He was searching for Dimon, but there was no sign of the treacherous guard commander.
* * *
• • •
On the sixth floor, Cassandra felt the vibrations running through the building and heard the loud rumble of the descending drawbridge.
“Come on!” she shouted to her men and led the way down the stairs.
They had reached the fifth level when they heard the sound of running footsteps on the stairs below them. Moments later, a small group of escaping Red Foxes, who had retreated into the ground level of the south tower to save themselves from the deadly swords and lances of the cavalry, pounded into view.
As before, Cassandra had placed three of her troopers in the lead. They stepped forward now and engaged the panicked former defenders. She drew her katana, in case one of the men made it past her troopers, and called back to her father.
“Stay well back, Dad.”
But her caution was unnecessary. In less than a minute, after a short, bitter engagement, the three Red Fox soldiers were lying wounded and bleeding on the stairs.
“Pick up their weapons,” she ordered. “We’ll take them prisoner later.”
She gestured for the troopers to continue down the stairs. They moved slowly, ready for any further interruptions. But there were none and they reached the fourth level without incident. Her men stood back to let her through to the front. Cassandra shoved the door open and peered out onto the bridge that led to the keep—where Maikeru had given his life for her. She felt a quick stab of sadness as she thought of the faithful Nihon-Jan swordmaster, then led the way out onto the bridge.
“I’ll avenge you, Maikeru, never fear,” she muttered to herself. With her katana in hand, she moved across the arched bridge. Her men followed, weapons ready, senses tingling with anticipation.
They reached the door that led into the fourth-floor level of the keep. Only a few old bloodstains remained to show the spot where Maikeru had fallen to Dimon’s cowardly attack, when the rebel leader had ordered two crossbowmen to shoot Maikeru down as the swordmaster defied them.
Cassandra felt a hand on her shoulder as she moved toward the door. She looked back and saw Thomas close behind her.
“Let someone else go first, my lady,” he said.
She nodded, seeing the sense of his suggestion. She had no shield, no armor, just her sword. It would be all too easy for an attacker waiting in ambush to kill her.
She stepped aside and beckoned the same three troopers forward. One of them, taller and broader than the others, took the lead. He had his shield up ready and he set his lance to one side, handing it to one of his companions. Then he drew his sword. Cassandra nodded approval. The shorter weapon would be more effective in the confines of the doorway.
The trooper paused at the closed door, leaning forward and turning his head slightly to listen. Hearing nothing, he gestured to one of his companions to come forward, nodding at the iron loop that formed the door handle. His comrade reached down and carefully turned the handle, raising the latch on the inside of the door. He looked at the swordsman, who nodded again. Then he flung the door open and leapt aside as his companion went through, sword ready, shield raised, turning in a quick half circle to make sure the way was clear.
He relaxed, rising from the crouch he had fallen into as he went through the door, lowering the point of his sword to the floor.
“All clear, my lady,” he said, then stepped back out onto the bridge in order to let Cassandra lead the way.
36
Maddie shoved her way through the Skandians who were bunched in the gatehouse doorway and emerged onto the battlements’ walkway.
Hal and Ingvar were dealing with their opponents as she stepped clear of the gatehouse. She had her bow ready now and an arrow on the string. She leaned to see past the struggling knot of men in front of her and saw a familiar figure at the far end of the wall.
Dimon was heading for the door into the east tower.
“There he goes!” she yelled, and stepped past the fighting men for a clear shot at him. But she was a fraction of a second too late, and her arrow thudded into the timber door as Dimon slammed it behind him. She started running along the walkway toward the tower, nocking another arrow as she went. Behind her, she heard Hal calling for her to wait but she ignored him. She saw Dimon’s head and shoulders appear above the parapet of the humpbacked stone bridge and loosed another shot. But she rushed her aim, and the arrow skittered off the parapet half a meter behind him. She cursed herself. Will would have berated her for such a hasty, clumsy attempt. She ran faster. If she could reach the east tower before Dimon made it to the keep, she’d have a clear, unimpeded shot at him.
She threw herself at the door handle and turned it, shoving the heavy door. But it refused to budge. For some years, it had been warped by time and weather, and the castle staff had grown accustomed to leaving it ajar. But Dimon had slammed it with all his strength and the twisted timbers now jammed tight. She threw her shoulder at the door, feeling a sudden, jarring pain as she struck it. But she also felt it give a few centimeters, so she redoubled her efforts. At the fifth assault, the door flew open, sending her staggering into the tower anteroom. The second door, leading to the bridge, had been kept in better condition and it opened easily as she turned the handle and pulled it inward, wincing as her bruised shoulder took the strain.
She darted out onto the bridge, in time to see Dimon disappearing over the raised section in the center of the span. She brought up her bow but she was too late. A few seconds later, she heard the door into the keep slam open and shut as he went through it.
She ran, knowing that if she didn’t keep him in sight once he reached the keep she might lose him altogether. There were too many options open to him: the stairs leading up and down, or the three other doors onto the bridges leading to the south, north and west towers. Once he reached any one of the towers, he could go up or down. It was vital that she didn’t lose him.
