Bria bit her lip, then weighed the decision.
“Please,” said Esme, “the certainty of what I have seen is strong in me. I know it is a sign from the Most High.”
“Very well,” replied the queen slowly. “We will turn aside and ride for Narramoor and the High Temple. And let us pray that we arrive in time to do whatever it is that the god intends for us.”
“Yes,” said Esme, “that will be my prayer.”
All day long Ronsard waited at his post on the edge of the field. He watched as the sun rose in the treetops, crossed the vault of the heavens, and began its downward descent toward evening, and still no word came from Theido. The main body of knights and fighting men waited restlessly, burnishing lance and sword and tending to their armor, making sure it was in good repair. When the signal came from Theido, Ronsard would lead his troops into battle to storm the walls of the castle.
For his part, Theido and his men were to come up through the castle by way of the hidden passage, sneaking in behind Ameronis’s troops to open the gates for their comrades. But the signal had not come, and that could only mean that the secret gate had not been breached.
So, as twilight lengthened the shadows of the forest encampment, Ronsard gave the order to stand down. “We cannot attempt the walls in the dark,” he said. “But tomorrow—secret gate or no—we must fight. There is no more time to wait.” He turned to his commander, gave him instructions for the men, and turned away from the field, saying, “I will be in my tent if any messages come.”
Throughout the camp men began taking off their armor and laying aside their weapons. Ronsard, too, removed his breastplate and gor-get upon entering the tent, went to the basin standing on its tripod, dipped his hands into the cool water, and splashed his face.
Another day gone, he thought, and now there are no more days. It must be tomorrow. Tomorrow or the king’s son will die. He stood over the basin, his hands dripping, and stared through the side of the tent, picturing the little prince captive in the clutches of the loathsome high priest. He saw the boy bound and placed on the altar and the dagger plunged into his trusting heart.
“No!” he cried aloud, slamming his hand into the basin. Water splashed everywhere and sloshed over the rim. “Not while I have breath in my body will they harm that boy!” he vowed. He heard a sound behind him and said to his squire, “Hand me a cloth,” putting out his hand to receive it.
“I, too, have made a similar vow.”
Ronsard looked up and noticed for the first time who his visitor was. “Quentin! You—Your Majesty! I thought—”
Quentin smiled thinly. “I know what you thought. But never mind. Here”—he handed the dripping knight a strip of clean linen—“dry yourself and we will talk.”
The king threw off his riding gloves and cloak and sat down on one of the benches at the table. Ronsard ran the towel over his face and dried his hands, all the while studying the man before him as a physician might study a patient who has suddenly and unexpectedly arisen from his sickbed. “I am tired, Ronsard. It is a long ride from Askelon. I wonder that Ameronis has the will to make the trip as often as he seems to. But then, he always did sit a strong saddle.”
“Sire, allow me to send for something to eat. I was about to get some food for myself.”
“Yes, do that. I am hungry as well. I have eaten nothing all day.”
“I will see to it at once!” Ronsard fairly shouted, for here before him sat the king, who to all appearances seemed in his right mind. Ronsard could detect none of the melancholy that he had so recently seen in his friend. True, his manner was grave beneath the forced civility of his aspect; clearly the king struggled to show himself composed. And fatigue sat on his shoulders like a burden, bending him over, draining his features of color.
But he had come, and he spoke as one who knew what he was doing, who had purpose and reason behind his actions. Surely this was the very best sign.
Ronsard crossed to the tent flap and called to a squire to bring food and drink, then returned a moment later. “Sire, it is good to see you. We thought . . . that is, we were afraid—”
“You were afraid your king had deserted you completely.” To Ronsard’s look he added, “Well, you were right. I had deserted you. I sent you out to fight my battle for me while I stayed within my own walls and ate out my heart with self-pity and grief. But no more. Though I have but one more day to be king, then king I will be—not a coward.”
