This did little to reassure him. In his head he re-enacted training sessions: parries, lunges, blocks. Hugh had told him time and again that practise would turn his skills to instinct. Crouching in the snow he wished he'd practised more, instead of spending time drinking in The Warren's. Spending time at the brothel, sword playing with Amber. But that part, he didn't regret.
Just then, Stetland came running back. “Something's coming up the road.”
Marcus's blood ran cold. He wanted to run to the edge of the woods and puke up the bile festering in the pit of his stomach.
“Take your positions, men,” Sir John cried out.
Marcus lay on his front. The chill hit him straight away. The breastplate he wore turned as cold as the snow around him, freezing the skin beneath his tunic. He looked to his left where Fabian lay. The old wizard's long grey beard trailed in the snow. A man of seventy-two and he feels no fear, Marcus thought with shame. I need to be brave. I'm a man now, not a boy. He eased his blade from his scabbard and rested it on the snow, gripping the hilt tightly. His fingers were cold and numb. He prayed they wouldn't let him down. With his left hand he gripped the leather strap of his wooden shield.
Stetland was lying to Marcus's right, his eyes fixed on the road and the wall of darkness beyond.
Without turning, Stetland said to Marcus: “When we charge, pick a man and take him down. Don't concern yourself with anything else. And don't be confused by what you see me do.”
What you see me do?
Marcus listened for the squeak of the wain's wheels. Instead he heard something cutting through the snow.
“They've swapped the wain for a sleigh,” Stetland said.
With that, a horse's head appeared from the murk. Things happened very quickly then. Christian began to throw rocks and stones, most of which missed their target. A couple of them hit the horse, though, causing it to whinny and buck. That was when Fabian got to his feet and dashed into the road, his robe flapping around him. He thrust the base of his staff into the snow. The ground began to shake and groan like a hungry monster. Such was the intensity of the ground-shake, Marcus did not want to stand as he feared he might fall if he did.
“Charge!” Stetland shouted.
The Dark Rider scrambled to his feet. Marcus followed holding his blade high and his shield across his chest, all previous doubts banished. When Fabian illuminated his staff, Marcus saw his quarry. Stetland had been wrong; there were only four men in the sleigh. Marcus picked out his man: a short fellow with dirty, shoulder-length hair and no helm. Before Marcus reached the sleigh, he saw Gladden knock the wagoner from his perch with a hefty swing of his staff.
Don't be confused by what you see me do, Stetland had said. But Marcus was confused. To his right came the sound of metal on metal. Despite the Dark Rider's warning that Marcus should not concern himself with what the other man was doing, he stole a glance to his right and was shocked by what he saw: Stetland and Sir John were engaged in a sword fight – with one another. What is happening? But he had reached the sleigh and had to divert his attention elsewhere. Lying on the sleigh's deck was Cassandra Delamare. The man with the shoulder-length hair stood, holding his arm across his face to protect himself from the rocks and stones Christian was continuing to throw. The two other men were already standing. They unsheathed their swords and fixed their eyes on Marcus. Three against one, Marcus thought glumly. Before fear could get the better of him, though, Fabian appeared by his side, staff lit, giving everything an ethereal glow. The old wizard jumped into the sleigh like a man a third his age. He drove the staff into the chest of one of the men, sending him falling backwards over the side of the sleigh. He then swung his staff at the other man, but he parried it.
