by Peter Telep
From the large wooden bathing tub, to the many skins on the floor, to the stools, the sconces and can dlestands, the ewer and basin, and even the weapons rack in the far corner, Seaver found it hard to find anything distinctly Saxon. All of it said Celt, down to the tiniest detail. Anyone who entered the room would never believe it was occupied by a Saxon.
“I live like my enemy. And I actually enjoy the way he lives. And I know him much better this way.”
Seaver cocked his head, then turned slowly toward the entrance behind him.
Kenric closed the solar door, then took a step for ward and paused. He lowered his gaze to his hands, an anlace in his right, the tip of it scraping dirt from beneath the nail of his opposite index finger. Seaver was accustomed to Kenric’s nail-cleaning wont, and he had observed that his master only did it on two occasions: when he was impatient or anxious; or when he was bored. It was safe to assume his leader was not bored … .
Kenric continued, his gaze still on his hands. “How well do you know your enemy, Seaver?” Kenric looked up, and there were no other eyes in the realm that could penetrate Seaver’s heart more thoroughly than his did.
“As I told you, lord,” Seaver began, realizing how nervous his words sounded-and that made him even more nervous-“!served with the squire. I know him well. Or at least I thought I did. But hear me. I did not underestimate him. He is clever-but clever enough to escape through iron bars. I believe he had help.”
“That occurred to me as well,” Kenric said. “Perhaps one of Renfred’s supporters aided in the Celts’ escape.” Seaver stepped forward, thrilled by the news that his master shared his belief. “All in an effort to cast a shadow over me, to make me look less favorable in your eyes. It has nothing to do with the Celts-everything to do with your decision to have me replace Manton.” Seaver’s step closer to Kenric woke a sleeping burst of pain in his cut back, a pain he could no longer restrain; he winced, held his breath, then bent forward slightly.
“Your wounds-”
“I am fine.” Seaver straightened, swallowed, then tried to repress the inferno in his back. “I promise you, lord, the Celts will be caught. The knowledge of how they escaped will do us little good now, so long as you believe it was not due to my incompetence.”
Kenric studied the nail he had finished cleaning. “What I believe does not matter anymore, Seaver. It is what the men believe. The news has already reached them. Now those who once supported you doubt your abilities. They may quickly join the sup porters of Renfred. If they do, then I will have little choice. You will no longer be my second-in-command. I argued with the other battle lords to put you next to me; they finally agreed. If the Celts get away, I will no longer be able to control them. If you remain my sec ond after that, those lords might even have me killed.” There was no fault in Kenric’s logic. Once, Seaver had assumed it would be something personal with his master, as had the traitors who had helped Christopher and his friends escape. But Kenric was a keen, reasonable man when his bloodlust wasn’t blinding him, and as much as Seaver despised the facts, they were laid out very clearly before him. If the Celts escaped, the garrison’s faith in Seaver would be gone, and that would charge K<;!nric with the duty to strip Seaver of his command. One, two, three, and he was back to being a scout-if the Gods were kind to him. Somewhere along the path he could be murdered. It was good that Kenric still believed in him now. However, as Kenric had said, that belief did nothing to change the facts.
There was one course of action left, and it would be Seaver’s sole reason for living: capture the Celts. Then, after that, he must weed out his enemies in the castle and destroy them before the eyes of the garri son. Then, and only then, could he restore faith and be looked upon with respect.
Seaver nodded solemnly. “I know what I must do.” “Then go,” Kenric said. “Go under the eyes of every god.”
Once outside the solar, Seaver had trouble containing his thoughts; they darted, collided, scattered, com bined, fled, and returned all in the seconds he regarded Ware. “I want threescore of men added to those search ing for the Celts. I want another score sent immediately to the dungeon. The Celts will try to leave the way they came. You and I will meet those men in the prison.”
Ware moved behind Seaver and touched his back. “Your wounds have bled through the bandage and onto your tunic.”
“There is no time for them to mend,” Seaver replied with disgust. “And what should I care of them now-when I may very well die soon!”
