Knights of the Rose

by Roland Green

  To say Darin was confronted with a dilemma was to grossly understate matters. Sir Lewin had been raised by Sir Marod, Sir Pirvan’s patron, since before Pirvan took to thieving in Istar or Darin was washed ashore near Waydol’s stronghold. Darin would have found it hard to doubt Lewin’s honor, even had there not been much in the Measure against such doubting.

  Nonetheless, Lewin was riding with the enemy rabble, apparently advancing to the attack with them. There had to be some explanation that did not involve Lewin’s having lost either his honor or his wits. Darin hoped one would be forthcoming, and that Sir Lewin would not stand on his superior rank as a Knight of the Rose and refuse to speak.

  Meanwhile, whether the men coming at Darin were friends of Lewin or not, they were clearly no friends to the younger knight.

  Darin sheathed his sword, couched his lance, and prodded two sell-swords out of their saddles, trying to do as little damage in the process as he could. Against a third mounted opponent his lance encountered a too-robust breastplate and snapped. He used the broken shaft to club a fourth rider out of his saddle, then tossed the piece away, drew his sword again, and tried to discourage the men on foot from approaching.

  Discouraging them proved inadequate. Sadly he realized, almost too late, that he would have to kill. By then the soldiers had drawn close enough to use their weapons—mostly pikes and bills, and nearly all with rusty metal—against his mount. In moments Darin’s horse was bleeding in half a dozen places. Then he felt it starting to fall.

  He leapt free, landing with the agility of a much smaller man, with shield on his left arm and sword in his right hand. He pushed two men hard with the shield, cut a third across the chest with a precise sword stroke, then settled down to what he feared would be a long and serious fight before he could speak to Sir Lewin.

  Indeed, Darin had lost sight of the Knight of the Rose in the rock. The defenders on the citadel wall had not. They saw Lewin still riding forward, now accompanied by a good score of men-at-arms. They saw him to all appearances advancing to the support of the sell-swords who seemed to be doing their best to bring down Sir Darin.

  Sir Darin would have been respected for his personal qualities even had he not been a friend to Sir Pirvan. The archers on the wall included both humans and elves, and the humans began shooting at once. Their sergeant had to dissuade some of them from leaping down from the wall, advancing to hiding places among the ruins, and shooting from closer range.

  It was now the elves’ turn to face the dilemma. They respected Sir Darin as much as they did any human, and he was plainly in danger. Also, the humans on the wall were now fighting for him. If the elves did not shoot, they would again be holding back from battle. If their not shooting caused Sir Darin’s death, they would be shamed before everyone in Belkuthas, and down the years to the end of their lives.

  The prospect of such a long life of shame decided the matter. The elf who had not given his name to Pirvan—but who was in fact named Dohartar and was a cousin of Belot—was the first to shoot. The other nine were only a few heartbeats behind.

  The range was long even for elves, but the ten followed a common elven practice for such ranges, all aiming at one or a few targets. Thus enough arrows would fill the air around the target that one or more would strike.

  Indeed, they put down five men with fifteen arrows, faster than a greedy child taking a bite out of a stolen honey cake. Four of these men were sell-swords. The fifth, by mischance, was one of Lewin’s men-at-arms. He flew backward out of his saddle, arms flung wide, his eyes staring, and an arrow in his throat so that blood sprayed from his mouth.

  Lewin knew that such archery at such a range had to be elven. Even in his innermost heart, where he despised the elves as much or more than he did the other lesser races, he acknowledged their prowess at archery. But they had used that prowess, to kill a man sworn to the Knights of Solamnia. There could be no further question of the embassy’s immunity from attack and capture. Lewin preferred to capture the elves, because even in a red rage he knew that many questions needed answering and dead elves would answer none.

  He would not, however, much care whether elves taken in arms against him and his men survived to say anything at all. He rode forward, drawing his men after him. They in turn drew the sell-swords after them. The whole array surged toward the citadel walls, clambered over the rubble, flowed to either side of the fight around Sir Darin. They were plagued by archery from the walls, but convinced that in moments they would be ending it and avenging fallen comrades.

