From that high vantage point I estimated their number. There were indeed well over a hundred, led by the kretch and the dark mage. They halted about two hundred yards short of the moat, and the kretch came forward alone. Once directly below us, it rose up on its hind legs, drew a blade, and called out a challenge in its booming voice.
My heart sank. The challenge was not aimed at me, but at the knight.
“Sir Gilbert Martin, I hail thee! You are the slayer of the great worme and famed throughout this land for what you have achieved. I wish to pit myself in personal combat against one of such renown. Defeat me, and those with me will disperse and trouble you no more.”
“If I lose the fight, what then?” the knight called down. “I would know the terms of combat.”
“Defeat will cost you your life, and the siege will continue. That is all. Do you accept my challenge?”
“I accept, and will fight you in single combat before these walls. Do you agree? Do I have your word?”
“You have my word. We will fight at the water’s edge, where you defeated the great worme. Your followers must remain within the castle walls. My people will retreat far beyond the river.”
“It is agreed!” Sir Gilbert replied.
With that, the kretch bowed its head slightly, showed its teeth in a wicked grin, and turned to lope back toward the river.
I almost called down my own challenge to the kretch, but the knight had given his word; I could not intervene. However, I did make an attempt to dissuade him.
“It’s a trick!” I warned. “Such a creature does not think like you. Neither do its companions. They are the servants of the Fiend—the Father of Lies. They have no idea of honor. Go down there alone and you will die! They want the head of the Fiend and have no intention of dispersing until it is in their possession.”
“That may be so,” Sir Gilbert said, turning to face me. “But as a knight, I am not at liberty to refuse a challenge to single combat. It is the code by which I live. And even if that creature does intend to deceive me, all is not lost. When I leave, close the main gate, but do not lock it. Leave the drawbridge down too. At the first sign of treachery, come to my aid. There is little difference in this from what we intended.”
“I cannot agree,” I warned. “We would have left this place as a compact unit and protected your flanks and rear as you attacked the kretch. Now you will fight alone and at some distance from us. If there is treachery, we may not be able to come to your aid in time.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment of what I had said, but he remained resolute, and without another word went down to await the opening of the gate and the lowering of the drawbridge.
When this was done, Sir Gilbert clasped hands with his son in a brief farewell. Will looked very proud of his father, but his bottom lip was trembling with emotion, and I knew that he feared for him. The knight lowered the visor on his helmet and strode toward the river. The door was closed after him but not locked. The archers and men-at-arms waited behind it, weapons at the ready. But I led Thorne back up onto the battlements, where we would get a better view of the fight.
Sir Gilbert was approaching the river ford, and I could see the kretch waiting on the far bank. Of the mage and witches there was no sign, but a wall of thick mist had appeared about a hundred yards away, covering both banks of the river. No doubt it had been conjured by magic. They could easily be hiding within it—much closer to the combatants than we were. I sniffed and immediately sensed danger. It was a trap—I was certain of it. But what could I do? I had warned the knight, but he had not heeded my words.
No sooner had he left the muddy bank and entered the shallow water of the ford than the kretch loped toward him, running on four legs like a giant wolf, sending up a curtain of water. Sir Gilbert had not anticipated its speed, and he drew his sword too late. The huge beast clamped its jaws upon his right, sword arm and bit hard. Even at that distance I heard the knight cry out in pain.
And what of the kretch? There were spikes on the metal plates that enclosed Sir Gilbert’s arm. Now they must surely be cutting into the creature’s jaws. It had gradually been changing and growing more powerful. Was it now impervious to pain? Or able to overcome it and exert its will despite the agony it must be feeling? That made it very dangerous indeed. Only death would stop it.
With a great effort, the knight tore his arm free. As he did so, blood dripped from the open jaws of the beast, staining the water. There was blood on the armor too—but was it Sir Gilbert’s blood or the beast’s?
Even from this distance I could see that the metal covering the knight’s arms was dented, and he struggled to lift the sword as the kretch attacked again. The creature seemed even larger, and it reared up to tower over him. It was growing more powerful with each day that passed.
Although hurt, Sir Gilbert was brave and did not flinch but stood his ground, transferring the sword to his other hand. The weapon was heavy and should really have been wielded with both hands. Nevertheless, with his left hand—no doubt the weaker of the two—he thrust the point into the creature’s belly. This time it did feel pain and let out a shrill scream, immediately followed by a bellow of anger.
The scream made me feel a lot better. The kretch could be hurt. Yes, I wanted the knight to put an end to it, but really I longed to slay it myself. It was a long time since I’d wanted to hurt and kill something so much. And yet I could not venture forth while the knight was still standing his ground. He was a brave man, and I would not deny him his chance of victory.
Knight and kretch came together hard; locked in battle, they fell into the shallow water and rolled over and over until they reached the far bank, where they continued to struggle in the mud. This was exactly what Sir Gilbert wanted: Now the beast was being impaled on the spikes, hopefully to suffer the same fate as the worme. But as they thrashed about, it seemed to me that he was losing the struggle.