Ware circled to face him. “No, you will not!” he said with angry resolve. “Not with me at your side.”
Ware’s pledge could not have come at a better time. If there was one man in the world Seaver did not have to prove himself to, it was the young scout. The man had seen him in action and owed his life more than once to Seaver. His loyalty was of a metal so strong that the hottest flame could not soften it.
Nodding and placing a hand of thanks on Ware’s bicep, Seaver ordered, “Fetch me the squire’s broadsword. Kimball will die by his own blade-a blade wielded by you. He chose to defy me, and if he knows anything about our ways, then he knows what a dishonor it will be for him to lose his life to the very sword once held in his possession. In his dying hour, he will know he was never a warrior. He will die in dis grace.”
Ware bowed in compliance. “It will be an honor and a privilege to kill him. Now. You’re safe here but I will meet you at your chamber. You will not descend the stairwell alone.” The scout backed away, then turned and hurried off.
Seaver turned in the opposite direction and started slowly down the hall. Though he was very secure on this floor, with guards searching and questioning every man who wished to come up, he could not ignore the desire to draw his dagger from its belt sheath. He kept the blade low at his hip, staring war ily into the shadows at the end of the passageway as he shuffled toward them.
6
They had stood with their backs pressed against the hard stone for minutes that felt like moons. The barks of Saxons came from somewhere in the distance and echoed hollowly. There was no telling exactly where those men were. Doyle had ordered Christopher and Neil to leave the wall to extinguish some of the torches that lit the corridor. They had purposely left one burning at the end of the hall ahead, and another burning at the end of the hall behind them, illuminating a would-be attacker’s approach from either direction. They, on the other hand, were cloaked in the darkness of the center of the corridor.
“How long do we stay here?” Neil stage-whispered. “Can’t you stop talking for a moment?” Doyle asked. “The northwest stairwell is up ahead at the end of this corridor,” Christopher said.
“That’s where all the noise is coming from!” Neil said, making no attempt to douse the hysteria in his voice, nor regulate his volume.
“Shush!” Doyle commanded the barbarian, eyes emphatically wide, index finger vertical to his lips.
“We’re waiting until it grows quiet,” Christopher explained softly to Neil.
Without warning, it grew awfully loud. The thump ing of many boots drew closer, and as Christopher swung his gaze forward, he saw four fully armored Saxon cavalrymen marching toward them in two lines, two abreast. The Saxons’ sheathed spathas bounced off their plated hips as they moved, creating a rattle that accompanied the rhythm of their steps. All carried their salets in the crooks of their arms, leaving their perspiring faces and portions of their necks exposed. Judging from the mud covering their sabatoons and greaves, they had just returned from some sort of mission. Being cavalry, they had little use just then, for there was no way they would be ordered to leave the castle and engage the enemy. What their exact duties were, Christopher did not know. Their destiny, how ever, was something he planned to be a part of.
“Four on three. That leaves one free,” Christopher said.
Doyle lifted his crossbow. “I don’t like fighting when the odds are against me.” He spun away from the wall, stepping into full view of the Saxons,
aimed the bow with one hand …
… and squeezed the trigger. Fwit!
An unencumbered shaft of life-taking metal, Doyle’s bolt wasted no time striking the front right Saxon in the soft tissue of his lower left cheek. The bolt passed through that skin and yearned to flee the man’s body via the back of his neck, but there was simply too much flesh and blood in the way. The tip of the bolt did manage to appear under the man’s ear, a scant thumbnail’s length away from the rim of his gorget, but it stopped dead.
Christopher didn’t wait to see the man drop. He cocked his head to Neil, who was deadlocked over the decision of whether to advance or not; Christopher could see it on the barbarian’s face. Neil needed inspiration. Christopher cried, “You charge them now, Neil, or you are going to die!”
That, it appeared, was enough. Christopher’s words implanted a rage within Neil that began with a deep bellow. As his war cry grew, Neil gripped his halberd, one hand high, the other low, steadied the shaft, then directed its silvery-sharp, hooked blade forward as he turned and drove his beefy frame toward the Saxons.
