A handful of armed women rushed to get between the guards and the unarmed penitents, forming two lines of defense on both sides of us. From here on out, we’d have to keep these lines so the others behind us could escape without harm. Quain yanked his lock picks from his pocket and knelt by the door.

Just as he popped the lock, it burst open, knocking him back. The guards who pushed through spotted the red robes and paused for a moment in confusion. It was all Odd and Fydelia needed. They pounced. More defenders waited on the other side of the doors and, even though a few of them moved as if drugged, it was a struggle to fight our way into the next hallway.

The number of guards increased as we broke through the seventh barrier. But the women would not be stopped. Determined, driven, and fierce, they filled the narrow space, sweeping away the opposition like raging flood waters.

Keeping Melina close, I stayed right behind Odd and the monkeys. The last set of doors led to the outside. And blocking our path to freedom were a dozen priests. Alert and prepared for battle with a long swords in each hand, they waited for us.

I wiped sweat from my face. Tired from using my powers, I blinked at the final obstacle, calculating our odds. I tucked Melina behind me. At least Jael wasn’t among them.

“Oh, hell, no,” Fydelia said. “They’re not stopping us.” She raised her bloody sword into the air. “For the girls!”

Repeated and shouted over and over, the cry rippled along the women. Time to get out of the way. I flattened my body against the wall, pushing Melina with my arm to do the same.

The women surged forward, intent on their targets. Steel clanged on steel, guttural growls mixed with higher-pitched shouts as they engaged in a fierce battle. No chance for me to dash and zap. This melee was primal. A desperate fight for survival. And their sheer numbers gave the women the advantage.

Odd and the monkeys stood in the thick of things. I gripped Melina’s hand, unable to tear my gaze away as an ache grew in my chest. Stabbed and sliced, women either stumbled back or collapsed in a heap. Others dragged them from harm then took their place.

Palming one of my knives, I aimed with care. Unexpected in the midst of the fight, my blade pierced a shoulder. The wounded priest lost his momentum and Quain pressed his advantage. With one quick strike, he buried his sword into his opponent’s stomach.

A queasy slush coated my throat. While I hadn’t made the killing blow, my actions had resulted in the man’s death. As a healer, it violated my purpose in life. As a penitent, it was a necessary evil.