, his back tight against the hard rock face. He didn’t remember landing there, though, as he rotated his left shoulder, it felt numb. It must have taken the brunt of the fall. He realised he had lost his sword again.

  Leaning back against the rock wall, he looked up at the climb. Possible, he thought, as the rock gleamed gold in the weak sunlight, shadows accentuating the clefts and protrusions. The sky was the palest icy blue. He rubbed his hand over the coarse rock beside him where a coating of yellow lichen had dried out and hardened over the surface.

  There were a few handholds; a few ledges. He leaned forward and then snapped his eyes shut as his stomach lurched and his head spun, frantically scrabbling for the rock beside him. He clenched the rock face, shuddering as the lichen scraped his skin.

  “No, no, no,” he chanted. Below him was a sheer drop; he couldn’t even see the bottom, it just kept going, blurring into a grey haze far below. He broke out in a sweat as his stomach churned.

  This must have been the ‘Unworthy Man’s drop’ his troops had been so eager to tell him about. He wondered what they thought of him now, hounded out of the palace, on the run.

  He’d never been particularly worried about heights before, but being suspended by one and a half hands over a bottomless drop was a different matter. Throat dry, his muscles rigid with terror, he looked up again. He couldn’t tell if there were any larger ledges where he could rest or if it was one long climb to the top. The only good news that he could see was that there was a top. At least there was a target to aim for.

  “Zin’talia?”

  “Jerrol! You’re alive!”

  “Are you alright? They hurt you.”

  “I lead them away. They think they can catch me. Where are you?”

  “Stuck on a ledge. I’m going to have to try and climb back up.”

  “I’ll be there soon. Be careful, Jerrol.”

  Jerrol grimaced, but agreed. He forced himself to let go of the rock face, which took longer than he would have wished, and flexed his right hand. It was undoubtedly stronger than he expected, but whether it was strong enough to hold his body weight as he found footholds, he wasn’t sure. He sighed. Worrying about it wasn’t going to make the situation any better. He might as well start climbing.

  Shelving the thought about what might be waiting for him at the top, he eased his back up the wall so he could get his feet under him, and then after a few gasping breaths, he slowly shuffled around until he was facing the rock face.

  He hugged the cliff and prayed. “Marguerite, if you’re listening, this would be a good time for a helping hand.” He searched the rock face, noting where the bumps were. If he reached for that knob, his foot would be able to reach that bump. He methodically searched the rock face as he climbed, ensuring his left hand had a secure grip before releasing his right hand and moving to the next handhold.

  He wedged his right hand into a crevasse and adjusted his weight slightly to stretch for a knob a little out of his reach. He stretched, hand reaching, and his foot slipped. He lurched against the rock face; scraping his face. His heart tried to jump out of his chest as his feet scrabbled frantically, his right hand taking all his weight.

  His feet found purchase and took some of his weight as he grabbed at the hard rock. His stomach was somewhere down around his ankles as the panic rose. Hissing his breath out, he tried to ease his shoulder, which was screaming with agony; his hand not much better. He gripped the rock with his left hand and hauled himself into a slight indentation and rested, trying to still his hammering heart. Clenching his eyes shut, he tried to control his breathing as sweat ran down his face.

  He couldn’t look down and he couldn’t look up. Glued to the rock face, he was unable to move. He gradually calmed down and panted, trying to control his panic; he was the Commander of the King’s Justice for Lady’s sake. Have a bit more gumption! He grimaced against the rock. No gumption left. He was all out.

  “Captain?”

  He jerked and almost let go of the rock face, though not quite; some instinct kept him gripping like a limpet.

  “Captain, are you alright?” The voice called down in a whisper; it didn’t sound that far away. How could anyone think he was alright hanging off a sheer rock face? He didn’t answer. Voices conferred above him. Was there more than one person up there?

  “I’m coming to get you, hold on.”

  Hold on? As if he would let go! Were they mad? He must be dreaming. A short eternity later, someone was beside him, passing a rope around his waist and legs. “Let go,” the voice breathed in his ear.

  Let go? Were they crazy? He gripped harder, his shoulder aching dully. His hand cramped, and he whimpered.

  “Captain, I’ve got you. You won’t fall, I swear. Let go.”

  His body was shaking with fatigue, his grip frantic as his panic threatened to overtake him.

  “Captain, it’s Yaserille. I’ve got you, I swear by the Lady. Please, you must let go. Taurillion will pull us up.”

  Jerrol unclenched his eyes and stared at the face beside him. It was Yaserille, her silver eyes wide with concern.