She pounded across the bridge, her quiver slapping her thigh as it jolted up and down with her movements.
She reached the door and was about to plunge through it when her tactical training cut in. It would be all too easy for Dimon to simply wait beside the closed door for her to blunder through, and then cut her down from behind. She stopped a few meters short of the door, letting her breathing settle. She still felt the same urgency to regain sight of the Red Fox leader, but she knew she had to go carefully and the frustration built in her. She waited a few seconds, listening at the door for any slight sound on the other side. Then, she twisted the door handle and kicked at the door so that it slammed back on its hinges. Anyone waiting there would have been smashed by the heavy timbers.
But there was nobody behind it. The door rebounded violently from the stone walls and would have slammed shut again if she hadn’t raised her foot and placed it against the door, stopping its violent movement. She nocked an arrow and moved forward.
* * *
• • •
Dimon charged into the big open hall that formed the fourth floor of the keep and paused, unsure of which way to go. He had a vague idea of heading for the south tower and going down the stairs. Reason told him that if Cassandra descended from the upper floors, she would cross the bridge to the keep. If he could reach the south tower before she appeared, he could go down to a lower level and elude her. From there, he could make his way through the maze of corridors and rooms and stairways and possibly find a way out of the castle. There were drains and waste pipes leading to the moat, he knew. If he could find one, he could possibly get away.
Of course, he had just as good a chance of finding a way out in the north or west towers. But the idea of getting behind Cassandra appealed to him. She would be unlikely to look back the way she had come, and that might give him extra time to make his escape. So he started for the south bridge, his sword in his hand and his triangular
shield on his left arm.
* * *
• • •
Horace dragged back on Stamper’s reins, bringing the big horse to a stiff-kneed, sliding stop on the cobbles. He was outside the ground-floor door to the keep. Two Red Fox soldiers had just entered and were hurrying to bar the door against him. He went up the steps at a run and slammed a flat-footed kick into the door. He heard cries of alarm and the crash of falling bodies as he did so. The door flew open and he saw the two soldiers rolling on the floor, desperately seeking to regain their feet.
One of them came up and then immediately went down again as Horace’s sword flickered forward like a serpent striking. The other wisely remained on the floor, rolling away from the terrifying sight of the Kingdom’s champion knight, his sword blade red with blood. He clasped his hands over his head in a useless protective gesture, shoulder blades twitching expectantly as he waited for the sword to strike him. But Horace was already past him and running for the wide stairway that led to the upper floors, taking the risers two at a time without slackening his pace.
Dimon was up there somewhere, he knew. Horace had seen the traitor crossing the bridge as he had fought his way through the defenders in the courtyard. And he had seen Maddie racing after him. He felt a cold fear as he thought of his daughter facing the treacherous Red Fox leader. Dimon was an expert fighter, he knew, and he had no real idea of Maddie’s skill level. She was a Ranger, and that should be enough. But she was also his daughter and that fact put fear in his heart as he thought of her facing Dimon in single combat.
He went up one flight, then two, barely breaking stride. He knew Dimon would have reached the fourth floor when he crossed the bridge, and he continued up the third flight of stairs without pause. At the fourth, he slowed a little. Like Maddie, he knew that too much haste now could well leave him open to ambush as he reached the top of the fourth flight. He slowed his pace, his sword ready in front of him, his buckler high and covering his left side.
* * *
• • •
Dimon was halfway to the south doorway when it opened, and Cassandra stepped into the hall, her katana gleaming in her hand. At almost the same moment, he heard the eastern door slam open and turned to see Maddie advancing through it, a bow in her hand, arrow nocked on the string.
“Stop right there, Dimon,” Maddie called. He was surprised to hear that her young voice was surprisingly confident and firm.
Maddie was an excellent shot with a bow, but an even better one with her sling. However, she had elected to use the bow as it was a more threatening weapon. Most people looked at a sling and saw only a relatively harmless-looking loop of leather thongs. The fact that it could hurl a lead shot so that it smashed through armor and bone wasn’t obviously apparent.
A bow, with a barbed warhead set on the arrow, was a different matter.
Except in this case. Dimon had a totally mistaken opinion of Maddie’s skill with a bow, born of her keeping that ability a secret when she’d returned to Castle Araluen. He laughed scornfully.
“Playing with grown-up weapons, Maddie?” he said. “You forget, I’ve seen you shoot.”
“Stay out of this, Maddie!” her mother called. “He’s mine.”
“You can have him, Mum. I just want to even things up,” she said. Then she spoke to Dimon again. “Your shield. Left and right upper corners.”
He frowned, not understanding. “What about—” he began, but suddenly felt two slamming impacts against his left side as Maddie shot twice. His mouth dried with fear. She had moved so quickly that he had barely seen her release the first arrow, then draw a second, nock it and shoot again. Now he looked down and saw two arrows embedded through the left and right upper corners of his triangular shield, just as she had predicted. On the left-hand side, the armor-piercing bodkin point had punched through the leather and wood of the shield and protruded ten centimeters on the other side.