The knight was trying to use his sword against the kretch, but he was too close to it, and his blows were ineffectual against the creature’s armored back. Sir Gilbert was no longer a young man. His stamina would be failing. Nor would the spikes on his armor be as effective against this beast as they had been against the worme. And now, to my dismay, I saw the jaws of the kretch close about the knight’s head and bite down hard, and I heard the armor crumple. Its jaws were powerful and able to exert great leverage; now its teeth were penetrating his skull. I heard groans of dismay from the knight’s men and knew that Will would be watching his father’s plight in anguish.
It was then that what I had both feared and expected happened. The witches, led by Bowker, surged out of the mist and, whooping and shrieking, ran toward the riverbank, where the combatants still struggled. Most carried knives. As before, the three at the front were armed with blades lashed to the end of long poles so that they could stab and cut from a distance. The knight was facing the same fate that had befallen the lamia; the difference here was that a determined and sizable force was able to intervene. All was not lost.
A guard called down a warning to those below, and I heard the rumble of the gate as it was opened.
“Stay close to me and don’t attempt anything reckless!” I warned Thorne.
By the time we reached the gate, it was open and the knight’s men were already charging toward the river. Will was standing by the gate with two other men, gazing forlornly out at the battle. As the only heir to the castle and lands, he would have been forbidden to join the fight.
We closed with them quickly, but I gestured to Thorne that we should hang back. Once the two groups came together, we would be able to judge how and where to fight most effectively.
I looked ahead and saw that more witches had run out of the mist on our side of the river and were racing to intercept us, brandishing their weapons. Those on the far bank had engulfed the knight and the kretch—doubtless they were attempting to put an end to him as the beast held his head in its jaws, replicating what had been done to Wynde. Twice I had been
powerless to prevent a death, but there might still be time to help Sir Gilbert. They would have to remove his armor to kill him. That would take time, allowing us to rescue him.
The knight’s men came to a sudden halt. For a moment I thought they were about to turn and flee; the approaching hordes were a fearsome sight and outnumbered us many times over. But ours was truly a well-disciplined force, and I heard a voice call out an order:
“Fire!”
The eight archers bent their bows and released their arrows, which sped unerringly toward their targets. Each arrow struck a witch. I saw at least three fall and another two stagger and spin. And already the archers had nocked fresh arrows from the quivers on their shoulders and were bending their bows again.
The order to fire came again, and with a whoosh another fusillade of arrows hit our enemies to even more deadly effect. They were almost upon us now, less than thirty yards away, but a third volley of arrows broke up their attack, and the witches scattered.
However, they did not flee but began to encircle us, thinning out so as to present a more difficult target. The opening volleys had been fired simultaneously, but now the order was changed to:
“Fire at will!”
At this, each archer began to choose his own target—a less effective tactic because the witches were already using dark magic against us. They were chanting spells in the Old Tongue, and foremost among these was dread. Its power was wasted on me and Thorne, for we had defenses against such things, but to the archers and men-at-arms, their enemies would now appear in hideous shapes, their faces twisting into demonic caricatures, their mud-caked hair resembling writhing nests of poisonous snakes.
The spell was already working only too well. I saw the eyes of the nearest bowman widen with fear and his bow tremble violently, so that he released his arrow harmlessly into the ground. I had to act quickly, or all would be lost. Now I must use all my strength and carry the fight to the enemy. The kretch and the mage must die!
CHAPTER XVI
MUST WE RUN FOREVER?
With a sharp blade in her hand,
a witch assassin dies fighting her enemies.
Why should it be any different for me?
FINGERING my bone necklace, I used the spell which in the Latin tongue is called imperium, but is known as sway by the Mouldheel clan, who always like to do things differently. It is partly an exertion of the will, and it is important to pitch the command with a certain inflection of the voice. But if it is done properly, others will obey instantly.
There was fear and chaos all around me, and that helped. My voice cut through the uncertainty, and I directed it at those nearest to me: three archers, two soldiers, and Thorne.
“Follow me!” I commanded, pitching my voice perfectly.
They turned as one and locked eyes with me. Only Thorne showed resistance, but she would obey me without the magic. The others were alert, responsive, and utterly compliant.
Then I began to run toward the river, where the knight still struggled with the kretch on the far bank. The others followed close on my heels, but as I reached the first of the witches who encircled us, Thorne moved up to my right side. We fought together as one entity with a single purpose, four legs and four arms directed by a single mind. A blade was in my left hand, and I swung it in a short, lethal arc—and the nearest of my enemies perished. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thorne dispatch another of the witches.
We were a lethal force and broke through the thin circle with ease. But when we crossed the ford, there were at least nine witches clustered about the place of combat, stabbing downward at the knight. Lisa Dugdale was leaning on her pole, attempting to push the blade into the join between helmet and neck, always a weakness in such armor. But there was mail beneath, and Sir Gilbert was doubly protected. However, the greatest threat to his life came from the kretch, which still had his head in its jaws; the metal of his helmet had crumpled inward. Sir Gilbert was groaning with pain and still struggling to be free. His sword had fallen from his grasp, but he was punching the head of the kretch repeatedly with his mailed fist.
