Any normal fighter would have crumpled, but Rayan was a paladin of Lycaena. Though his goddess may be dead, her power remained, and it sparked a rainbow of light from the center of his gray shield. The metal held, as did the man behind the metal.

“Surprising,” the paragon said, and he followed it up with a second swing that rocked Rayan back several inches on his heels. “You’ll still die, but consider me impressed.”

Cyrus couldn’t spare the fight further attention, so he offered a silent prayer that his friend would endure. He grabbed the door to the carriage, which still sported several arrows embedded into its side. Blinding light greeted its opening.

Stupid, he thought as he staggered backward, his eyes stinging. The magistrate might be hiding, but he wasn’t helpless. Cyrus leaped left, for he knew standing still meant death. A crystalline ringing filled his ears as he rolled across the ground. Three spears of pure golden light struck the street, one after another, sinking a foot into the stone before dissolving away like mist. He slid up to his knees, his heart a pounding drum in his chest.

“Not quick enough,” he said. Cyrus dashed back to the door, this time cautious of another magical attack. No attack came. The opposite door was open, and the magistrate’s red robes fluttered in the distance as he fled. Cyrus noted the direction and did not bother to give chase. The man fled toward Ax and Lioness. He would find no safety there. Instead Cyrus rushed to aid Rayan in his battle against the paragon. Yet again the enormous two-handed sword had crashed down upon his shield. That the older man’s bones hadn’t shattered was a miracle in and of itself.

“About time, Vagrant,” Rayan shouted. He tried to lift his shield, but Cyrus noted the sluggish movement, caught the wince of pain in the older man’s eyes. Enduring another hit was not within him.

“You would torment your elders?” Cyrus shouted to the paragon as he approached. “I expected better from the Uplifted Church’s finest.”

The paragon hesitated, and when Rayan retreated away, he turned fully to face Cyrus’s charge.

“That man stood with the power of a god. What hope have you, stranger?”

“Hope is irrelevant. I have more than enough anger.”

“Anger?” The paragon looped his two-handed sword for an overhead blow that could fell a tree. “Is that it?”

“It’s all I need.”

Cyrus sidestepped the swing, and when the paragon tried to cut it back up in a V-pattern, he parried it aside. Twice he slapped his swords across the armored man’s chest, hits meant to do nothing more than annoy him. Back around came the two-handed blade. The air whistled with its passage. Cyrus dropped beneath it, dented the giant man’s boot with a chop, and then pirouetted away.

“Stand and fight,” the giant man demanded.