  The only one on the field who recognized Darin as a Knight of Solamnia and thought that madness had been unleashed was Sir Esthazas. He was not only far junior to Sir Lewin but was also far to the rear of the other Solamnics—his assigned and therefore honorable position. Even so, from there he could not help fight the madness.

  By the time the defenders’ archery and the attackers’ advance were both in full spate, Pirvan had arrived at the wall on that side. Messages that Darin was in peril had reached him; what he saw made the messages seem tame.

  The younger knight had cleared around him a circle littered with the dead and dying. Even in a desperate battle, he seemed to be trying not to step on the enemy’s wounded!

  But he could not break out, anymore than his foes could break in. About all that kept Darin alive besides his own prowess was that all the sell-swords’ archers were well to the fore, trying to beat down the defenders’ archery. They were making headway, too, by sheer weight of numbers—one elf was already down with a bleeding thigh, and two humans were hurt and one was dead.

  Meanwhile, there was Sir Lewin, whom Pirvan now recognized. He even hailed the Knight of the Rose several times. Lewin did not seem to even hear. Was it Pirvan’s hails lost in the battle din, or Lewin’s judgment fled in battle fury?

  Only one way to be sure—and only one man who could do that particular work. Pirvan grasped one of the grappling hooks held ready to pull down scaling ladders and set the prongs into a crack in the stonework. Then he gripped the attached rope and lowered himself over the battlements.

  The hook pulled loose about the time someone on the walls noticed what their commander was doing. The thud of Pirvan’s landing and the yells of protest came simultaneously. Pirvan rolled with his old agility, came up with sword in hand, waved to the staring faces above, and ran toward the swirling fight around Darin.

  Back to back, he and Darin should both survive, and in surviving make enough trouble for the sell-swords to draw Lewin’s notice. Lewin of Trenfar could not be thick skulled enough to go on fighting after that, or Sir Marod would never have trained him!

  No messenger needed to carry word of Pirvan’s departure. The shouts from the wall on his side told everyone in the citadel, including Rynthala.

  She sent a messenger to Tharash to mount the archers. She thought of sending one to Pirvan’s men-at-arms, but she had no authority over them, and they would doubtless move at once when they heard of the knight’s whereabouts.

  She also thought briefly of a message to her parents, who stood with Threehands and Haimya on the wall facing the first two attacking columns. They no longer really deserved the name, but nobody in Belkuthas was prepared to turn their back on nearly a thousand armed enemies.

  She slung her bow and ran toward the stables. She had no time to go herself, and what she really wanted to say, no messenger should carry. Besides, if she fell today, it was likely enough that even with her last breath she could say it to Darin herself.

  Tharash was already mounted, with eight archers, and the men-at-arms were plainly chafing to move out as well. The old elf was grinning through the dust on his long face.

  “I left a couple of the lads to keep an eye on those Silvanesti volunteers,” he said. “They can take care of themselves against enemies, but we may need to keep Lauthin the Loud out of their hair.”

  He lowered his voice. “The sell-swords wanted to join us, too. I didn’t quite trust them, so I said that we couldn’
t take anybody who wasn’t already mounted. Rugal Nis wasn’t happy, but he swallowed it.”

  “Well done, Tharash. We may yet see today’s sunset.”

  “Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose, Lady Rynthi.”

  “I’m already wagering my life, old friend. Lose that, and what else is there?”

  Rynthala sprang into the saddle without touching her stirrups, and turned her horse without touching the reins. “Follow me and—where do you think you’re going, Eskaia?”

  “My post of duty is beside my father, Rynthala. It is kind of you to provide an escort for me.”

  Rynthala would have erupted in rage at the Solamnic woman’s impudence—except that Tharash and Pirvan’s men-at-arms erupted in laughter first.

  The heiress to Belkuthas finally joined the laughter. “Very well. It seems rescuing people from their own folly has become this days’ favorite sport at Belkuthas. Let us go and join the games!”

  Pirvan had covered nearly a hundred paces before anyone noticed him—the virtue of climbing down the wall.

