Most of their assassin brethren were away, fighting their main targets, only five were here to deal with the ambasiaths. With chargas busy fighting the shlaks, the boys had to deal with the Shlakers themselves. The boys: eighteen, six, twelve, thirteen, and… thirteen years old. Milian totally forgot about his birthday today…
Four of the Lifekeepers stepped forward to meet the assassins, shielding Jarmin from them. Every handguardless katana was already red with shlak blood. Every young face was grim and deadly calm.
Adult assassins couldn’t hold back their sneery comments as they faced the boys. But a cry from one of their brethren that fell on the ground with Jarmin’s knife in his throat wiped the smirks from their faces in an instant. The remaining four assassins charged, with a roaring battle cry.
…Orion’s charga got careless or maybe he did… anyway, he found himself in the air – and time slowed down for a moment – before hitting the ground so hard it knocked all the wind out of him. As he staggered up to his feet, he saw Juel and Bala fighting their way to him. Bala was good but Juel… Juel was amazing! Orion made a note to himself to never get on the Faizul’s bad side.
Three skilled warriors and a master archer that had unexpectedly joined the fight messed up the assassins’ plans completely. Soon, the Shlakers were retreating. No one pursued them.
Silence fell on the battlefield, only to be replaced by the forest’s careless symphony of singing birds and rustling leaves. The saviours and the saved ones took a good look at each other for the first time.
The saved ones wore simple black clothes, well-worn and salt-stained, and carried heavy, broad cutlasses bearing an uncanny resemblance to butchers’ tools of the trade.
Shoving his people aside, the leader of the saved ones approached the Lifekeepers. He was a ghastly pale man; the way he was dressed suggested that he wanted to hide as much skin from the sun as possible. He wore a cloak with a tall collar; his thick gloves reached his elbows and were wrapped with extra cloth where they met the sleeves; a pair of obsidian-black glasses and a wide-brimmed hat with a broken feather completed his outfit.
Even though it was obvious that the saviours’ leader was Juel, the pale stranger looked at Orion alone and gave his thanks to him.
“Thanks for your help, guys!” he said in a voice that seemed strangely familiar to Orion. “I’m in your debt forever! If you need any help, any problem solved, just ask for Sumah – that’s me! – in any tavern of Tammar, Gurron, or a port city. I always pay my debts.”
“May I take a look at the wounded?” Bala interrupted him. In a moment, all the eyes were on his dark, lanky figure. “I’m a healer,” he explained.
“Do that,” said Juel. “Orion, let’s go check on the kids.”
“Allow me to keep you company,” Sumah unceremoniously chimed in. No one argued with him. “Meanwhile, my people will stay here and help your healer… So, what are your names, my saviours?” he asked.
“Juel Hak.”
“Orion Jovib.”
“Ah, nice to meet you,” the pale man smiled. “The worldholders’ immortal apprentice’s name! Very interesting!”
Juel shrugged. He didn’t find any of that interesting. Or amusing. He still felt like hitting Orion in the face for endangering the mission and being a reckless fool.
“I see you guys are Lifekeepers,” Sumah kept rabbiting on. “But I must admit that you’re quite good at killing people too.”
