34
As he emerged from the trapdoor, Buttle saw that Horace was unarmed, and his face split in a wolflike grin. He had his heavy spear in one hand and a sword in the other. Horace had nothing but the round buckler slung at his back.
Horace's eyes darted to the sword leaning against the wall a few meters away. Almost as soon as he looked, he began to move, but Buttle was wickedly fast. He jerked back his right arm and hurled the spear, aiming it to intersect Horace's path to the sword. Even as he moved, sensing the danger, Horace twisted away to his right, falling to the wooden walkway and rolling desperately to regain his feet.
He was only just in time. Buttle had followed up with the speed of a snake, and his sword blade bit into the planking beside Horace's elbow. Horace kicked out sideways, catching Buttle in the back of the knee and sending him staggering. In the few seconds that he gained, he scrambled to his feet and shrugged off the shield's sling, gripping it by the edges in both hands, holding it in front of him.
He parried Buttle's next two strokes with the shield. Then, unexpectedly, he released his left-hand grip and swung the shield back- handed in a flat arc at Buttle's head, the heavy steel circle suddenly turning from a purely defensive piece into a weapon of attack.
Buttle tried to deflect it with his sword blade, then realized almost instantly that the shield was too heavy and leapt backward. Horace followed up his advantage, sweeping the shield in wide, flat arcs, swinging high and low, trying to catch Buttle in the legs, the body or the head.
But he was only buying time, and he knew it. Once Buttle overcame his initial surprise, he could use the sword's greater mobility and expose the shield's clumsiness as a weapon. He lunged at Horace's body, and the warrior was forced to revert to his double-handed grip on the shield as Buttle drove forward, lunging and cutting, looking for an opening in Horace's defense.
In Horace's position, most warriors would have given in or run. But Horace never accepted defeat. It was one of the traits that made him the great warrior that he was.
As he parried Buttle's sword strokes, his mind worked overtime, trying to find a way to defeat the bearded man before him.
If he could remount the shield on his left arm once more and draw his dagger, he could… but he knew Buttle would never give him the time he needed for that.
He considered throwing the shield, spinning it like a huge discus at Buttle and following up with the dagger as his opponent tried to avoid it. But Buttle was fast – as fast as any adversary Horace had ever faced – and an attempt like that would definitely be last ditch.
He parried two more sword cuts and deflected a thrust. Buttle may have been fast, but he was not a particularly skillful or inventive swordsman, Horace realized. He could probably parry Buttle's strokes for some time. But he couldn't simply continue to fight defensively. One mistake on his part and the battle would be over.
They faced each other, circling slowly, sword and shield moving together. Action. Reaction.
And then, in an instant, the impasse was broken.
In his peripheral vision, Horace saw a huge figure looming over the wall at the head of one of the scaling ladders. Trobar. He towered above them for a second, saw Buttle and dropped to the walkway, a huge wooden club in his hands.
Without hesitation, he charged at the man who had tried to kill Shadow, swinging the club in huge, murderous arcs.
Buttle retreated desperately, ducking and swaying to avoid the monstrous club. Trobar shambled after him, off balance and awkward yet moving with surprising speed. The club thundered against the stone walls and wooden flooring. A twenty-centimeter piece broke off and went spinning away into the darkness below as he struck the walkway on one follow-through. Trobar grunted with the effort, his eyes fixed on the man who had hurt Shadow.
Yet courage and the desire for revenge were not going to be enough. Buttle was too fast and despite his fearsome appearance, Trobar was totally unskilled in weapons and combat. His clumsy, crushing blows with the club were a primitive, instinctive reaction to his anger. He soon tired, his strokes becoming wilder and increasingly off-target.
Horace saw Buttle's confidence growing and knew how the fight would end. He dashed desperately back to where his own sword still leaned against the wall. As his fingers closed around the familiar grip, he heard a startled cry of pain behind him. Looking back, he saw the club fall from Trobar's nerveless fingers as Buttle withdrew the sword from a thrust in the giant's side.