  It helped further that the sell-swords wore many colors, except for those who wore none. In his light armor, bareheaded, and carrying only sword and dagger, Pirvan looked rather like one of the better-off foot soldiers, or perhaps a dismounted light horseman.

  All of this luck took Pirvan to within thirty paces of Darin. He had just hailed the younger knight when a fresh torrent of enemies following Sir Lewin rushed up. This time they did not flow past the circle around Darin, as if it were a rock in a stream. This time many of them joined the circle, and began pressing it inward.

  Pirvan looked about for a captain with some authority, or better yet, Sir Lewin. He searched with increasing desperation, in the middle of an archery duel, with the sell-swords’ bowmen and the men on the wall filling the air with shafts. Pirvan could not say if he and Darin were more likely to be skewered by friend or by foe.

  The one task he had to accomplish was, fortunately, the one closest to hand—saving Sir Darin.

  Honor forbade Pirvan the simplest opening, which was to stab in the back the nearest half dozen men in the circle, cut down the next few as they turned to face him, and go on wielding steel until either he went down or he and Darin joined forces.

  So he filled his lungs and shouted:

  “Belkuthas forever!”

  Then he started slashing and stabbing, as men whirled to face this new apparition.

  “Slashing and stabbing” is a very inadequate description of Pirvan’s bladework. Those qualified to judge, who lived to tell their tales, said they had never seen a man half Pirvan’s age move so quickly. He was not the most accomplished swordsman they had ever seen, but his speed and his dagger added to the sword made him formidable, even terrifying.

  They also made him deadly, to at least a dozen men in less time than it would have taken them to empty a jug of wine. Of the sell-swords, some lacked skill with weapons, some lacked strength, all lacked the willingness to stand by a stranger. None had anything they cared to risk losing by facing a swordsman apparently sprung from the Abyss to hurl them down to death.

  With Pirvan distracting half the circle around him, Sir Darin waded into the other half. The younger knight was an accomplished swordsman, he had a shield as both defense and weapon, and the sheer length of his reach had already slain many and frightened more into flight.

  Meanwhile, arrows from the citadel continued to drop steadily into the ranks of the sell-swords. A man who thought himself well clear of these two madmen might turn to find an arrowhead through his corselet and into his lungs.

  If the ground around Pirvan and Darin did not turn to mud from the amount of blood they shed, it was only because not all of the slain lay down and died on the spot. Soon, a wider circle emerged, still carpeted out to its very edges with the dead and dying.

  Pirvan gripped sword arms with Darin, both arms red to the elbows with other men’s gore. Then they both looked outward. Pirvan saw Lewin still mounted, trying to rally men who were rapidly losing their zeal to storm the walls. The only ones still obeying the Knight of the Rose seemed to be Solamnic men-at-arms, a dozen or so around Lewin himself and a few others scattered here and there about the battlefield.

  The clear sight came at a price. None dared approach Pirvan and Darin closely, but that meant they were now safe targets for archers. Some of the bowmen among the sell-swords were looking away from the citadel, from which the elves were picking off any hostile archer who ventured close enough to shoot accurately. Sooner or later they would start looking for easier targets. Short of sinking into the earth, Pirvan and Darin would be there in plain sight.

  Pirvan had just decided that next to Haimya, there was no one in whose company he would rather die than Sir Darin, when the matter suddenly was moot.

  “Belkuthas!”

  “Pirvan of Tirabot!”

  These shouts were immediately followed by something in the elven tongue. Pirvan recognized Tharash’s voice.

  Then what seemed a solid wall of horsemen crashed into the ranks of the sell-swords between Pirvan and the citadel wall. The cavalry seemed to leap over piled rubble, ride down men as if their horses had claws instead of hooves, and shoot arrows half a dozen at a time.

  The men between Pirvan and the citadel wall recoiled. They turned. They ran. Pirvan and Darin now had to wield their swords not for defense against attack but to keep from being trampled to death in the rout. Darin finally took the smaller knight behind his shield—there was ample room—and stood, again like a rock in a torrent, while the rout poured around him even faster than the advance had.

