The Gauntlet Thrown

by Cheryl Dyson

  ******

  The Knight-Priests of the Gauntlet were mounted and in formation. Reed’s men watched uneasily from the walls as the armed soldiers rode a circuitous path along the wall of the outer bailey. A man dispatched from the gatehouse approached Knight-Commander Montyr, who watched his charges proudly. He felt calmer now that he was back in the saddle, though he knew that his mare could feel the tension all around her. She pranced and jangled the chain upon her bit.

  The lackey trotted up nervously, dressed in the livery of Ven-Kerrick, which made Montyr’s blood boil. There was a time—not so long ago—when he had known every servant in and about the castle, by sight, if not by name. He had never seen this man before.

  The fellow scratched at a pockmarked nose and coughed, eyeing the mare uneasily. “Sir...” he began.

  “Knight-Commander,” Montyr corrected mercilessly.

  “Knight-Commander,” the man stuttered and scratched his nose again. “My captain begs to know why the knight-priests are in formation.”

  “He begs, does he?” Montyr asked contemplatively. “That is fine. You may trot back and inform him that we are merely conducting a little drill. The horses need exercise and the men have been getting restless.”

  The man’s head bobbled as though his neck had come unhinged, and then he quickly bowed and scurried away. Montyr gave him enough time to get back inside the gates and report. Then he led the Gauntlet Knights in a thundering charge, racing for the drawbridge and the inner bailey at a dead gallop. The guards in the towers stared in disbelief at the sight of fourscore Gauntlet Knights pounding toward them. When the shock broke, there was a madcap scramble.

  Cries of, “Raise the drawbridge!” mingled with, “Archers! Get some bows up here!” Several men struggled with the drawbridge mechanism while a few others snatched up bows and positioned themselves in front of the machicolations.

  The drawbridge creaked upward, too slowly and too late. The leading ranks of horses leaped upon the bridge and their iron-shod hooves rang like steel upon a forge as they surged forward. Their riders caught the few hastily shot arrows upon upraised black shields.

  A small band of men tried to pull the heavy gates closed. Those who were not ridden down in the charge were dispatched with a quick swing of sword or mace. No one had thought to drop the portcullis and it became clear to Montyr that Reed had left the walls pitifully undermanned. His overconfidence would be his downfall.

  The black-clad knight-priests flooded into the inner bailey. A small contingent dismounted at a signal from Montyr and charged the gatehouse to deal with the men inside. Montyr jerked up his shield almost absently to catch an arrow loosed from a bowman atop the wall. He halted the mare.

  “We must get inside!” he yelled, reflecting that in all his years of training, he had never expected to invade Ven-Kerrick. “Damn it! They trained us to defend this place—not storm it!” He swore again as an arrow thunked into the thick leather pommel of his saddle. One of his men lifted a crossbow and dispatched the archer.

  Montyr grinned. “My thanks, Raylyn!” he called, yanking the arrow free of his saddle. “That one nearly unmanned me!”

  A few of the men laughed as they spread out to surround the castle, staying out of range of the machicolations—they knew exactly where they were. Unfortunately, the only way into the castle— other than a suicidal single-file run through the barracks entrance—was through the heavy stone doors Montyr now faced. Once Reed sealed off the barracks entry, the castle would be inaccessible and could stave off an army for months.

  Montyr sighed. There was no choice. They would have to attempt entry through the barracks and hope Reed had not had time to line up twenty archers with which to massacre them all. He raised his hand to give the order—and stared in disbelief as the main doors began to slide open.