Resalintas fought his way to the Avenue of Remembrance, where he was joined by two other priests of Samnos, Millis and Vasta. Together they waded into the enemy, swords spinning and dancing in their hands with devastating results until enemy blood coated them from head to foot, gumming up their clothes and armour. So terrible were their faces as they carried out the grim slaughter that soon the Shadowsoldiers simply fled before them, and the three priests were able to carve their way through the ranks of the enemy like three wolves in a flock of sheep. “Die, Sinners!” they cried and “Go to thy judgement!” while behind them a company of Ilandians followed, guarding their backs and taking their own toll of the enemy as they tried to close in behind.

     They reached the ruined outer wall of the city and saw the devastated Ilandian countryside ahead of them, crowded with Shadowsoldiers who were dancing as they celebrated the massacre of the city’s defenders. Their revels were interrupted as the three priests fought their way through them, and the enemy fell back, clearing a way for them rather than face certain death at their hands. The three priests advanced almost unopposed, therefore, until Resalintas saw nothing but empty fields ahead of him, seeming almost normal if you ignored the sounds coming from behind. Pausing there, Resalintas told the soldiers who’d followed him to go, and they fled westwards towards Tatria, their faces full of sudden, desperate hope.

     To either side of them, a few other Ilandians were also running for their lives. The lucky ones, the ones who’d managed to fight their way through the massed ranks of the enemy, and the old priest was dismayed to see how few of them there were. Maybe there are more getting away out of sight, around the curve of the city, he thought hopefully. “Farewell,” he whispered, lifting his sword in salute. “May the Gods go with you.”

     They weren’t safe yet, though. Tatria was many days journey away, and as soon as the fighting in the city was over, the enemy would be setting out in pursuit. Behind them, they heard notes being blown on a bugle, the signal that the last man had at last left the city. Almost the last, thought Resalintas grimly, thinking once again of young Julian Birch and the rearguard. “You will be remembered,” he repeated softly. “So long as civilization survives anywhere on this world, your names will he honoured.”

     “Do you think we’ll ever find a way back in?” asked Vasta thoughtfully. “When the war’s over, I mean, and we come back here to re-inhabit the outer circle of the city.”

     “I hope not,” said Resalintas, “because if there is a way back in, the enemy may find it.” The other priest nodded in agreement.

     “Look!” cried Millis, pointing eastwards to the river Tarrow where the wizards had been fighting. The last Ilandian wizard, of those who hadn’t been able to teleport to safety, had just fallen, torn to pieces by a magically summoned beast that seemed to be all horns and teeth, and now the Shadowwizards were coming for them. The Ilandian wizards had exacted a heavy price for their lives, though, and of the dozen or so Shadowwizards who’d been waiting for them when they’d emerged from the inner circle, only eight were still alive. What was more, Resalintas guessed that most of their magic had been used up. Indeed, five of the enemy wizards were hanging back, evidently wary of engaging another enemy in their currently weakened condition, and the old priest determined to kill at least one, and more if possible, before he left. The opportunity to further reduce their number was too good to miss, and it made a lot more sense to attack weak wizards who, if left alive, would be restored to their full power at dawn the next day, than wizards who were already powerful and capable of defending themselves.

     He quickly barked his orders to Vasta and Millis, who immediately jumped ahead of him to engage the three wizards and keep them busy while he dodged past them to get at the others. He was particularly anxious to kill the wizard darting off to the left, towards what had been the gate stables, since the red hooded cape he wore marked him as the one who’d killed the priest Torsc a few days earlier. The red hooded wizard had uttered a single word and poor Torsc had been struck blind, unable to see the enemies who surrounded him and who’d promptly chopped him to pieces. The version of the blinding spell that he must have used to overcome Torsc’s defences was very high level magic, marking him as a very powerful wizard, possibly the most senior Shadowwizard in Ilandia, and the chance to kill him while he was in a weakened state might never be repeated.

     Resalintas was to be denied that chance, though. As soon as the other wizards saw what he was doing, they fled back into the city, scattering in all directions, but one of them paused just long enough to cast a spell he’d held in reserve just in case of an emergency like this. The ground in front of the pursuing priest turned into a pool of sticky mud into which he blundered before he could stop himself, and within seconds he'd sunk to his waist without having reached the bottom. The wizard who’d cast the spell paused in his stride, just long enough to turn and gloat at his predicament, but that was enough to cause his undoing as Resalintas’s bootknife suddenly appeared between his ribs. The other wizards, wiser than their fallen comrade, neither paused nor looked back, though, and had soon reached the safety of the city walls.

     By the time Resalintas had struggled out of the hole, dripping mud, the other fleeing wizards, including the red hooded one, were nowhere to be seen, so he ran back to rejoin his brothers in faith just in time to see Millis fall to the three fighting wizards, his head exploding in a bloody red shower of brains and bone as a particularly vicious spell slipped under his guard. Vasta avenged him just moments later, though, his sword chopping into the wizard’s side just under the arm and slicing him almost to the spine. The other two wizards backed away hurriedly as he tried to free his sword, trapped among his ribs, and by the time Resalintas reached him they’d put enough safe distance between them to begin the casting of more death spells.

     Much though Resalintas hated running from an enemy, he knew there was no way they could survive this confrontation. The enemy wizards were too confident, too sure of themselves. They obviously still had plenty of magic left, enough for a prolonged battle, whereas the two priests were both exhausted, and although Resalintas could still have made short work of any number of ordinary Shadowsoldiers, magic was another matter. What was more, the sounds of fighting coming from the city were beginning to die down, which could only mean one thing. They’d done as much as they could. It was time to go.

     “Bug out!” he called to Vasta as he drew his other bootknife. He threw it just as Vasta spoke the holy word and vanished, but it bounced harmlessly off the magical shield that surrounded the wizard.

     He cursed angrily and raised his sword. The need to attack his enemy was so powerful in him, so deeply ingrained, that he had to fight with himself to overcome it. He needed to swing the sword at the sneeringly confident wizard. Needed to wipe the smile from his face as badly as a heroin addict needed his fix. His whole being, his very soul, cried out its need, but he knew that if he didn’t leave now, right this very minute, he would die. He would be denied the chance to take any further part in the war. Already the wizard was casting the spell that would destroy him. He had to live, he had to survive so that he could fight again. His duty required it.

     He gave a great cry of soulrending anguish, therefore, and made himself say the holy word. He vanished, and Fort Battleaxe was left to the enemy.