I knew we had to act quickly because the witches behind us would regroup and we’d be cut off from the castle.
“Use your bows!” I commanded, and the three archers obeyed instantly, firing three arrows into the throng. One embedded itself in the nearest witch, hurling her backward into the mud. After a second volley, the kretch shook the body of the knight, like a dog with a rat, before releasing its prey and bounding directly toward us. I met its eyes and saw that I was still the primary target.
I selected a throwing knife and hurled it straight at the beast. It embedded itself up to the hilt in the creature’s right eye. Two arrows also found their target. One skidded harmlessly off its shoulder, but the second went straight into its open mouth and pierced its throat. It was Thorne who put things beyond doubt. She threw her blade with great accuracy to take the creature in the left eye. Now it was blind.
It swerved away from us and bounded toward the trees, yelping like a whipped dog. Seconds later we reached Sir Gilbert, and the two soldiers lifted him out of the mud and began to carry him. There was no time to check on his condition, but it didn’t look good. Blood was leaking out of the crumpled helmet. We headed back across the river and joined up with those of our party who’d survived the battle. The sergeant gave an order, and the men-at-arms formed a small, tight defensive square about the archers and the soldiers carrying the wounded knight. But Thorne and I fought outside that square as we made a slow retreat back toward the castle gate.
Of the mage there was no sign, and this, added to the flight of the kretch, seemed to have disheartened our foes. Although they still outnumbered us many times over, few engaged us directly, and those who did died either at my hands or at Thorne’s, while those who followed sullenly at a distance were picked off by the four archers who had survived the battle.
At last we made it into the castle; the portcullis was closed behind us and the drawbridge lowered. We had lost perhaps a third of our force, and of the survivors, many had suffered wounds.
Nevertheless our first priority was the welfare of Sir Gilbert, who was carried into the great hall and carefully laid upon a table, where his attendants began to remove his spiked armor. Will watched in anguish as his father moaned in pain; blood continued to leak copiously from the battered helmet. His arm was badly mangled too, and removing the chain-mail sleeve proved too difficult.
Leaving him dressed in his mail undergarment, they next tried to remove his helmet, but he cried out in agony. I held up my hand to warn them to stop and pushed my way through to inspect him more closely. Then I shook my head.
“The helmet cannot be removed,” I told them. “He is dying. All you can do is give him something for the pain.”
The jaws of the kretch had embedded the metal deep in the knight’s skull. There would be pressure on the brain, and it would swell and kill him. I estimated that he would be dead within a few hours at most.
“No! No! It cannot be so!” cried the son, starting to weep.
Thorne walked across and put her arm on his shoulder to comfort him, but he brushed her off angrily, glaring at her with hate-filled eyes. She stepped back, surprise and pain twisting her face.
I came forward, put my own arm on his shoulder, and spoke to him in a kind voice. “Your father was a brave man, Will, and his deeds will always be remembered. You must be strong. Eventually you will rule here.”
The boy pulled away from me, and I could see anger surge in his face again. “I wish I had never brought you here!” he cried. “You have caused my father’s death!”
“I wish it had not happened,” I told him gently. “But we cannot change the past.”
I turned and beckoned Thorne, and we left the hall to return to our rooms. In the corridor outside we met the priest, escorted by two soldiers. No doubt he had been summoned to pray for Sir Gilbert. He gave me a look of utter hatred as he passed, but I hardly glanced at him.
Back in our room, I explained the new situation to Thorne.
“We are in danger,” I warned her, “and may soon have to fight for our lives against those who just moments ago were our allies.”
“Will seemed very angry. I thought we were friends,” she said bitterly. “Do you think he’ll turn against us?”
“It matters little what he would like to do, Thorne. He is a minor, and thus too young to assume his father’s role yet. Don’t you remember what Sir Gilbert said? On his death, the priest will become the boy’s guardian until he comes of age. That guardian will rule this castle. So it is time to make our escape, lest this refuge becomes a prison that we leave only by dying.
“And there is another reason to leave now,” I continued. “The kretch has been blinded. I believe that it will heal itself, but that will take time. So we should go now and put some distance between us.”
“But where can we go?” asked Thorne; she seemed close to despair. “Must we run forever? Will was the first boy I’ve ever liked. It seems hard to part in anger. Perhaps I should try to speak to him when he’s calmed down a little.”
“You would be wasting your time, Thorne. It is not safe for either of us to remain here a moment longer. And once safely beyond this castle, we should split up,” I suggested. “Our enemies are too numerous, and they will never give up. Eventually they will catch me and kill me. But why should you die too? The clan will need a good assassin to replace me. You are the one, child.”
Thorne shook her head. “No, I won’t leave you. If you die, I’ll become the custodian of the head. Isn’t that what you hoped?”
I nodded, realizing that she had made up her mind. I prepared to retrieve the leather sack, but immediately I sensed danger. The warning came a moment too late. The door opened and four archers, bows at the ready, stepped inside. Behind them were another four men-at-arms and the priest, Father Hewitt.
“Lay down your weapons or die here!” he commanded.
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