Alistair reached the edge of the lantern light first. His boots skidded on the loose topsoil, sending up a spray of dry grit. The lead guard was mid-sentence, mouth open to bark a command, when Alistair slammed his shoulder into the man's breastplate. It wasn't a clean strike. The metal edge of the guard's spaulder dug into Alistair's collarbone, a sharp, biting pain that traveled down his arm, but he didn't stop. He drove his legs forward, forcing the guard backward into the dirt.
The guard's spear clattered against a stone. Alistair didn't swing his sword for a kill; he didn't have the angle. He used the hilt to punch the man in the side of the helmet, a dull clack that sent the guard sprawling.
