with his sword, sometimes striking something solid, sometimes encountering air.
A rock caromed off his head, but he was past feeling and continued his
sightless, mindless slashing.
Slowly it crept into his fogged brain that there was a new note in the
children’s screams. At the same time, he realized that his sword had not struck
a target for ten or fifteen swings now. Shaking his head to clear it, he focused
anew on the scene before him.
The courtyard was littered with small bodies, their blood a bright contrast to
their drab rags. The rest of the pack was in full flight, pursued over the
rubble piles by …
Jubal sagged against the wall, fighting for breath and numb from wounds too
numerous to count. He watched as his rescuer strode to his side, sheathing a
sword wet with fresh blood.
‘Your … your name?’ he gasped.
‘Zaibar,’ the uniformed figure panted in return. ‘Bodyguard to His Royal
Highness, Prince Kadakithis. Your wounds … are they…?’
‘I’ve survived worse.’ Jubal shrugged, wincing at the pain the movement caused.
‘Very well.’ the man nodded. ‘Then I shall be on my way.’
‘A moment,’ Jubal asked, holding up a restraining hand. ‘You have saved my life
… a life I value quite highly. I owe you thanks and more, for you can’t spend
words. Name your reward.’
‘That is not necessary,’ Zaibar sniffed. ‘It is my duty.’
‘Duty or not,’ Jubal argued, ‘I know no other guardsman who would enter the
Maze, much less risk his life to save… Did you say a royal bodyguard: Are
you…’
‘A Hell Hound,’ Zaibar finished with a grim smile. ‘Yes, I am. And I promise