Marcus fixed his eyes on the man with the shoulder-length hair who jumped from the sleigh with an ugly grin spread across his face. He had a tooth missing, Marcus noticed. The man had a dirty blade in his hand, but no shield, and no armour. Advantage mine. The man swung his sword at Marcus. Marcus blocked it with his sword and forced the other man’s blade downwards. The metal screamed as the blades met. Marcus stumbled backwards. Keep your balance, he thought. That's what Huge Mowbray always said during those punishing lessons in the yard, he recalled. He regained his feet just in time to parry a downward blow with his shield, the force of it sent him stumbling backwards again. He was able to push forward, though, leading with his shield, forcing the other man back towards the sleigh. There, the man stepped to one side. Marcus, unable to stop his momentum, went crashing into the side of the sleigh. The other man was quick, raising his sword and then bringing it down. Marcus knelt, holding his shield up high. The other man’s blade hit the shield and then slid off it. Now it was Marcus's turn to be quick; he lunged forward leading with this shield, hitting the man below the chin. The man stumbled backwards. Marcus swiped with his blade, but hit only air. Steadying himself, he brought his blade down again. The man parried it, their blades ringing in the cold night air. Marcus saw an opportunity and lunged. His blade caught his opponent in the chest, but it was only a nick. The other man lunged with his own blade then, but Marcus brought his shield up in time, blocking it. He was forcing the man backwards, away from the light of Fabian's staff and into the darkness. In that dying light, both their breaths misted the air. Marcus brought his sword down again and again onto the other man’s blade. Perhaps it was because he was younger and fitter, but he was winning, he realised. And he would have won too, he knew, if it had not been for the loud bang and bright light that put an end to the battle.
The ringing of metal on metal ceased. The horse whinnied and then fell silent.
Marcus turned to see a wizard standing before the horse. He was stroking the mount's nose, calming the animal. Eaglen, Marcus assumed.
“Listen carefully,” the wizard said, looking at everyone in turn. “In my hand I hold a bottle that was given to me by the great alchemist Volk,” the wizard said.
“Eaglen, what are you doing?” Fabian said.
His nephew ignored him. “It contains fire-water, like the one I just used. Only this one is much more powerful.” Marcus could see liquid inside the bottle glinting in the light from Fabian’s staff. “If I were to smash it against a rock, fire would engulf us all. Wild dogs would be chewing the meat off our charred bones for the next week. If you do exactly as I tell you, however, I need not use it and no one will die, not least the wizard bearer. Your mission would certainly have failed, Stetland Rouger, if the blessed wizard bearer of Elt were to perish on your watch, ending the line of wizards forever.”
“She's your niece, you fool,” Fabian spat.
“She's nothing to me, Uncle, and nor are you.”
At Marcus's feet, the man with the shoulder-length hair and the missing tooth was making to stand. Marcus pointed his blade at the man's neck.
“Put your weapon down, young man,” Eaglen warned.
Marcus looked at Stetland. The Dark Rider nodded for him to do as he was bid. Reluctantly, Marcus dropped his sword.
“That goes for the rest of you, too,” Eaglen said. “Drop your weapons. All of you, this instant.”
Stetland dropped his sword. Fabian threw his staff onto the snow in disgust. The light flickered like a dying fire and then went out. There was a brief moment of darkness, before Eaglen's staff returned light to the landscape.
“Uncle . . .” Gladden said. The hurt in his voice apparent. “I don't understand.”
“You will. Now drop your staff.”
But Gladden held onto it.
“Gladden, drop it,” Fabian urged. His voice was sharp and unsympathetic.
Gladden crouched and laid his staff on the snow.
Sir John still held his blade, though, Marcus noticed. He wondered again why Stetland and the knight had been fighting.
“Bring their weapons to me, Sir John,” Eaglen said.
“There's a boy, too,” Sir John said. “And a gangly squaggle.”
Eaglen glanced towards the top of the
rock face. Marcus followed the wizard's stare, expecting to see the boy, but the ledge of snow was devoid of life.
“Let them run,” Eaglen said. “They'll die in the snow, either of the cold or at the teeth of a pack of wild dogs.” Sir John stood at the wizard's side. “You all know Sir John as a great knight and head of the king's guard. His service to Kingstown and Elt is unquestionable. But for the past two months he's been working for Volk, just as I have.”
Marcus couldn't believe his ears. But Stetland had known. Somehow Stetland had been ready for Sir John.
“There's rope in the sleigh,” the man with the shoulder-length hair and the missing tooth said to Eaglen. “We'll tie their hands and execute them, one by one.”
A tall man with a misshapen nose said: “Should we make the lady watch, Graff?” Graff. The man I was fighting with is called Graff. The tall man was holding his chest. Fabian has broken his ribs.
“Yes, Powel. Missy should definitely watch. Perhaps Sir John should torment her further by telling her how he's had such a profound impact on her life without her even knowing it.”