It heartened Ronsard to hear Quentin talk this way—with fire in his voice, and his tone resolute. “Sit, my friend,” said Quentin, “and tell me how the matter stands.”
Ronsard lowered himself to the bench opposite, leaned on his elbows, and began to recite all that had taken place since they had come to Ameron-on-Sipleth. While they talked, the squire entered with their meal and laid it on the table before them. Ronsard motioned the young man away, indicating that they wished to be left alone and would serve themselves.
Quentin listened intently, nodding now and again as he ate, dipping his hand to his trencher. He raised his cup and drained it when Ronsard had finished and said, “You and Theido have done well. I am pleased.”
“Sire, will you lead the troops tomorrow?”
Quentin considered this and then inclined his head in assent. “Ameronis must be made to face his king if he would wear the crown. Yes, I will lead. He must see me riding at the head of my army, and know who it is he would overthrow.”
Ronsard smiled. “Excellent! Yes, that is the Quentin I know! Those jackals will turn tail and run!”
“You know that I would not lift blade against them if it could be avoided. I would not that a single man were hurt. But my son’s life is at stake, and I must not fail him.”
Ronsard opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. But Quentin said, “What is it? Speak—we know each other too well to hold back.”
“As you say, my lord,” Ronsard began, then hesitated once more. “Sire, the words come hard.”
“They will come no easier for holding them.”
The stalwart knight turned his face away and then said, “What will you do if we fail to regain the sword?”
“That I cannot say. If I thought riding with an armed force to the High Temple was the answer, I would have done it without delay. But I dare not risk the danger to my son, Ronsard. We must in all events try to recover the Shining One.” He paused, adding in a quiet voice, “Failing that, we must trust in the Most High to work his will. That is all any man can do.” “How much longer?” Theido asked, sweat dripping from his forehead and running down his neck. Sir Garth looked back at him and shook his head sadly.
“No telling yet, my lord. Another few hours at least; likely more.” The brawny knight jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where men labored to cut through the iron bands of the portcullis with various implements.
“Put new men to the task, and spell them regularly from now on. We still have to fight once we are through the gate; I do not want the men exhausted before they must lift their swords.”
“It is the heat in this blasted tunnel,” said Garth. “It drains a man’s strength. We would have cut through long ago if not for that.”
Theido turned and walked to the barrier. For all their efforts, they had succeeded in removing only one small section of the thick iron gate. A second section was nearly freed, but a third and a fourth had to be cut away to ensure that an armed man could pass through quickly. There was nothing to be done but continue hacking away at the structure at the same maddening, slow pace.
Abruptly Theido left the chamber, passing back through the narrow tunnel to the cave mouth and the cool night beyond. The ping and chink of the workers’ tools echoed through the passageway as their chisels bit into the iron. Below the cave the soldiers whose services were not now required at the gate rested on the shingle beside the water. The moon had risen and shone sparkling on the dark river, illuminating the cliff and the castle walls above with a ghostly
light.
The soldiers glanced up as Theido made his way down to them. Progress? the glance asked. None, Theido’s look answered as he sat down among them.
One of the men, a knight by the name of Olin, leaned close to Theido and asked, “What will happen if we do not breach the gate? What will we do?”
“The gate will be breached,” Theido answered stiffly.
“Yes, I know—eventually. But what if dawn comes first?”
Theido turned cheerless eyes upon the man and replied, “Ronsard will attack at dawn. He has no other choice. With our help or without it, he will go against the walls.”
Olin stared at Theido in silence.
“You asked for the truth; I told you.”
“It is a hard truth, my lord. It is sure death to go against those walls. Catapults and rams—”
Theido cut him off. “We have no time for catapults to wear down the walls or rams to splinter the gates. No time.”
“Then if we fail here, we die.”
“Yes, and more. If we fail, the realm dies with us; the kingdom is in ruins.” Theido nodded slowly, gazing out over the smoothly flowing water. “You did not know so much was at stake?”