  “I
swear, I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall,” she whispered. “Just relax.” She smiled at him. He wasn’t quite sure what his expression was saying, but he knew he felt disbelief. But she was there, a rope looped around her waist, one arm twisted in the rope and casually leaning away from the cliff face. After much coaxing, he finally let go of the rock face. The rope cinched around his waist and crotch, and he didn’t drop; he hung limp. He was hauled up in short jerks. Yaserille guided his body around the rock face. He didn’t do anything. He was exhausted, emotionally drained, done.

  Yaserille boosted him over the cliff top and climbed up behind him. They both lay on their backs panting, staring up at the heavy clouds beginning to advance across the sky. Taurillion came and squatted next to him as Yaserille rolled over and sat up. She reached a soft hand and touched Jerrol's face. “Captain?”

  Jerrol turned his head and looked at them. “Why are you here?” he whispered. “You went to Retarfu to warn the grand duke. You said you wouldn’t help.”

  Taurillion twisted his lips. “Forgive us, Captain, we did not understand. We had forgotten our purpose. We had given up on the Lady, believed she had abandoned us. It’s been so long.”

  “She never gives up on anyone,” Jerrol replied. “Though I think she would forgive you for thinking so after all this time. You all amaze me, every day. Could you help me sit up?” he asked, groaning as they levered him upright. A tremor began deep in his gut and slowly spread.

  Taurillion propped him up against his chest. “Where are you injured?” he asked gruffly, watching the Captain. He swallowed, his throat bobbing as he glanced at the sheer drop behind them and then back at Jerrol.

  “Have you seen my horse? She was hurt.”

  “I’m here.” Zin’talia’s voice was full of concern and he peered around Taurillion as she approached.

  “Thank goodness.” He tried to rise, and Yaserille pushed him back down.

  “Rest for a moment Captain. I’ll take a look. It probably looks worse because she is so white.” Yaserille went to inspect Zin’talia’s shoulder, scooping up a handful of snow to press against the wound.

  “Oh, it doesn’t sting so much,” Zin’talia said in surprise.

  “Where have you been?” Jerrol’s voice shook, the tremor consuming him.

  “We went to the palace. It was as you said, not as we remembered. The grand duke leaves much to be desired and listens to those he should not,” Taurillion replied.

  “I believe the grand duke will surprise you.” Jerrol winced as Taurillion prodded his right shoulder, and as he straightened his arm, Jerrol stiffened in pain. He followed Taurillion’s gaze as he looked at Jerrol’s hand. It was shredded, the skin hanging off in strips. His remaining fingers bled profusely, his fingernails ragged and bloody. They began to sting. His left hand wasn’t much better.

  Wincing in sympathy, Taurillion rinsed his hand with his canteen of water, patted it dry, and wrapped it in one of his scarves. Jerrol hissed his breath out as Taurillion wrapped another scarf around his neck and tied his arm to his chest. His shoulder was badly wrenched. He would need a healer, he was sure, but from where he didn’t know.

  “What a pair we are,” Jerrol thought as Zin’talia crooned in his head. “Did you speak to Birlerion?” Jerrol asked as the shudder became more pronounced and his teeth chattered. He gritted his teeth, making his jaw ache. Leaning back against Taurillion, he couldn’t stop shivering as his abused body began shutting down. The horror of the drop filled his mind, and he shuddered again, his face paling.

  Taurillion shrugged out of his cloak and wrapped Jerrol in it. He hugged him tight, sharing his body heat. He glanced at Yaserille. “Birlerion?” he asked. “No, I saw Niallerion. Last time we spoke, he said Birlerion was missing.”

  “Yes, the Ascendants captured him; he was at Adeeron. I found him there.”

  Taurillion tensed. “How is he?”

  Jerrol grimaced. “Alive, though it seems they beat the S-Sentinal out of him. He is c-calling himself Birler. He doesn’t remember being a Sentinal. Marianille is with him at the palace.”

  “Marianille will look after him,” Yaserille said as she squatted beside him. “Your horse will be fine, though it’s better you don’t ride her for a day or so, let the cut heal.”

  “S-scholar Taelia.” Jerrol struggled to speak as his teeth chattered. “Sh-she found Marguerite’s g-guardian. We have t-to rescue her.” He shuddered in Taurillion’s grip.

  “We need to get him inside,” Taurillion said

  “There is nowhere safe around here,” Yaserille protested. “We are too far away from any town.”

  “What about the Tower of Leyarne? It was Marguerite’s favourite tower.”

  “We don’t even know if it’s still there.”

  “It’s better than staying out here in the open. We’re asking for trouble,” Taurillion replied, lifting Jerrol easily in his arms.

