by Paul Finch
“What’s that?” Again Rufio seemed distracted, and then he became wildly angry. “Good Christ, woman!” He stormed from the room. “Very shortly I may die for you!”
Thirty-Four
“WE PROCEED,” LUCAN said, after they’d stood for several minutes on the wind-blasted ridge, perched above the abyss where their friends had disappeared.
“We should at least stay and say a prayer for them,” Alaric protested.
“Why? Will it bring them back?”
“My lord, there are only two of us left... and one prisoner who is badly wounded.”
The deep lacerations across the back of Maximion’s neck and skull still wept bloody tears. As they’d used up all their medicinal supplies, there’d been little Alaric could do to patch them adequately. Despite this, Maximion glared at the lad, eyes fierce in his grizzled face. “Don’t cry on my account, little paladin. I’ve been wounded many times. There’s nothing your dark lord or his enemies can throw at me that I can’t recover from.”
“There you have it,” Lucan said. “We proceed.”
But they didn’t proceed much farther that day. As they were now almost out of food and water, the spare horses were cut loose and left behind, along with the archery machine. But still the narrow track was difficult; they only just made it off the ridge-way before darkness fell, at which point they were confronted by a narrow cleft, which meandered through towering crags. According to Maximion, this cleft was miles long, but it led directly to Castello Malconi. As night was now falling, Lucan opted to camp, which they did on a ledge beneath an overhang, on the edge of a terrifying precipice. There was nothing on which to tether the horses, so they needed to take it in turns, one man sleeping while the other stood watch. Maximion, for his part, was simply happy to lie on bare rock and fall into a deep, exhausted slumber.
With no fuel to make a fire, and the temperature dropping below freezing, all Lucan and Alaric could do was pull up their coifs, put on their helms and huddle inside their cloaks. The overhang would have provided shelter against rain, though none came – instead, there was mist: thick and probing, filled with twisting eddies which looked like incorporeal forms standing far over the gulf, mocking and beckoning to them. They heard screams from high places: perhaps the wind shrilling through nooks, perhaps something more ominous. If the Stymphalianus was still alive, they would be easy meat for it. All kinds of horrors plucked at their minds during those long, torturous hours.
At first light, Maximion was surprised to be woken, not by Lucan, but by Alaric – very haggard and sallow-faced. He put a finger to his lips and gestured for the prisoner to leave the shelter of the overhang and move into the cleft, where the horses were now waiting. Maximion rose stiffly, cramped with hunger and fatigue, and a deep chill which set his joints aching. As he went, he saw that Lucan still slept in his bed-roll.
“You should leave now,” Alaric said, once they were out of earshot of the camp. “Before Earl Lucan wakes.” He had already re-saddled Maximion’s horse, and offered him the reins. “You’ve discharged your duty.”
“And that’s it?” Maximion said dully. “After everything that’s happened, you point your finger and say all is now well, I can go?”
“Short of summoning a Persian carpet, I’m not sure what else I can do for you.”
“It’s hundreds of miles back to civilisation. I have no weapons, no supplies and only the clothes I’m standing in.”
“If you say here, Earl Lucan will kill you.”
“And you, who have been so insolent with him?”
Alaric adopted a philosophical air. “I will die when we try to take Castello Malconi. Probably alongside my lord, which will be the best outcome possible.”
“You think he came all this way to die, young knight?”
“Either way, it makes no sense you waiting here to find out.” There was a distant rumble of approaching thunder. “If you go now, you can be down past that exposed ridge before the storm breaks.”
Maximion saw no sense in arguing further. With the lad’s help he swung up into the saddle, turned the animal around and set it walking. Alaric watched as the mounted figure, still wrapped in his bloodstained cloak, headed off along the ridge-way road.
When Lucan woke, Alaric had prepared breakfast. A few strips of salt bacon from their last knapsack, berries and nuts that he’d gathered en route, and a salad of bitter greens collected from chinks in the rock; it was barely sufficient for two men, but was better than nothing. He’d also located a fissure from which a natural spring flowed, so at least he’d been able to refill their water-skins.
