all they had, they gave (vedette)
There were at least twenty of them. Broad shoulders spoke of their training in the art of war. Sneering expressions as swords twisted and shifted in their hands, bristling like the quills on a pin-pig. Skandra might have thought about talking them down. Hell, he'd probably saved at least one of their lives at some point or another. Whatever connection they'd shared was probably one these soldiers believed to be imaginary, a figment of dream and invention, some other feeling that was not connected to their true face. He even opened his mouth to say something smart. Yet it closed again, just as quickly. There was no point to it. He could not think of a way to avoid bloodshed, and he could not think of a way to avoid being the one whose blood was shed. They were coming closer all the time - and there was nothing he could do to slow the advance except start a fight.
Oh, he should have stayed in jail.
How must he and Vedette have looked? Standing there, soaked to the bone, with his hat drooping around his eyes Skandra knew how he looked. Red-rimmed eyes and a face bearing old wounds that were beginning to close. All he could do not to start touching this cut and that one, wonder if they were going to spring open as soon as the rain of steel began to pelt him. Vedette still had an arrow ready to loose. These men were not going to go away. One of them was working up the courage to take one arrow, or two, but sheer numbers would overwhelm this obstacle. In time for them to catch up to Ithacles? Hesitation. No, it wasn't based on fear. It was based on respect. They didn't want to strike, either because of Vedette or Skandra or both. Even Baldvas - whom Skandra had insulted repeatedly in the man's own jail - seemed poised to simply walk away, surrender his sword and go.
"I don't want to kill you," the Captain finally admitted. "But I must go through you."
"I don't want to kill you, either," Skandra acknowledged. "But I can't let you pass."
Leather creaked as gloves were shifted on pommels and hilts. An uncomfortable, hollow sound of rain as it pounded against the stone. Lightning flashed in the windows, illuminated them all with unnatural light. Still Vedette said nothing. He'd heard of archers disappearing into their own world. A world where accuracy and focus were the only allies one could have. Everything else was white noise to be tuned out. She either wasn't listening or didn't feel the need to contribute anything. Which was fine with Skandra. He was starting to see a way wherein no one had to die, unless it came to that, and it shouldn't. At least he hoped that it would not. For as certain as he was that all of this could be nothing but a mistake the mixture of honor and deceit in these men was baffling. They did not want to kill him. But they would kill a king. That they would dare.
Skandra first worked the buckle of his belt. With no trouble at all it slid away from his waist. The sword dropped to stone with a heavy sound. The soldiers all stared at Baldvas - and what was he doing out of his prison in any case? - with shock when the Captain threw down his own sword. There was no hesitation now. They both understood the rules.
"Who went after Ithunvel?" Skandra asked with that signature smile, flinging yet another knife to the ground.
"Cavras," Baldvas had no shame in his voice or face.
"Ithacles isn't going to be so kind to him," Skandra informed them; one or two of the soldiers stiffened.
"He's our king, now," Baldvas said quietly. "None of us expect to live through this night, Tyullis. It isn't about our lives. It's about the future."
"So these are the rules," Skandra tugged on his glove with exaggerated care.
"I won't kill you, Tyullis, unless you cannot remember how to stay down."
"I'm going to whip you, Baldvas, so I doubt it'll come up."
The weapons of their use had formed scattered, terrible piles of sharpened death to either side of the hallway. Baldvas was tugging on his own gloves; sadly, those rough knuckles were capped in brass and shone like the sun despite the dim torches to show them the way. The Immortal didn't look behind him to see if Vedette had lowered her bow. If she could fight with her hands he had a chance; if she couldn't, he had less of one. If she fired an arrow at someone she had no chance whatsoever. Someone was muttering about having no time. Skandra agreed. One to one was a poor set of odds when you could have one to three, but these men meant to restrain Ithacles and whomever was assisting him. If the prince didn't arrive before Ithunvel was dead odds meant nothing. This was the best chance. It was just that he didn't think he could bareknuckle twenty men into submission alone, when he could barely imagine knifing them all to death.
Baldvas was back to hesitating. "Surely you can see the good this will do."
"Dragging a man's name through the mud to excuse your treachery doesn't win you any points," Skandra rolled his neck; the pause in his speech was filled with a cracking of bone. "If he really was in on it, that makes him a liar to me. And if he wasn't in on it, that makes you liars. I hate both, so either way you're screwed."
"What do you know of allegiance?" the Captain retorted. "I suppose it's too much for a drink-addled mind to understand."
"I'm here, aren't I?" Skandra asked.
They came in a rush, all twenty of them, snarling and swinging fists like clubs.