The captain's ultimatum was like a spark in an explosive situation.
Eward saw the flat of the consecrated blade against Sarah's throat. He saw the terrified whimper she tried to suppress. The last, tenuous threads of his self-control began to snap. Strategy. Tactics. The impossible odds. All of it dissolved. He was about to move. To launch himself into a suicidal, one-man charge.
When a new, unexpected sound cut through the chaos.
Not the roar of a monster. Not the clang of steel. The sharp, clear, and utterly commanding sound of a royal war horn.
Every head, monster and man, turned towards the source.
From the west, a disciplined, organized force was advancing. Not the black-robed agents of the Inquisition. Not the beleaguered Royal Guards. These were knights in gleaming, silver-and-blue plate armor.