Cassandra Delamare struggled to a sitting position in the sleigh. Her hands and feet were shackled, Marcus saw. “What do you mean?” she said. “What’s does he mean, Sir John? You're the king's head guard for God's sake.”
“Stop your sniffling,” Sir John said. “I never could stand how pathetic you were.” He walked over to the sleigh and climbed onto it. “And your king isn't as good and proper as you might think.” Cassandra pushed herself away from him with her shackled feet. “It won't surprise the king to hear that I've switched sides for riches, for he often paid me with dirty gold.” Sir John leaned into wizard bearer's face. Marcus strained to hear what the head guard was saying to her. “Your lovely Tristan Adley was slain by my sword, Cassandra.” Sir John straightened. “Yes, the king and queen knew about your little childish love affair. They were happy to let it run its course, but you flowered, didn't you, dear? They couldn't have a penniless butcher-boy impregnating the great wizard bearer of Elt. Can you imagine? I mean, can you? What spineless wizard would you have created with that pauper's seed? No, I was glad to do it, actually. The coin the king gave me was adequate, but I was only too willing to drive my blade through his weak, love-smitten heart.”
“You bastard,” Cassandra cried. “You bastard.” She spat a ball of phlegm into Sir John's face. He wiped globs of it from his moustache and then slapped Cassandra across the cheek. Marcus winced at the sound of it.
“But he wasn't my greatest kill.” Sir John jumped from the sleigh, two-footed, onto the snow. “I've done a lot of dirty work for the king over my many years of service. But one stands out. You remember Elysande, don't you, Stetland?” He swaggered over to the Dark Rider. “How many good coins of Elt do you think I was paid to slit her throat? Of course, I raped her first. She was beautiful, as I remember. How could a man resist? I was so young and virile back then; I was as rampant as a rabbit.”
“You lie,” Stetland said.
“Why would you kill her?” Gladden said.
“Why?” Sir John laughed. “You're going to love this one. The realm hides many secrets, young wizard. That, I'm sure you'll learn. One of the greatest secrets, though, is—”
Sir John didn't finish, because from the darkness beyond Eaglen, came a small voice.
“Eaglen?” the voice said. “What are you doing?”
“Leave me alone,” Eaglen said. “This has nothing to do with you. Go on your way.”
“But, Eaglen. It's me – Hugo Peas.”
A small rotund man stepped from the gloom into the light of Eaglen's staff. His face was round and smiley, his voice soft and gentle.
“I know who you are, Hugo. Now leave us and go about your business.”
Sir John stepped forward, blade in hand. “I'll make him disappear, if you want?”
“No need for that, Sir John. Hugo's going, aren't you?”
“But this is my business. Weedley has been attacked, burnt to the ground.” Hugo then spied Fabian and waved. “Is everything all right here?”
“Leave us,” Eaglen demanded again. “Or I'll have Sir John see that you leave in pieces.”
“Eaglen . . .” Hugo stepped closer, but the wizard had had enough, it seemed. He lashed out at Hugo with his staff. There was a crack, like thunder, and then Hugo was sailing through the air. He hit the rock face to the south of the road and then fell face first onto the snow. Marcus feared the small man was dead; he was relieved when Hugo groaned and turned onto his back.
Then, from the darkness to the east, came a roar so fierce it made Marcus take a step backwards. Behind Eaglen, a face emerged from the murk. Is it a troll? He'd heard tales about trolls in the taverns and inns of The Warrens, told by seasoned soldiers and knights who had journeyed far. The creature he was looking at fitted their vivid descriptions. It bounded close and hit Eaglen with one of its large hands. The wizard went sprawling onto the snow, face first, letting go of the glass bottle in his hand, which went spinning through the air, reflecting moonlight as it travelled an arc. On its descent Marcus moved in an attempt to catch it, but he knew it was already too late. All he could do was put his hands on his head and wait helplessly for the flash of light and the deep rumble of the earth that would surely follow. He thanked the gods when the bottle landed safely in the snow, half submerged but intact.
Then everything happened quickly.
