We ran like men who had stolen fire from the gods and were now attempting to explain ourselves to a very angry celestial landlord.
Salem was at my side, all sharp grace and blood-soaked steel, while behind us thundered my absurdly loyal gaggle of sun-robed converts, bless their manipulated little hearts.
They trailed after me in a lopsided V-formation that would have looked almost military if you ignored the wide eyes and the occasional squeak of terror when arrows shaved too close. To an outside observer, perhaps it seemed heroic.
To me, it felt less like a charge and more like the last sprint of a drunkard toward an outhouse that may or may not have a door.
The plaza was a sea of violence.
The zealots of the Sun Cult pressed inward with their pristine white robes and their endless supply of bodies, while the Man in White and the Lady of Fang's strung together forces tried carving breathing room through sheer precision.
