by Simon Hawke
Suddenly, Lucas was on the ground at Hunter's feet. Hunter had used the PRU to yank him away.
"Son of a bitch is playing fugue games,'' Hunter said.
"I've still got the gun, give me some grenades," said Lucas.
"Forget it, man. You don't want to go filling the air with slugs when you might be clocking right into 'em. We're just going to have to play that game ourselves. No other way."
"I've got no armor!" Lucas said.
"I've got some mail and half-plate. It ain't nysteel, but it's the best I can do. Throw it on and get back out there."
"This is crazy!"
"Tell me about it. Only two ways it can end like this. One of you dies or Finn finds that plate. Better cross your fingers, pilgrim."
He clocked Lucas back into the action, at a point just before he left.
Even as Irving was bringing his sword down on Lucas, Lucas appeared behind him. Before Lucas could strike Irving, another Irving appeared behind him and Lucas felt a momentary shock as Irving's sword glanced off him even as he was clocking once again. Irving had the advantage in that his armor was effectively impregnable. Lucas made up for his disadvantage in that he did not have to worry about clocking himself out or in. Hunter was at the controls. The only thing he had to worry about was that Hunter would stay on the ball. The action began to accelerate with amazing speed. There was no chance to use the weapons Hunter had brought back. He was right. In a fugue situation, the last thing you wanted to do was to fill the air with bullets, cutting through space into which you might be clocking. Given the speed with which the combat took place, it was only possible to fight with the weapons at hand.
To the outlaws and men at arms observing the action, the world seemed to have gone mad. One moment, there was one knight fighting another. The next, two knights fighting two. Three knights fighting three. Four knights fighting four.
Each of the antagonists used their PRU units to return to their respective chronoplates again and again, where quick calculations and recalibrations would be made as they fought to catch their breath. Then they would clock back into the battle, materializing on the scene in their own immediate past, seconds or minutes before they had departed. The pressures of the temporal fugue were immense. One error in calculation, one slip in concentration and it would all be over. As the cycle progressed, those not involved in the fugue were confronted with a dizzying reality. Events happened at a much faster pace for them than for the combatants. In an instant, there were suddenly dozens of green knights and dozens of Ivanhoes hacking away at each other, more appearing as others winked out as though they had never been there to begin with.
Many of those who observed the phenomenon came to a gaping halt, mesmerized by the impossibility of what they were confronting. Not a few were killed as they stood staring in shock. It was an eerie scene: the fugue combatants going at each other for all they were worth, those around them either fighting, oblivious to what was happening around them, or simply standing with their weapons in their hands, staring uncomprehendingly. Many simply dropped their arms and ran.
Finn materialized in the courtyard of Nottingham Castle. It took perhaps a moment before anybody noticed him. By the time they did, he had quickly taken stock of his surroundings and was already on the move, firing as he ran. He wasn't taking any chances. His weapons gave him a devastating superiority, but all it took was one archer who would not panic and he would become just another statistic. Fortunately, most of them did panic. They had no reference for gunpower or lead projectiles fired too fast to be seen. Some of the guards stood frozen on the battlements, watching in disbelief as the bodies of their comrades literally came apart before their eyes. Those who survived the initial burst of firing fled, screaming with terror. By that time, Finn had already aimed and thrown one of the pyrogel grenades. The courtyard became a place of havoc, filled with the sounds of submachine gun fire and men screaming in agony as they fled from a horror they did not understand. Those who had survived the blast of the pyrogel grenade, but were still near enough to catch the fury of the explosion, became wreathed in flame and were consumed in seconds. Walking corpses in a halo of fire, charred crisp as a cinder, vocal chords seared away so that screaming was no longer possible, they made several halting steps and fell into a pile of ashes on the ground.
Finn didn't waste time with the door. He hurled a grenade and dived through, rolling and firing as he came up. Those who died didn't even have enough time to draw their swords. There was a brutal simplicity to Finn's tactics. He simply had to slaughter everyone in sight before he could take time to search for the plate. He only hoped that Hunter had guessed right and that it was here. As he ran down the corridor, slipping in a fresh magazine, a group of men came running to meet him, responding to the alarm. He cut them down to the last man, then reached for another clip. He jerked as a crossbow bolt hit him from behind, entering his shoulder from the back and coming almost completely through the other side. He dropped his grease gun. Throwing himself to the side, he came up with the 9mm Browning. Three quick shots dropped the archer even as he was drawing back his crossbow to fire a second quarrel.
For a moment, all was silent, save for the sounds of running footsteps somewhere close by, echoing all around him. Finn glanced quickly at his wound. He left the quarrel where it was. Removing it meant risking a flow of blood, since it could be the only thing holding a blood vessel together. The wound didn't look fatal unless, possibly, it became infected. There was no point to worrying about that now. He didn't even feel any pain. He retrieved his SMG and loaded another clip, then took off at a run down the corridor, staying close to the wall and keeping an eye on what was behind him. He couldn't risk being surprised again. He had to clean the castle out and find the chronoplate.
It could be anywhere. He had to search the entire castle for something the size of a briefcase.
Andre ran directly to her quarters, oblivious of all the commotion around her. The castle was under attack and its commander lay dead or dying beneath her in the dungeons. She had only three things on her mind. She had to get her armor, she had to take steps to protect Marcel, and she had to find a way to dispose of Bois-Guilbert. She was what the black knight had called his "inside man," and her duty was to defeat the defenders of the castle from within by depriving them of their leaders.
She had resented his remark at the time he made it and she had said so, protesting that she was not at all a man on the inside and that she had no desire to be a man; then he had told her that the term was used to describe someone who attacked a force from within their own ranks, a spy, one who pretended loyalty until the time to act was ripe.