As Eaglen was getting to his feet, Fabian ran and collected his staff. Stetland shoved Sir John in the chest sending the knight stumbling backwards, and then ran to the pile of swords lying in snow. He threw one in Marcus's direction and then grabbed the hilt of his own and immediately clashed metal with Sir John. Marcus had just enough time to catch the hilt of the flying sword and then bend to pick up his shield, before Graff was upon him. The sound of metal on metal rang on the air. Gladden was taking on two men: the tall man with the misshapen nose he’d heard being called Powel, and a smaller man who had the characteristics of a dwarf. The young wizard's staff was glowing with each blow upon their steel, but to little effect. He's not as powerful as his great-uncle, not yet. If he ever will be. Behind Graff, the man with the bald head was closing in, sword in hand. I can't take them both. Stetland was still fighting with Sir John. And beyond them, Fabian was talking loud and angrily: “Yield, Eaglen. Throw down your staff and yield, or suffer the consequences.”
Marcus tried to focus, but a flash of light and a crack of thunder distracted him. It wasn't from the clouds, he knew, it was the wizards. Light was streaming from the wizards’ staffs, feeding a large white ball of light between them.
Concentrate, Marcus thought. Don't let it distract you or you're a dead man.
The bald-headed man had joined the fight, taking his place by Graff's side. His sword beat down on Marcus's upturned shield. My training didn't prepare me for this. Marcus was stepping backwards with the blows of the two swords; one he was blocking with his shield, the other with his blade. He was stepping away from the light, darkness enveloping him, when a roar came from somewhere close. The troll. Marcus looked around, fearing the thing might tear off his arm and eat it like a chicken leg. The troll appeared to his right, knocking Graff and the other man over with a swipe of its large hand. Then it bounded off towards the wizards, although it seemed afraid of the growing ball of light between them.
I have to be quick. He ran to the bald-headed man and stood over him. Pausing, he questioning what he was about to do, but then dismissed his conscience and drove his blade into the man's chest. He would never forget the frightened stare in the man's eyes, nor the blood.
Marcus pulled his sword free and looked for Graff, but he was gone. Probably hiding, waiting to take me when my back is turned. But I can’t worry about that. Not now. He turned. Gladden had knocked one man to the ground – the dwarf-like man – but he was still fighting Powel. Stetland was driving Sir John back towards the sleigh. Marcus ran to assist, but before he could get ther
e, the wizard bearer stood, leaned over the side of the sleigh, and threw the chains joining her shackled hands around Sir John's neck. She pulled, pushing her feet against the side of the sleigh. Sir John dropped his sword and clawed at his neck.
“Kill him,” Marcus shouted to Stetland. “Do it.”
Stetland hesitated.
“Tell me about Elysande,” Stetland said to Sir John. “What was the secret? Why did the king want her dead?”
But Sir John was choking. Cassandra continued to pull on the chain, forcing gurgling sounds from the head guard's throat. Then his eyes turned white and his body limp.
“No,” Stetland cried.
The wizard bearer relaxed the chain and fell backwards. The head guard's body slid down the side of the sleigh like butter off a hot knife, landing in an ungainly heap on the floor.
“He deserved a worse death,” Cassandra said, panting hard.
“I wanted to know . . .” Stetland said.
A few feet away, Gladden was standing over two bloodied men in the snow, both dead.
“Where's the other one?” Stetland said. “Graff.”
“I think he escaped into the woods.”
Stetland glanced in that direction. “Let the woods finish him off, then.”
The older wizards were still fighting.
“I will not yield, Uncle,” Eaglen shouted.
The roar of the light streaming from both wizards' staffs was louder than it had been; it was like both the sound of the sea hitting rocks with all its force and the crackle of a burning house.
“How did Volk turn you?” Fabian shouted to his nephew.
“It was a simple choice, Uncle. Your king is weak, mine is strong. Soon we shall rule the land. Volk and the wizard Eaglen.”
“Your men are dead. Yield. Come with us, back to Kingstown.”
Eaglen laughed, but there was no merriment in it. “You go back to Kingstown. See what awaits you there.”
Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 23