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| "The beremer’s eyes snapped open ..." |
The beremer was still unconscious, lying with his head back and his neck exposed, his eyes shut fast. Banac hissed at him and patted his face once or twice, all the time keeping half an eye on the galac-men as they busied themselves quenching the flames. But his efforts had no effect, and time was running out.
Quickly he picked up the sword and started sawing at the ropes. The blade was sharp, and though the ropes were thick and tightly knotted they soon fell away in limp coils. Banac looked up, his heart skipping a beat as he saw how much the smoke had cleared. The galac-men had brought the fire under control, and some of them were beginning to stand back and re-organise themselves.
He looked back down at the the beremer: he was as comatose as ever, his limbs limp and heavy. A quick glance over his shoulder showed Banac the way to the trees was still clear. He made up his mind.
He leaned over the beremer, looking for a way to roll him off the stone. But even as he leaned over, the beremer’s eyes snapped open and a white hand shot out and gripped Banac’s wrist tightly. He stifled a cry and tried to pull away, but the beremer’s grip was iron-tight, his arm as steady as a rock. He stared at Banac out of wide blue eyes, his pale skin ruddy in the light of the fires. Banac’s stomach lurched. Maybe there had been a terrible mistake. Maybe Father was wrong. Maybe the beremer was going to kill him after all.
But even as he thought it something else happened that took him even more by surprise.
The beremer spoke.
“Banac,” he said, quietly, urgently. “Give me the sword.”
Banac was stunned. The beremer’s accent was near-perfect, his voice clear and lucid. He looked at Banac steadily, and Banac suddenly tightened his grip on the sword, suspicious.
The beremer saw the look in his eyes. “You don’t trust me,” he said. “Good. But now is not the time. I know how to use this sword, and I am going to need it. I promise to tell you everything, but there is no time now. You have to believe me when I say I mean you no harm.”
The beremer’s pale blue eyes looked into Banac’s brown ones, and Banac wavered. Father had told him to do this. Father knew what he was doing.
For another moment he struggled inwardly. But time was running out. There was no more left to waste.
He took a deep breath and let go of the sword.
The beremer nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said again. “Now we must leave. Quickly.”
Even as the beremer spoke there was an angry shout behind them. They both turned to see hooded figures sprinting through the stones, silhouetted against the burning trees. The beremer leapt up off the stone with the agility of a cat, swinging the sword in a wide arc at the galac-men.
“Run!” he barked at Banac.
The galac-men faltered in confusion, not expecting their prisoner to be armed and ready to fight. Banac hesitated too; but the beremer pushed him away with his free hand.
“Run!” he said again. “I’ll catch up. Run! Run!”
The galac-men regained their nerve and sprang over the stone, and the beremer turned and brought the blade down on the first man with a wild, terrifying yell. There was an awful cry and a sickening crunch, but Banac did not wait to see it. He sprang away from the black stone and ran as fast as he could towards the edge of the clearing, his head down and his arms pumping, thinking only of escape.
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