“From here he could see them simply as a great, surging shadow against the darkness. Alarm bells rang throughout the city, and all able-bodied men and women, even the homeless refugees, would be rushing to what arms they could. Even children would lend aid. Baleron could not sit idly by. Heatedly, he looked to the sorcerer. “Give me the sword,” he demanded. “Give me Rondthril.” “There is no need. You’re safe here.” “Yes, but I’m not staying here, am I?” “Of course you are. You’re no longer a lea...der of men, Baleron. You’re a prisoner. Your Five Hundred is no more.” Anger coursed through Baleron. He desperately wanted to join the fight, to lose himself in the violence. Also, he wanted to redeem himself somehow, to smite the wicked armies of Gilgaroth. At that moment, he felt the craving as though it were a physical need. He felt he would die unless he fought. “I’ll bet my father isn’t staying here,” he said. “I’ll bet they’re bringing a coach for him even now, and if I’m fast I can be on it.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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