Christopher was only a step behind the barbarian, for the both of them had to give Doyle a chance to fetch the spatha of the Saxon he had shot. As it was, Doyle could not windlass the crossbow. He could shoot wondrously-but only once.
Neil’s spatha connected with the breastplate of the heaviest of the Saxons, a bald invader with a silver loop dangling from one of his ears. The bald Saxon was driven back into the younger, hairier man behind him, and they both collided and dropped with a terrific KA-KA-KRASH! to the stone before they could unsheathe their weapons.
Doyle reached down toward the sheathed sword of the Saxon he had shot. He gripped the hilt and began to withdraw the blade-but the man’s hand snapped up and latched onto Doyle’s wrist. The cavalryman hadn’t died!
Christopher started forward to help his friend, but while Neil had temporarily downed two of the Saxons, there was still a third to contend with, and his blade flashed before Christopher’s eyes. Had he not peripherally caught sight of the sword coming at him, Christopher would already be dead. He took a wild step backward, and a cool wind blew across his face-the swipe of the attacking man.
As Christopher took three more steps back, adjusted the grip on his spatha, and breathed in deeply, he was able to scrutinize, if even for only a few seconds, his attacker. The Saxon was ancient, much too old to still be in service. What little hair he had left was thin, snowy, and wild, and the man’s own sweat did nothing to tame it. He had a complex ion of bark, and a neck that hung so loose that it seemed to pendulum as he shifted his head. But despite the decay he had remarkable speed, and a combination of thrusts that Christopher had never seen before-and had barely seen coming.
The old Saxon advanced, both veiny hands vised onto his spatha. He brought the blade across in a horizontal swipe.
Christopher squatted, and as the blade passed over his head he tumbled forward, came out of the roll, then brought his heels up into the Saxon’s groin. Though the wizened invader’s privates were partially protected by his tasset and a layer of mail, Christopher trusted that the angle and momentum of the blow would knock the man off his feet.
Grandfather knight went down as planned, and the resounding clatter of his armor on the stone made Christopher’s blow seem all the more effective. Christopher arched his back and snapped himself to a standing position, not an easy move; he was glad he hadn’t thought about it until after he was standing. Behind his fallen opponent, he saw Doyle engaged in a one-arm spatha fight with the young, hairy Saxon. Below the two swordsmen, the Saxon with the bolt in his cheek lay in a puddle of gore; several fresh stab wounds blemished his face and neck. There was no mistaking it this time: the Saxon was dead.
To his left, Christopher saw Neil parrying the strokes of the bald Saxon. Neil was, to put it mildly, in trouble. He was not able to tum his pole arm around and deliver a lethal thrust to the man. He was too busy defending himself. His defenses would wear thin and the man would finish him.
Though he knew it would give the old Saxon time enough to recover, Christopher decided to assist Neil. He leapt over the legs of his fallen combatant and rushed up behind the heavy Saxon battling Neil. He lifted his spatha high above his head, targeted the peeling, freckled skin on top of the Saxon’s bald head. He closed his eyes tightly, gritted his teeth, grimaced, and, with a slight exhalation, brought the blade down …
KLANG!
In the second that Christopher closed his eyes the Saxon had shifted his position. Upon hearing his blade connect with metal, Christopher flicked his eyelids open.
The fat Saxon pivoted to face him. He noticed that the silver loop that had dangled from the fat man’s earlobe was gone. Indeed, the entire earlobe and a smidgen more of the ear had been hacked away by Christopher. The Saxon brought one of his great arms up and touched the wound with his spoke-thick fingers. He withdrew his hand and inspected the blood on it with growing horror contorting his face.
Suddenly, the Saxon glared at Christopher, opened his mouth, and: “Arrrggghhh!” He wound up, arced his blade, then brought it across, into Christopher’s.
It was the kind of maneuver that should have cost Christopher his weapon and his life. But the reflexes of youth were on his side. Indeed, the blow did send the spatha out of Christopher’s hands, but it fell only a yard away. Christopher dropped to his hands and knees, fetched the blade, then rolled onto his posterior, able to parry.