Lucan grunted his thanks as he sat and ate.
“The meat is cold,” Alaric said, “but I didn’t want to risk a fire.”
“They already know we’re here,” Lucan replied. “They may even be wondering where our friend Maximion has gone.”
“I released him. With your best wishes.”
“Indeed?”
“His job is done, my lord. You said he had no role to play when we arrived here.”
“I gave no order for his release.”
Alaric scraped his plate. “I know. You would have released him into the afterlife, and I can’t allow that.”
“This is the second time you have defied me in almost as many days, Alaric.”
The lad glanced up. “I fear it won’t be the last. If we manage to enter Castello Malconi, I will prevent your anger falling on Countess Trelawna. Even if it costs my life.”
“How noble that would be.” Lucan eyed the lad, briefly intrigued, and slowly a light of understanding dawned in his eyes. “Or would it? What exactly do I see here? A stranger... who was never content with the bangtails and doxies, because he was too busy stropping his goskin over the chatelaine of his house? Is that the truth?”
Alaric didn’t flinch from the metal-grey gaze. “It’s cruder than I would have put it.”
“So you’re another who’s in love with my wife?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Surprised?” Lucan stood up and adjusted the saddle on Nightshade’s back. “Every man who meets her loves her. I’ve borne that curse since the day I took her to the altar. But you’ve been wasting your energy, lad – as this episode surely proves. When Trelawna chooses a man, all the others can die and rot in their own filth.”
“That’s no excuse to kill her.”
Lucan regarded him with icy amusement. “You tragic young fool. You came all this way... and for what? An impossible love. Oh, they’ll write ballads and chansons about you, Alaric. The boy who wanted to be a suitor but settled for being a traitor.”
“I never betrayed you.”
Lucan mounted up. “It hardly matters. At least I understand your surliness these last few days. It’s to your credit that you made no attempt to sabotage this mission. My reward is to let you leave this place on your own two feet, with two eyes in your head, a tongue in your mouth, a hairless cock between your legs and your little heart still pumping in your sunken chest. Now hurry along; you might still catch up with your friend the Roman.”
Alaric clambered onto his own horse. Lucan was already headed along the canyon road. Alaric rode to catch up. “I’ve sworn that I will prevent you harming Countess Trelawna. And I will.”
“Words are easy, lad. Deeds are not.”
They followed the narrow route for an hour, saying naught to each other. Alaric scanned the high parapets nervously, but no voice called down. The only sounds were the clumping of their hooves, the jingle of harness and the ever-closer rumbling of thunder. The sky, a crooked strip overhead, was grey as a stone lid.
At length, Lucan girded himself. He slid Heaven’s Messenger into the scabbard on his back, and slotted a pole-axe in place alongside it. He checked that he had his dagger at one hip, and buckled a falchion in place on the other. He pulled up his coif. Alaric also began to arm, ensuring that he had his longsword, and that he too carried a dagger.
When they rounded the
next bend, Castello Malconi lay before them – the vast, bleak fortress built from cyclopean stone, but at first seen only through the narrow gap at the end of the passage.
Lucan reined up and dismounted. Alaric did the same, but when they walked forward, the former squire was stunned by the bottomless gulf lying between themselves and the castle entrance. Naturally, the drawbridge had been raised.
“Care to go first?” Lucan asked.
Alaric’s hair stood on end as he peered over the precipice. It was maybe twenty yards to the other side. “This is impossible.”
“I thought as much,” Lucan went back to his horse, took the rope and grapple, and returned. “This is a one-way trip, Alaric. For one man only.”
He hurled the grapple across the chasm. An iron grille rose alongside the drawbridge, to allow archers to shoot at attackers opposite. The grapple caught on this the first time. Alaric watched in disbelief as Lucan, pausing only to pull on his helmet and wrap the rope around himself, jumped from the edge and swung down and across.