“No, my lord,” answered the knight. “I thought it was just to save the prince.”
“The prince, ourselves, our nation.”
Sir Olin said nothing more for a long time. Then, without another word, he rose to his feet and climbed back up the side of the cliff to the cave and went back to take his place at the portcullis with the other workmen.
Then, as Theido watched, one by one the others who had been resting, having just come out from the tunnel, got up and climbed back to the cave to pick up their tools once more.
48
As dawn broke fair and clean in the east, the Dragon King raised his gauntleted hand and urged Blazer forward. The mighty warhorse jigged sideways and pranced, smelling the scent of battle in the air, feeling his bold blood race in his veins, eager to gallop with his master into the fray. Quentin, with Ronsard at his left hand, rode out into the field, his armor glinting in the early light.
He wore the battle dress made for him by the legendary Inchkeith, the armor he had worn against Nin the Destroyer on the day he became king. Polished smooth, bright as water, the pale silver shimmered in the sun’s first rays, throwing beams of light from its clean, flat surfaces like the facets of a gemstone. On his head he wore the silver helm that he had placed there on the day of his coronation. From his shoulders hung the exquisite cloak of chain mail, its tiny links rippling like quicksilver with every jouncing step.
Ronsard, too, was arrayed in his best armor, and rode beside the king with eyes ahead, visor up, surveying the formidable walls rising before them on the escarpment. His hand rested easily on the hilt of his sword; his shield hung down from the pommel of his saddle, ready to be snatched up in an instant when need occasioned. His battle steed shook its mane and pawed the earth as it pranced out into the morning.
Behind them came the king’s knights mounted on their chargers, their armor clinking in the silent dawn. No drums beat time; no trumpet sounded the call to arms. The army of the Dragon King would march unheralded into battle this day.
After the knights came the footmen with their pikes and ladders, and grappling hooks on long ropes to aid in scaling the walls. They wore short, heavy swords thrust through their belts, for in the close fighting on the battlements there would be no room to swing a longer blade; and any who were lucky enough to reach the heights of Castle Ameron would need a stout weapon.
The advancing forces reached the catapults, and teams of men ran out and began readying the machines, loading stones and fireballs into the slings. This done, the men waited for the king’s command. Quentin scanned the high ramparts, raised his sword—a sturdy blade he had chosen from among others in the armorer’s wagon—and lowered it in a swift movement.
The catapults sang through the air and the footmen raced toward the walls with a mighty shout, flooding over the rising ground to the very feet of the enormous stone curtains. There they flung their ladders against the walls and sent their grappling hooks snaking through the air, while archers positioned themselves to offer what help they could.
At almost the same instant, a cry went up from the walls as Ameronis’s men leaped to the embrasures and began hailing arrows, stones, and timbers down upon the men below. The first men on the ladders fell screaming to the earth, but others appeared to take their places, and others behind them, each with a shield over his head to stop the deadly rain. But arrows found their marks, stones struck down with bone-shattering force, and brave soldiers fell.
As the attack began, Ameronis and his noble friends, sitting in the banqueting hall over their breakfast, heard the cry go up from his men on the battlements. Ameronis rose from his chair and said, grinning, “So, the king’s army has no patience, eh? It sounds as if they mean to tumble these walls with their wailing. Come, my friends, this will be rare sport. These walls have never been breached in living memory. Let us see how the Dragon King’s army fares.”
With that he turned and hurried from the hall, Lupollen following after him. The others sat in silence, looking awkwardly at one another for a moment, and then followed. “He did not seem to think it worth mentioning that his walls have stood secure all through the years because of the Dragon King’s favor and protection,” muttered Gorloic.
“Aye,” agreed Denellon. “I am sorry we ever listened to him. We will pay for our error before this day is through. Mark my words, sir. We will pay.”