The overblown Saxon collapsed forward before Christopher, his jaw cracking like a nut as it impacted on the same floor stone that supported Christopher’s foot. The sound of that jaw breaking seemed more immediate to Christopher than even the racket the man’s armor made as he smashed to a standstill.
The fat Saxon was down, hallelujah. But how? What had happened? Christopher spied blood drizzling from the pauldron that covered the Saxon’s right shoulder blade. The darkening vital fluid spattered upon his backplate. The ogre had been stabbed, or rather halberded. Neil had lifted the Saxon’s paul dron with the tip of his halberd and driven the blade into the crease between backplate and pauldron. The blade had more than likely pierced the man’s lung, which had in tum filled with blood.
Christopher’s gaze rose to Neil. The barbarian eyed the fallen Saxon with disdain. He gathered spit in his mouth then hurled it onto the invader’s back. “Bloody pig. And I thought I was heavy … “
“You fight well for a fat man with no courage,” Christopher teased, rising.
Before Neil could return a verbal jab of his own, Christopher turned toward the sound of a skirmish behind him-and was thankful he did.
While he had gone on to aid his friend, so had the old Saxon to help his. Both young Saxon and old were upon Doyle, whose single spatha arm shifted far too slowly to ward off the multiple, unrelenting blows that came his way. Like drooling, attacking wolves in winter, both Saxons made guttural howls as they tried to finish their prey.
At that twinkling, Christopher did not know if his heart stopped-but something happened to it. Perhaps it had taken control over his body. He bolted toward his imperiled friend, fueled by something he felt only rarely and had never been able to reflect upon, for he could never remember the feeling once it felt him. It was a feeling of the present. It existed only in the rarest of moments, where life hung by precious threads-and it was up to him to save those threads and pull that life in, back home. He was reminded of the tournament, not that many moons ago, when he had fought Mallory. He had had to save Marigween and the others from Mallory’s cruel blade. Now, leaping toward Doyle’s attackers, barely feeling his sandals touch the stone, he felt that pres ence, that power, all over again. There were others times he had felt it, but not like this. His mind, nearly shut down by his heart, relayed to him a single mes sage: If I do not intervene-my friend will die.
What was that sound that escaped his lips? A cry so loud and so deep that he barely recognized it as his own. Was it anger? Rage? He didn’t kno
w. It just came. The young Saxon responded to the sound and turned away from Doyle, just as Doyle circled his blade around the Saxon’s to draw it away.
The joints in Christopher’s arms felt well greased as he, with his right hand clutching the spatha’s hilt, his left steadying its balled end, lashed out at the hungry wolf. His blade met the Saxon’s once, twice, a third time, his strokes high, low, horizontal, vertical, then horizontal again. By his fourth blow, a down ward slash right, high from his left shoulder, Christopher felt the strength leave the young man’s arm. So hard was the blow that it sent the Saxon’s blade skittering halfway down the corridor.
Christopher glimpsed-only for a fraction of a sec ond-into the man’s doomed eyes. He felt instant sorrow. He could not kill.
You’re making a mistake! Kill him!
No! Why should I have to? I didn’t want to burn that bowman but I did! Why do I have to go on killing? This man is defeated. Let him admit that and run away!
Christopher swung his blade around and thrust the tip toward the Saxon’s throat, carefully judging the distance so as not to pierce the man.
Neil and Doyle engaged the old Saxon behind him, and though Christopher was aware of the sounds, they seemed a world apart from the moment. In Saxon, he addressed the cavalryman:
“You do not need to lose your life in a castle in a foreign land. Do you?”
“That is for Woden to decide!” the man spat back.
Christopher didn’t see from where the Saxon had pulled the dagger, but suddenly it was there, in his gauntleted hand, and it came up and knocked his blade away from the man’s neck. And continuing with that movement, the Saxon stepped toward Christopher, whirling the dagger once in front of the armor fauld plating his stomach.
In his effort to escape the Saxon’s knife, Christopher stepped back-
-and found himself pinned against the corridor wall. He twirled right, and when he came around to face the Saxon once more, the man was upon him.