He appraised her with a new level of understanding, taking in the cowled, camouflaged cloak and the wool-and-leather leggings and jerkin. She was dressed and equipped as a Ranger, he realized. And she had just shown a Ranger’s skill with a bow, hitting his shield twice in such quick succession. He had underestimated the princess from the start, he realized. And now he knew instinctively that she had been the major cause of his failure.
“Let’s make this a more even match,” she said. “Get rid of that shield.”
He hesitated. From behind him, he heard Cassandra’s angry voice.
“Stay out of this, Maddie. I can manage him with his shield.”
“I’m sure you can, Mum. But you’ll manage him much more easily without it.” Her eyes came back to Dimon and they were cold and hard. “Now get rid of that shield,” she said once more, the arrow making a commanding gesture.
Seeing his hesitation, she called again. “If you don’t, I’ll put the next arrow through your knee. That should cramp your fighting style.”
He flinched at the thought of one of those heavy, armor-piercing arrows tearing through his knee, cutting tendons, smashing bone and ligaments. From their many practice bouts, he knew only too well that Cassandra was an agile and fast opponent. The thought of fighting her with one leg disabled sent a shudder up his back. He’d be lucky to last thirty seconds in such a bout. He released the hand grip on the shield and shrugged his arm out of the retaining straps, letting it fall to the floor with a loud clatter.
“Do you swear you’ll let me go free if I win?” he asked Maddie.
She gave him a totally humorless smile. “No. I swear I’ll shoot you down.”
Before he could answer, Cassandra chipped in. “But at least you’ll have the satisfaction of killing me first,” she said.
He turned back to her, meeting her steady gaze. That was true, he thought. And with everything lost in his attempt to seize the throne, he might as well have that one final satisfaction. He turned to face her, whirling the sword in a series of fast circles to get the feel of its balance and loosen his wrist.
A new voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Hold it right there, Dimon!”
Horace was emerging from the staircase, fully armored in chain mail and helmet, his round buckler, emblazoned with his oakleaf symbol, on his left arm. Horace’s hair might be showing streaks of gray, but he still moved with an athlete’s grace and agility. That, combined with his size and obvious power, made him a truly daunting figure. He reached the top of the stairs and moved toward the Red Fox leader. Dimon had frozen in place, faced by three very real threats.
“That’s far enough, Horace!” Cassandra called to him, the authority clear in her voice. “This is my fight. Stay out of it.”
“I’m your champion,” Horace pointed out. He had been appointed Cassandra’s official champion when they married. As such, he could fight in her stead if she were ever challenged to combat.
“Not this time,” Cassandra said, her voice tight.
“She’s right, Dad,” Maddie told him. “This is her fight.” Then, in a lower voice, she added, “But if he even looks like hurting her, I’ll kill him.”
He hesitated, unhappy with the situation. Seeing him weaken, Cassandra spoke again. “I mean it, Horace. Stay out of this.”
“Yes. You can fight me after I kill your wife,” Dimon said sarcastically.
Horace started forward, but a gesture from Cassandra stopped him. She was a born princess and she was used to commanding—and being obeyed. The door behind her opened and three of her men moved into the room, followed by her father, limping and leaning on his sword. He had heard the exchange from outside on the bridge.
“Cassandra’s right, Horace,” Duncan said. “If she’s going to rule this Kingdom, she should be the one who ends this rebellion—and this rebel.”
“You’re assuming, of course, that I won’t kill her,” Dimon sneered.
Duncan eyed him impassivel
y. “She shouldn’t have any trouble with scum like you,” he said calmly. He leaned back against the door with a sigh as he took some of the weight off his injured leg. He was confident in his daughter’s ability to deal with the traitor—and equally confident that, if she looked like she was losing, his granddaughter would settle the matter for her. She was a protégée of Will and Halt, after all, and he knew they were pragmatists who held no false ideas about giving an enemy a fair chance—particularly one as evil as this.
Dimon looked back at Cassandra, standing in her ready position, the katana held forward in her two-handed grip. Her face was pale and set in a determined expression. She looked ready to meet him. Again he swung the sword in a few preparatory circles.
“You’re going to die,” Dimon said softly, beginning to shuffle forward.
Cassandra stood her ground.
“Yes,” she replied. “But not today.”
37
Cassandra and Dimon moved in slow circles around each other, swords ready. From time to time, one or the other would feint an attack to try to draw some reaction, and a possible mistake, from the other. But so far, neither one of them had committed to a real assault. The sword tips moved in small circles as the two fighters kept their wrists and arms fluid and loose. Tight muscles meant slow reactions—and slow reactions could mean death.
Then, without warning, Dimon launched himself forward in an attack, his left leg leading in a long stride, the foot stamping down as he completed the move. His sword swung down twice. Either blow would have split Cassandra from shoulder to waist, but she avoided them easily, swaying first left, then right, to let his blade slam down onto the floor of the keep. Then Dimon launched his third blow. Where an opponent might have expected him to withdraw after the second vertical slash, he brought the sword up and across in a backhanded slash.
Duel at Araluen Page 25