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. Pain
exploded in her brain. She stumbled to her knees, weak,
unable to rise.
A shadow fell over her. Someone was standing at her
back. Someone was helping her to her feet. Someone had
retrieved her sword, was handing it to her. Wiping away
blood, she peered through mists of pain and failing
consciousness.
A Knight of Solamnia stood beside her. His armor shone
silver in the sunlight. His crest fluttered bravely in the wind.
His sword gleamed, argent flame, in his strong hand. With
respect and reverence, he lifted his sword to her in the
knight's salute, then he turned and faced the mob.
Nikol put her back against his, did the same. At least
now she would not die alone, without making one last,
glorious stand for the honor of the knights. True knights . . .
Nikol blinked, stared in dazed astonishment, unable to
comprehend what was happening. She and the knight were
outnumbered a thousand to one, yet the mob was not
attacking. Faces that had been contorted in bloodlust were
now twisted in horror. Curses and threats shrilled to
terrified shrieks. Men who had been racing up the library
stairs were tumbling over themselves and each other in a
panicked race back down.
The Revered Son was among the first to flee, running
for his life, driven by such stark terror that it seemed likely
he would stop running only when he reached the Newsea.
Nikol's sword was suddenly too heavy for her to hold.
It slid from her grasp. She was tired, so tired. She sank to
the stone steps, wanting only to sleep
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