He struck the stonework some fifteen feet below the raised drawbridge, with enough force to expel the breath from him. At first, he dangled, looking as if he was ready to fall, but then he recovered, and, planting both feet on the flat surface, walked slowly up the cliff, pulling himself hand-over-hand.
Alaric was stunned – despite all they’d seen on this terrible journey, only now did he have his first inkling of what was actually required of a man to become a Knight of the Round Table. Then he was distracted by movement on the battlements overhead – a figure had appeared there. There was a wild shout, and the next thing a boulder had been dropped down at Lucan. A second figure appeared, and a spear followed. Neither aim was accurate, and now Lucan had reached the gateway itself, which was set into a recess. He was able to clamber onto a shelf alongside the timber drawbridge, and to use the iron grille as a ladder. Sheltered from the defenders, he made it swiftly to the top, where he flattened his body along the drawbridge’s upper rim, slid through the narrow gap and dropped down into the entryway on the other side.
Alaric felt worse than helpless. The rope dangled down the far side of the crevasse – there was no possible way that he could reach it. Another shout called his attention back to the parapet, and to a black object flashing towards him. He just had time to hop aside as a javelin bounced past. Now there were cries from inside the gatehouse. The defenders on the battlements withdrew from sight.
THE FIRST PERSON Lucan met in the entry tunnel was armed with an impressive crossbow. It had two stocks, one fastened atop the other, and two bow-staves primed and drawn.
The bowman wore a studded leather hauberk and carried a flail in his belt, but he still looked astonished to see Lucan. Doubtless, he’d never imagined that anyone would come in through the front door. Before he could raise his crossbow, Lucan had swung the pole-axe, cloven his sallet and split his cranium. The fellow dropped lifeless beneath a shower of his own blood. Lucan snatched up the crossbow, dived and rolled out of the way as two more bravos emerged from the door to the upper gatehouse. The first missed him entirely, running along the passage towards his fallen compatriot – only to be shot in the middle of the back. The second died in the doorway as Lucan spun to face him and shot again, punching the missile deep into his belly.
Lucan threw the bow down, grabbed his pole-axe and hurried along the arched passage. Before he entered the courtyard, three more bravos appeared in front of him. One carried a javelin, the second a pick, the third a war-hammer and a gladius.
The first threw his javelin. Lucan danced aside, pelted forward and leapt into their midst, bowling all three men over. He rolled past them and jumped back to his feet. The pick-man scrambled to face him, but the steel spike on the pole-axe plunged through his left eye, ripping into his brain. The bravo who’d thrown the javelin grabbed a dagger and slashed at Lucan’s stomach, but the knight jumped backward and smashed the pole-axe down, clouting the back of the guard’s skull with the hammerhead.
The remaining bravo was a rugged-looking customer. His sallet had fallen off to reveal a shaven head and scarred face, but he backed into the courtyard as Lucan stalked him. “Lay your weapons down,” Lucan said. “You can ride from here unharmed.”
“We don’t get paid as much for running,” the bravo replied, though the sweat gleaming on his bare pate belied his brave words.
“You won’t get paid at all when those who employ you are dead.”
The bravo spotted the remaining four members of his squad emerging from the gatehouse behind Lucan, and he smiled, showing rotted teeth, before lunging forward, his arms windmilling. Lucan retreated a couple of steps, parrying every blow, and then retorted, ramming the pole-axe haft into the bravo’s ribs and driving the steel spike down through his foot. The bravo gave a croaking gasp and turned ash-grey. In the same fluid movement, Lucan released the pole-axe, drew Heaven’s Messenger and swept it round in a glinting arc, which finished with the shaven head rolling across the blood-spattered flagstones.
Thirty-Five
TRELAWNA STAGGERED INTO her bedroom, only to find Gerta still in bed. She tried to rouse her, but the maid was pale of complexion and could only mumble. When her eyes cracked open, they were rheumy and unfocused. Her brow burned to the touch.