They found Ameronis striding the wall walk, barking orders to his men, exhorting them to a fighting frenzy. Heedless of his own safety, he dashed here and there to join in the worst of the fighting, leaning out over the crenels and shoving the ladders away with his bare hands.
“See how he rages!” cried Lord Kelkin, holding his head in dismay. “He is like a wolf, blood-drunk and ravening for the kill!”
Catching sight of them, Ameronis shouted, “Look! Here is a sight for you! The Dragon King has joined the contest!” He thrust out a hand and pointed below.
The other lords rushed to the embrasure and peered fearfully down into the moil; and there, amid the writhing, seething mass of men struggling to mount to the walls, they glimpsed the white flanks of the king’s charger, flashing here and there among his troops, and the Dragon King himself riding with his sword uplifted and shield held high.
“Bring me a bow!” bawled Ameronis above the clamor. “A bow! Bring me a bow!”
“Stop!” bellowed Gorloic. “Think of what you are doing!”
But Ameronis would not listen; he snatched up a longbow from one of his archers and notched an arrow to the string and let fly at the king. Gorloic and Kelkin rushed forward and grabbed Ameronis by the arms. “Let me go!” he screamed. “Let me go!” He struggled free of their grasp and backed from them. “If you have not stomach for the fight, get below and hide with the women in the scullery! I mean to wear the crown, and I will take it however I must!”
Horrified, the noblemen backed away and withdrew to the gatehouse turret, where they could watch the battle in safety.
Once the fighting began, Ronsard allowed the main force of footmen to establish themselves before the gates of the castle before leading his own small force to the less-defended northern wall. Ladders were thrown up and secured. One knight gained the battlement without being seen, and another as well before the alarm was sounded and Ameronis’s men came running with sword and halberd to repel the invaders. But Ronsard’s knights fought well and held their own while their number was strengthened from below. Ronsard was the third man over the wall and was soon joined by others until there were twelve of the king’s knights on the wall.
Together these twelve labored to butt through to where their comrades fought to gain the western wall. They inched along the northern curtain toward the northern tower; from there they could cross over to the west. Once in the tower, however, they encoun
tered strong resistance. Ten of Ameronis’s knights, hearing the alarm from the northern curtain, had come running up from the ward yard below to meet them.
The foremost of these, a giant of a man in an iron morion and carrying a double-bladed axe in one hand and an ox-hide shield in the other, came crashing in through the door of the tower, swinging his weapon in a deadly arc around him. Ronsard, with two of his knights, managed to force the giant back out of the door, which they sealed at once.
“Can you hold the door?” asked Ronsard, throwing open his visor.
“I think so,” replied his second-in-command. Just then there came a fearful crash at the door they had just sealed as the giant’s axe thundered on the planks. “For now,” he added.
“Hold out as long as you can,” said Ronsard, “and then join us below. I am going to try to fight through to the gates. Perhaps we can force them open.” So saying, Ronsard led the other knights down the spiraling wooden steps to the tower keep below, which was as yet unguarded.
With swords singing they forced their way across the outer ward to the gatehouse, encountering little resistance since most of the castle’s defenders lined the wall walks above. Once inside, they overpowered the frightened foe easily.
“In the king’s name, open the gates!” demanded Ronsard, his sword at the throat of the quaking gatekeeper.
The man wailed and rolled his eyes in terror. “Though you sever head from shoulders, I cannot!” cried the man.
“Open them, or I will drop you where you stand!”
“I cannot!” screamed the gatekeeper. “Brave sir, believe me! The doors are fortified and cannot now be opened by anyone—leastways, without removing the timbers and chains.”
“My lord,” shouted one of Ronsard’s knights, “he speaks true. The gates are bound in chains and reinforced with timbers. To remove them would take us half a day!”
Ronsard was about to make a reply when behind them on the staircase leading to the parapet they heard a shout and the sound of many feet pounding down the wooden stairs. “We are discovered!” cried one of the knights.
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