Trobar clutched at the sudden fierce pain, feeling his own hot blood course over his fingers. Only his massive strength kept him standing for a few seconds. He looked, uncomprehendingly, down to his side, where the sword had cut into him. This was how Shadow must have felt, he thought vaguely. He saw that Buttle was about to thrust at him again and, hopelessly, threw up his arm to ward off the sword.
The point of the blade thrust into his massive forearm, sliding through muscle and flesh, jarring off the bone. Trobar whimpered in pain once more as Buttle angrily withdrew the sword. He had aimed for the giant's heart, but Trobar's last-minute reaction had thwarted him.
This time, he thought.
But there was to be no second time. As the blade darted forward again, Horace's sword flicked it to one side. And now John Buttle learned what swordsmanship was really about.
He staggered back desperately under Horace's lightning-fast and constantly varying attack, never knowing where the next strike was going to be aimed, never knowing from which direction it might come. Horace's sword was a glittering wheel of light in the flare of the torches, a nonstop onslaught that left Buttle no time to plan his own counterattack, and barely time to defend himself.
He was holding the sword in both hands now, horrified by the crushing force behind each of Horace's single-handed strokes – seemingly delivered without the slightest effort. Every one jarred his hands, wrists and arms. He knew he could never hope to defeat this man, and so he took the only way he could think of.
He leapt back and dropped his sword, hearing it clatter on the walkway timbers.
Then he dropped to his knees, hands held out wide.
"Mercy!" he shouted hoarsely. "Please! I surrender! Mercy, I beg you!"
Horace's downstroke had already started, and his eyes flinched with the effort of stopping. Buttle saw the stroke begin and cowered, turning his face away from death. Then, as the sudden pain didn't come, he looked up, fearfully, to see Horace standing over him, a disgusted look on his face.
"You really are a gutless piece of scum, aren't you?" Horace said. He looked back to where the huge figure of Trobar had sunk to the planking, blood soaking the walkway around him. Then he looked at Buttle again, remembering all that Gundar and Will had told him. In one smooth movement, he sheathed his sword. He saw a light of hope kindle in the kneeling man's eyes, hope overlaid with a crafty, self-serving expression.
Cowards and bullies, they were all the same, thought Horace. His thoughts went back to the past again, to his confrontation with the three bullies who made his life a living hell in his first year as an apprentice.
In a sudden blind flare of rage, he grabbed Buttle by the front of his shirt and heaved him to his feet. As part of the same movement, Horace hit him with a short, savage right cross, perfectly timed, perfectly weighted, perfectly executed, with no wasted motion.
Buttle screamed as he felt his jaw dislocate. His vision went black, and his knees turned to jelly. Horace let go of his shirt front and allowed the insensible figure to crash to the planks, bouncing off the stone wall as he went. Horace shook his head, then turned and hurried back to Trobar.
The giant was alive, but he had lost a massive amount of blood. Horace rolled him over carefully. Long and bitter experience had taught him to carry a basic first-aid pack whenever he went into battle. It was in a pouch on the back of his belt, and he found a clean bandage there. He held it against the sword wound in Trobar's side, binding it in place with the giant's own belt. The bandage was instantly soaked with blood,
but at least it stanched the flow.
Trobar's eyes were open, and he looked at Horace, uncomprehending. Horace forced a smile onto his face.
"You'll be fine," he said. Trobar's lips moved, and Horace shus hed him.
"Don't try to talk. Rest. Malcolm will fix you up," he said. He hoped the doubt that he felt didn't show in his eyes. The wound was a serious one, and even Malcolm's skill would be tested by it.
Trobar tried again. This time, he managed a vague croak. Horace saw the fear in the giant's eyes. And as he saw it, he realized that Trobar wasn't looking at him. He was looking behind him.
He swung around. Buttle, his face swollen and distorted, blood running down from his mouth, stood above him, his sword raised in a double-handed grip high over his head. There was hatred in his eyes. Hatred and triumph. In another second, Horace would be dead.