  Peering out from behind the shield, Pirvan saw Rynthala leap her horse over three crouching sell-swords, slashing down at them with a scimitar she wielded with more enthusiasm than skill. She struck none of the men and nearly tumbled out of the saddle, but Pirvan supposed she could not resist taking a hand in the close fighting.

  Above the rout and ruin, Sir Lewin also rose like a rock. Pirvan wondered how long this would last. Many might not recognize Lewin as a Knight of Solamnia. Others who did would still care only that he had led enemies against Belkuthas, and likewise treat him as an enemy.

  Pirvan had reached Darin, and the younger knight was safe. Now he had to reach Sir Lewin, if the Knight of the Rose was to live more than a few more moments.

  “On to Sir Lewin!” Pirvan shouted. Then, hoping Rynthala and—yes, Eskaia was riding with the warrior maiden—would hear him, he all but screamed: “Spare Sir Lewin! Unhorse him if you must, but spare him at all costs!”

  Pirvan started running. The thought came to him that he might have condemned Rynthala or even Eskaia to death, if Sir Lewin fought, as he might. The thought departed without slowing Pirvan’s steps.

  “Est Sularus oth Mithas.” The Oath of the Knights—“My honor is my life.”

  Today, on his battlefield, Sir Pirvan’s honor was Sir Lewin’s life.

  Zephros reined in as soon as he was out of bow shot of Luferinus’s men. This was partly to spare his horse, worn down like all his company’s mounts by the desert journey. It was also partly to let whatever comrades were ready to escort him catch up, so he did not ride into the flanking column alone.

  Or ride anywhere else alone, either. He shuddered at the memory of that thin, filth-spattered, and wholly deadly figure spewed up by the earth, seeking his death and achieving Luferinus’s.

  A little farther on, and he was in sight of Sir Lewin’s column. But where was Sir Lewin? The compact mass of Solamnics was nowhere to be seen, let alone their leader. Zephros saw two-score horsemen and more cutting in and out of the ranks of the sell-swords like hot knives through cheese. But they wore no colors he recognized, and some of them were mounted archers, who had not been—

  Zephros had believed he was safely out of bow shot from the walls of the citadel. Had it not been for elven eyes and archery, he would have been right.

  As it was, five long-range shafts suddenly filled the air ab
out Zephros. One pierced his left arm, painfully tearing flesh. Two struck his horse, and one of those pierced through to its heart.

  Zephros’s wounded arm burned all the way up to his brain as he jarred it in falling. The dying horse screamed and sprayed blood all over its rider. Zephros himself wanted to shout in pain, rage, and frustration.

  If Sir Lewin had not gone the way of Luferinus, he was somewhere amid that mob of horsemen, no longer in command of his own movements, let alone an attacking column. Meanwhile the attacking column had turned into a routed mob. They were stampeding for the cover of the forest like fly-beset cattle for the cool mud of a riverbank. They threw down weapons, trampled comrades, and generally forsook the name of soldier in the hope of remaining alive.

  Even if Zephros had been mounted, he could have done nothing to stem the rout. On foot, all he could do was join it. But he did one thing to prove he had not abandoned the name of soldier.

  He walked away from the citadel of Belkuthas. He expected every moment, for what seemed like hours, to feel an elven shaft in his back, the last thing he would ever feel. But he did not care. If the elves wanted to shoot a man in the back, that was between them and their gods.

  Zephros would walk back to his men—if there were any left.

  Pirvan’s orders had reached more people than he had expected. Indeed, Sir Lewin was more mobbed than properly attacked. Two of Rynthala’s people dismounted, slipped in close, and hobbled the knight’s mount. Then Rynthala herself rode up to him on one side, and Eskaia rode up to him on the other.

  “In the name of peace and virtue—”

  “In the name of Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword—”

  Lewin’s glare would have made cows go dry at a distance of half a league. The women ignored him.

  “The ladies want you to come into Belkuthas, sit down, and talk with some people,” Tharash said.