  “I c-can walk,” Jerrol protested weakly, trying to gather his reserves.

  “Not just yet, Captain. Rest for a while,” Taurillion replied, striding away from the cliff edge.

  “It’s well above the snow line; we’d be going away from help,” Yaserille argued.

  “Or towards it. If he’s right,” he said, nodding at the man in his arms, “then Marguerite will be there.”

  “It’s got to be at least a day’s ride, maybe two. Morstal would be closer.”

  “The duke’s men will be at Morstal, looking for him. Come on, Yas, you heard him,” Taurillion said. “The duke is under siege. We have to rescue him if Elothia is to be free. We must get the Captain to Retarfu and stop this war, but we can’t do that in the state he is in, and he wouldn’t be in this state if we hadn’t deserted him. It’s our fault he was on that rock face. We almost killed the Captain, Yas; we have to put it right.”

  Yaserille stared at him as she breathed out slowly. “You don’t change allegiance by halves, do you?” she said. “All or nothing, that’s you.”

  Taurillion grinned, his brown eyes bright, tinged with a copper gild, “When have I ever been any different?” he asked, levering Jerrol onto his horse. “I know I’m hard work. I know I make snap decisions, and yes, I admit they’re not always the right ones. But this is right, I can feel it in my bones. We have to go to Leyarne.” He gathered the reins of his horse.

  Yaserille nodded in agreement. “Alright. Leyarne.” She turned to coil up her ropes and stuff them back in her saddle bag. She gathered Zin’talia’s reins, mounted her own horse and took point, checking the road ahead before leading them away from the precipitous cliff face. Taurillion followed, leading his horse as Jerrol sagged in the saddle.

  34

  Tower of Leyarne, Elothia

  Jerrol was dreaming. A beautiful young woman stood staring at him, anxiously. She had long auburn hair, which curled around her shoulders, and vivid blue eyes, which he knew usually sparkled with laughter. She wore a long, deep-blue robe that fell in soft folds, and she was wringing her hands.

  He recognised her from the vision in the temple in Pollo. Jerrol knelt. “My lady, what is wrong?”

  “They can’t hear me,” she said. “You have to help them believe again.”

  “Who can’t hear you?”

  “My guardians. They are silent, lost, or bound by others. You have to help them.”

  Jerrol stared at her. “Of course, my lady.”

  Marguerite smiled, her face tight. “Taurillion will help you. He has the sight, if he would just use it,” she said a little snippily. “I will speak to him. The Ascendants target my guardians; without them, I cannot soothe the seasons as they turn, encourage the ground to thaw, and bring forth new life. I struggle to ease the effects of winter and the ground freezes for longer as the nights lengthen. It is harder to get them to release their grip.

  “It was my error; I didn’t protect the Sentinals well enough. I was distracted at the end. I struggled to help Leyandrii save the others, and I overcompensated and petrified them. They c
annot call for help. They are waiting, but it’s been so long, few believe they will ever be released. I hardly hear their voices anymore. I need the Oath Keeper to help me. You promised. Your oath binds us as one.”

  “Of course, my lady, I swore to protect. Can Lady Leyandrii assist us?”

  Marguerite shook her head. “You mustn’t call her. Until you combine the Bloodstone, she cannot cross the Veil. With two of the crystals in your blood, you shine like a beacon to those who see. If she were to come to you, they would see you clearly. She must stay away. You must not call her; she forbids you.”

  “Is it not dangerous for you to be here, then?”

  Marguerite’s laughter pealed over him, and he smiled. “I am one with the Land. I am Remargaren. I couldn’t possibly go anywhere else. But you are my Oath Keeper, sworn and bound to me, bound to the Liege and the Lady. I can hide you from those who must not find you until you have your shield again.”

  “My shield?”

  Marguerite’s face lost some of its gaiety. “He waits for you.”

  Jerrol took a deep breath; why did they always speak in riddles? “Who must I find? Where is he?”

  “You know where he is. You left him behind.”

  “Birlerion? He is my shield?”

  “Yes, he guards, even though he doesn’t remember why.”

  “Leyandrii said I would have to help him remember.”

  “The time approaches, he will do what is needed. Until you can rejoin him, you must save my people. There are four towers of the Guardians: Cerne, Leyarne, Asilirie, and Teranna. They shield that which is important to us; Sentinals, Guardians and more. Our sisters and our mother watch over them for us, protecting them from desecration and ruin, sustaining those who ask, but within are those who are lost and must be found. Only the Oath Keeper can break the protections and save them.”