But there wasn't another second. Gundar Hardstriker's ax came spinning out of the night, rotating end over end with a peculiar haoomp haoomp haoomp sound.
Eight kilograms of solid wood and heavy iron, it struck Buttle in the back. He grunted in pain, his eyes glazed in surprise and shock. The sword fell to the ground behind him as he staggered under the impact. He tried feebly to reach behind him to pluck the massive weapon free, but he lacked the strength and the purpose. He took a pace to the left, lurched, reeled. And fell into the dark courtyard below them with a resounding thud.
Horace came wearily to his feet as Gundar joined them. "Nice throw," he said.
The Skandian nodded."All I could do," he said."I knew I couldn't reach you in time."
He peered anxiously over the edge of the walkway, down at the crumpled figure on the flagstones below. Horace moved beside him and dropped a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry about him. He's finished," he said.
Gundar looked at him dismissively."To hell with him. I hope my ax is all right."
35
By now, the defenders at either end of the west rampart had retreated into the two corner towers. Horace inspected the solid oak door of the southwest tower and frowned. It would take a small battering ram to break through. And he assumed the northwest tower door would be no easier. Below, he heard shouting voices and the sound of running feet. Peering over the edge of the walkway, he saw members of the garrison streaming out of the towers into the courtyard. They were heading for the main gateway, where the fortified gatehouse would give them shelter from the attackers.
The way down through the two towers was blocked. But Buttle himself had shown them another route to the courtyard. Horace gathered the Skandians around him. Several had been wounded during the fighting, and he left two of them to look after Trobar. The others were still fit for battle. He led them down the narrow steps beneath the trapdoor that Buttle had used. As they reached the courtyard, he knew their tendency would be to stream after the retreating garrison in an undisciplined throng.
He restrained them by sheer force of will until all of them were down the stairs. Then, forming them into an arrowhead formation, with himself at the tip and Gundar and Nils to his left and right, he led them at a steady, disciplined jog toward the fleeing defenders, currently jostling each other to get through the narrow entrance to the gatehouse.
Hearing the battle chant of the Skandians as they approached, those inside the gatehouse slammed the ironbound oak door shut, leaving nearly twenty of their comrades locked out, backs to the wall, facing their attackers. When there was less than ten meters between the two groups, Horace raised his right hand and called the order to halt. He had the natural gift of command, and it never occurred to the Skandians to ignore him.
"Form a line," he told them, and the arrowhead formation spread out into one line, facing the terrified enemy.
"I'll give you one opportunity to surrender," he told the members of the garrison. "That opportunity is now."
Keren's men eyed the Skandians fearfully. In normal circumstances, they would have surrendered readily enough, but this battle was far from normal. They knew these savage sea wolves were in league with supernatural forces. They had all seen the terrifying apparitions that had risen from the mist in the south. If they surrendered, they had no idea what would become of them. Perhaps they would be sacrificed to the huge warrior they had seen, or the red-faced demons who had soared into the night sky. This was more than a normal battle. They were pitted against the forces of the underworld, the black evil of sorcery, and no sane man would willingly surrender himself to such an enemy.
A long silence greeted Horace's challenge. None of the garrison would take the responsibility. None wanted to single himself out. Finally, Horace shrugged.
"I gave them a chance," he said softly. Then he turned to the wolf-ship skirl. "Gundar, can you take care of this?"
Gundar, who had recovered his ax and was anxious to use it again, snorted in derision. "This ragtag bunch?" he said. "Nils and I could do it on our own. You go and help the Ranger, General."
Horace nodded. He slid his sword back into its scabbard and stepped out of the line.
Gundar waited until one of the other Skandians moved into the space Horace had vacated, then he raised his battleax and roared out the time-honored Skandian battle command.
"Follow me, boys!"
There was a roar from twenty-three throats, and the battle line surged forward. They hit the defenders with a crash of steel, driving the terrified castle garrison back against the stone walls of the gatehouse. Horace watched for a second or two, then turned to run toward the keep tower.