She brought the old woman some water, but Gerta only managed a few choking sips. The countess wept as she stepped back, even as she realised this had perhaps been inevitable, with their recent horrors and hardships. She felt as if all companionship had finally abandoned her. She couldn’t even pray. What was it Zalmyra had called her – a common adulteress? And it was true. She had sinned so much that God must have turned His back on her by now, and for what? For the vanity of believing that she deserved better than her severe but comfortable life in Albion’s dark North. She surveyed the small room in which she’d been ensconced. It was the only place in this awful fortress where she felt even close to being safe, and yet it was little more than a prison cell.
A familiar sound distracted her – breathless cries and the ringing of steel on steel.
Trelawna hurried down stairs and along passages until she entered the gallery where last she had spoken to Rufio. He was present again, leaning by an arrow-loop, chewing his bottom lip as he watched the events outside. Trelawna moved to the next loop; down in the courtyard, a mailed, helmeted figure with black wolf-fur swirling around him did battle with four men-at-arms.
Even as she watched, another figure joined the fray. It was Cohortis Bartolo, attacking with gladius in hand. Lucan dispatched his opponent just in time to meet the fresh assault. Like Rufio, Bartolo was from the officer caste. He’d trained in the gymnasium and on the parade square, and was very experienced when it came to issuing commands, but in hand-to-hand combat he was closer to a novice than an expert.
With two strokes, Lucan sent him stumbling backward. Bartolo fended desperately, but only the intervention of another of Bishop Malconi’s bravos saved him. This one, a thickset sergeant called Brutus, ran at Lucan with a morningstar. By fluke, its chain wrapped around the blade of Heaven’s Messenger, and the sword was half-torn from Lucan’s grasp. He released it, but grabbed Brutus by his mail buckler. Falling backward, Lucan stuck a foot into his opponent’s belly and tossed him head over heels. Winded by his fall, Brutus scrabbled for the dagger at his belt, but Lucan was already up and facing him, falchion in hand. A single thrust split Brutus’s nose to the cartilage and shattered the teeth underneath.
The remaining bravos, three including Bartolo, circled Lucan warily.
Bartolo hove in for the next strike, and Lucan deflected the gladius with the falchion, and punched the Roman on the point of his chin, which again sent him staggering. Another bravo lunged, only for Lucan to catch him in the midriff with the point of his blade, ripping through leather and muscle. The bravo sank to his knees, gargling blood.
From the high gallery, Rufio watched with a blanched face, focusing intently on Lucan – his nemesis. Never had he see
n such speed, such precision and strength in blows. He felt at his hip, where his own gladius was buckled, and gripped its pommel so tightly that tendons gleamed in his knuckles.
In the courtyard, the one remaining bravo – the youngest – had had enough. He cast down his weapons and fled along the entrance tunnel, halting only to enter a side-chamber where the drawbridge wheels and chains were connected, kick loose the peg, and continue on his way. The timber drawbridge creaked noisily down in front of him. He was halfway across it when a mailed and mounted figure came thundering from the other side.
ALARIC NEVER SAW the footman until it was too late. They collided at full speed, the horse barely breaking stride as the minuscule figure went screaming into the depths. Alaric entered Castello Malconi, and charged along the tunnel, the echoes of his hoofbeats clattering in his ears.
The first thing he saw in the courtyard was the carnage: slaughtered men lay everywhere. The next thing was Lucan, engaged by one final opponent – a lone Roman officer wearing the apparel of the Fourteenth Legion. The officer retreated under the hail of blows Lucan was raining on him with both falchion and Heaven’s Messenger.
Alaric reined in his beast, its steel-shod hooves skidding across the flagstones. He leapt from the saddle just as Heaven’s Messenger struck Cohortis Bartolo beneath the breastbone, tearing clean through his breastplate with a metallic screech.
IN THE UPPER gallery, Rufio bit through his bottom lip completely. Bloody froth sprayed from his mouth as he clamped down on a scream of anguish.
“Bartolo!” he hissed. “Bartolo...”
Down in the yard, Bartolo toppled away from Lucan, sword lowered. Blood flowed down his battle-skirt. He tried to keep his feet, but swayed and dropped to one knee.
