Page 43 of The Sunlit Man

Unfortunately there were two of them, and they werefast. They descended upon him in a flurry of blows and growls, forcing him to block with a shield in a series of quick exchanges. He couldn’t even try to force them back without being frozen by his own stupid soul, so he went full defensive—never a good way to win a fight. He had to ignore when they overextended their attacks, and he couldn’t punish their frenzied barrage, which otherwise would have left them open to counterstrikes.

Instead he took hits on the arm, then the side, then adevilishcrack on the head that sent him stumbling into the corner, vision swimming.

The knight hopes that his beleaguered squire has a plan.

“I’ve got one,” he muttered, blocking another set of blows, then barely shoving himself out of the corner to escape being pinnedthere. “I jump back out the window. Maybe the Beaconites don’treallyneed the help of these old ladies.”

Of course, the knight says. Leave them without leadership and without supplies. That will work out well, I’m sure.

The two Charred—fueled by their Investiture, thus needing no pause for breathers—backed him into theothercorner, beating him with relentless attacks.

Nomad?Auxiliary’s voice was the same monotone as always. He couldn’t manage anything else. Yet Nomad thought he could sense his friend’s concern by the lack of a quip.This is going to require a lot of healing. I’m barely keeping your body moving…

A moment later the door slammed open, and the enemy pilot—the woman with the white coat—came in to help the Charred, rifle held at the ready. Well. That would do.

Nomad took another mean hit to the shoulder as he forced his way out of the corner. That left him open, though, and one of the Charred rushed him from behind, slamming him into the pilot. It wasn’t his fault, therefore, that the collision sent her tumbling—and the Torment liked it when he kicked her gun away. No need for that.

From there, he made certain to keep the attention of the Charred, giving them a challenging smile—but swaying on his feet, tempting them with his weakness. In return, they redoubled their efforts, pounding on him, getting around his shield—all too easy in a fight of two against one. They hit him with a series of blows that caused him to lower the shield and expose his face to—

One of the Charred’s heads exploded.

The other froze, then spun as Contemplation—standing in front of the table—unloaded shot after shot into his chest. She strodeforward, black-dyed hair tumbling around her stocky figure, firing until she dropped the second Charred in a mess of smoldering embers and burned flesh.

Nomad dropped to his knees, gasping for breath as Contemplation pointed her rifle at the pilot, who raised her hands in response.

“Glad you can shoot,” Nomad muttered.

“Did my share of hunting as a youth,” the old woman replied. “Haven’t held a rifle in years. Why did you kick it to me instead of grabbing it yourself?”

“Personal challenge,” he said, flopping back onto the ground, eyes squeezed closed at the cumulative pain of his wounds. “I hate hogging the glory. Maybe one of you could get out there and shut down the ship pulling us the wrong way?”

He lost track of the next part. He didn’t fall completely unconscious, but he retreated into himself as his body healed. He sensed they’d done as he’d asked because the ship started moving the right way again. He dragged himself to the corner and convalesced quietly there.

Over the next hour, he listened with half an ear as Confidence—the tall, spindly one—directed the escape operation from the radio. Auxiliary healed him, but quietly warned that he was under nine percent Skip capacity.

Sometime in there, Rebeke joined them. The light through the broken window grew dark as they fled.

He bore the pain with closed eyes. His body could take a great deal of punishment, thanks to the Torment’s gifts. But even he needed a breather now and then. Especially after taking a beating that would have killed anyone else.

Still, he paid enough attention to hear worry in Confidence’s voiceas she directed the others. It seemed many of the Beaconites had escaped—and with their Beacon itself, they could guide everyone. But they were pressed and harried by the Cinder King’s forces, who made them veer away from the path they wanted to take.

From what he gathered, they were forced to swerve to the south, entering a different “corridor” entirely. That was, so far as he understood, the local way of talking about certain latitudes. Each band of latitude was a corridor, with no actual geographic features to distinguish them—except that going too far north or south was dangerous.

Well, at least they had escaped. At least they were alive. Who cared if they were in another corridor? It couldn’t bethatbad. Could it?

They didn’t disturbhim lying there on the floor—as they reformed Beacon and took casualty reports. Fifteen people captured. Ten percent of their population dragged off, to be left for the sun.

Eventually more officials arrived. He knew the three members of the Greater Good, along with Zeal—the little person who was, as best Nomad could determine, their approximation of a field commander or special ops planner. Also in attendance was Jeffrey Jeffrey—the man with the bushy black beard. As a sort of city steward or administrator, he had served under various incarnations of the Greater Good, offering continuity to a leadership trio that was usually made up of three old men or women in the months before they were turned into power sources.

Five other people joined in that he didn’t know. Together, theyconvened to take stock after the disastrous attempt to find their legendary Refuge.

Auxiliary found ithilariousthat they just left Nomad there. Lying on the floor, dozing. Like he was a sleeping dragon, dangerous to disturb.

Look how they arrange their chairs, the hero exclaims. Look, see it, Nomad. They don’t dare scoot back, lest they bump you. Why don’t they hold the meeting in another location? Or…you know…move you to a bed?

Nomad probably had one of his faces on. The one that said, “Don’t touch me. I’m thinking about who to murder next, and I’m accepting volunteers.”

Eventually the group started to discuss the real issue.

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