36
In the tower, high above the courtyard, Alyss had heard the first shouts from the sentries on the south wall and moved to the window in time to see the enormous images Malcolm was projecting into the night sky. She recognized the giant, shadowy warrior as the apparition that Will had described to her. Then the other images appeared, followed by the amazing sight of the demon's head rockets soaring into the sky and exploding. She quickly realized that such an elaborate display must have a definite purpose behind it, other than being designed to simply terrify the castle's garrison. The attack on the castle was under way.
Alyss had a shrewd idea as to how the images were generated, and she knew that they were harmless. The cries and shouts that drifted up to the tower window told her that the men on the ramparts were well and truly alarmed by the mysterious sights they were seeing.
Alarmed and distracted.
The tower window faced to the south, and she looked down to the south wall below her, quelling the misgivings she felt as she peered down from such a great height. She could see the two end towers on the wall, and as she watched, she saw men moving from the west wall to the south wall, where Malcolm's light show seemed to pose a visible threat. But she realized that all this light and sound was a diversion. The real attack would come on the west or north or east wall.
And it would come soon.
She looked around the room, wondering what she could do to prepare for the attack. Will would come for her, she knew that much. But which way? The tower stairs would be easily defended by a few men. That left the outside. He had come that way once before, scaling the wall in an unsuccessful rescue attempt when she had first been imprisoned in the tower. Then, her fear of heights had triggered her refusal to climb back down with him, and her stomach tightened at the thought that this time, it might be the only way out of the tower. Then she set her jaw firmly. If Will asked her, she would do it – fear of heights or no fear of heights.
She examined the two center bars on the window, tugging at them gently. They were held by the barest thread of metal now. The acid she had been pouring onto the bars each night had corroded the iron so that now it was nearly eaten away. The acid flask, hidden on the deep lintel above the window, was still a quarter full – more than enough to finish the job.
She heard renewed shouting and she peered down at the walls, moving to the side of the window to try to see more of the west wall, where the sounds seemed to be coming from. As she watched, a
group of men began running along the wall to the southwest tower. Now she heard the distinctive sound of weapons – swords clashing on swords, axes slamming into shields. Her heart soared as she realized that there were attackers on the west wall. She shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of frustration, wishing she could see farther along the west wall to where the fighting was taking place. But the southern aspect of her window defeated her. She could only see the southwest tower and the first few meters of the walkway. She would have to simply wait to see what transpired.
She walked quietly to the chair by the table. Deliberately pulling it out, she sat, hands in her lap, feet together, breathing deeply to calm herself. She closed her eyes and felt herself relax. She must put her trust in Will. She knew he would never let harm come to her.
Just as her accelerated heart rate started to return to normal, the door to the room slammed back on its hinges and Keren dashed in, sword in hand.
Now, in the confusion of the moment, with his castle under attack and his men folding before the assault, there was no sign of the charming, easygoing persona he had assumed over the past weeks.
She stood up quickly, the chair going over backward behind her. As they faced each other for a second or so, her hands went behind her back, her fingers seeking the reassurance of the stellatite pebble in her cuff. But Keren was across the room in a flash, grabbing her arm and dragging her toward him. As he pulled her right arm and hand from behind her back, he dislodged the tiny star stone pebble from its hiding place, and it clattered to the floor, bouncing toward the table. Keren glanced around at the tiny rattling sound but saw nothing. Alyss let out a little cry of alarm and tried to go after the stone, but Keren was too strong for her. Swinging her by the arm, he half dragged, half threw her into a corner of the room.
"Get over there, damn you!" he said. He was fiddling with the hilt of his sword, and her eyes dropped to it to see what he was doing. There was a soft leather cover over the pommel, held in place by a leather thong. He was scrabbling at the knot, undoing it. Alyss drew herself up to her full height, her chin high and her back straight. She smiled at the renegade. All his easy self-assurance was gone. He could feel the hangman's noose around his neck – the reward for treason.
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