"You mean a traitor," she had said.
"Treason is defined purely subjectively," he had told her. "I could have called you an 'inside woman,' but seeing as how you are a man on the outside, within the walls of Torquilstone you will… oh, never mind. You can't see the humor in it, can you?"
"I see no humor in being asked to play the part of a traitor," she replied.
"You will be treasonous to John if you do as I command. If you do not, then you will be treasonous to me. I ask you to consider which of the two you would prefer. It seems contrary to your profession to speak of treason. You are a mass of ambiguities, de la Croix."
"Of what?"
"Never mind. I'll make the matter of your honor simple for you. As a mercenary, your loyalty rests with your paymaster. Since I have outbid the competition, your course would seem to be quite clear. Does that satisfy you?"
"I suppose that it will have to."
"Good, I'm so glad. Take this." He handed her a PRU.
"What is it?"
"Where you will be going, you will encounter danger. This is a charm of sorts. Keep it with you at all times. It will protect you."
She started to examine it.
"Do not play with it," he said, sternly. "It has powers you would not understand. Merely keep it on your person. Take it as a token of my concern for you."
She stared at him steadily. "Who are you?"
He raised his eyebrows. "I am your king."
"Or the devil," she said.
"If you like."
As she reached her quarters, she took out the charm that he had given her and, for a moment, she considered throwing it away. She wanted nothing to do with black arts, but it was too late for that. She had allied herself with a sorcerer and, king or not, he was her master. She hated him. She would kill him if she could, but could the sorcerer be killed? She had tried before and failed. Perhaps he had such a charm himself. She stared at it. If it could give her some measure of protection, she would do well to keep it. She knew that she would need all the protection she could get before the day was out.
Marcel assisted her in arming for battle.
"I will go with you, Andre. You'll need my help."
"No, little brother. You remain here, where it will be safe until I come for you. I would not want to lose you now."
"Nor I you," Marcel said. "Sir Brian is a strong knight. He will make a dangerous opponent.''
"And I will fight better knowing you are safe," said Andre, "than I would if you were by my side and I had to constantly watch out for you."
Marcel drew back indignantly. "I can take care of myself," he said in a wounded tone.
She pulled him to her. "Of course you can. But I would worry anyway. Indulge me and set my mind at rest. There will be other battles for you when you're older. Now I must go. Remember, stay here and do not be tempted to look outside upon the battle. The Saxon archers shoot straight and true."
With sword and shield in hand, she left him and walked quickly down the corridor. Her heart was racing, as it always did in the excitement of a battle. She would have to find a way to kill Bois-Guilbert in such a manner as to not leave herself vulnerable to the men whom he commanded in defense of the castle. She stopped by an aperture and, holding her shield ready to protect her face, risked a quick glance outside. The barbican had fallen. Any moment now, they would begin to attack the outer walls with scaling ladders and they would start ramming at the gates. Given their number, it was inevitable that they would soon gain entry to the castle. Given a firm hand and strong leadership, the defenders of Torquilstone might still repulse them, but not if they were deprived of their commanders. De Bracy was already accounted for. Only one remained.
She stopped a man at arms who went rushing by her in the corridor. He looked terrified.
"You!" She approached him. "Where are you going?"
"I… I was…"
He was running away to find a place to hide, no doubt. "Where is Sir Brian?"
The man was near hysteria. "You ask for Sir Brian," he said. "Sir Brian bellows for Sir Maurice! The Saxons bellow for our blood! They are on us like flies upon a carcass and where is De Bracy?"
"DeBracy'sdead!"
They both turned toward the sound of the voice and saw De Bracy's torturer. Andre cursed her luck. She had bolted the door to the dungeons, but the man must have broken through. He held a mace in his hand. The beefy torturer had murder in his eyes as he pointed at her with his mace.
"There stands the culprit! Sir Maurice breathed his name before he died!"
Andre ran the man at arms beside her through with her sword and pushed his body aside. Holding the mace with both hands, the torturer advanced upon her. Suddenly, he stiffened and dropped his mace, a look of surprise upon his face. He pitched forward. As he fell, Marcel stood revealed, a bloody dagger in his hand.
"Marcel! I told you to remain behind! I could have dealt with-"
Marcel's eyes widened. "Andre! Beware, behind you!"
Instinctively, she threw herself to one side, thereby avoiding the killing stroke. The nysteel armor might have saved her, but her reflexes were too quick for her to think of that. As it was, she caught a glancing blow on her brassard and, stunned, she dropped her shield and staggered. Marcel leapt forward with his dagger.
Andre heard him cry out and raised her head in time to see Bois-Guilbert withdrawing his sword from her little brother's stomach.
"God! Marcel!"
"So," said Bois-Guilbert, "De Bracy's dead and we have a traitor in our midst. As God is my judge, I will show you the price of treason, de la Croix!"
"I have already paid that price," said Andre, glancing at Marcel. "And in a moment, God will be judging you."
What opposition there was was either dead, in flight, or hiding. Finn had to find the chronoplate. It would not be where anyone could readily see it. If Irving had been using Nottingham Castle as his base of operations, then it stood to reason that he'd keep the chronoplate secure within his chambers. But which of the rooms were his?
Finn ransacked them all systematically, tearing everything apart to find the object of his search. In several of the rooms, he found men and women cowering in fright. There was a chance that they would not have attempted to interfere with him, but he could not afford to take it. He shot them all. If they succeeded in their mission, the refs would have a lot of cleaning up to do. If not, the point was moot. There were a lot of lives at stake. Somehow, that thought did very little to comfort him.
The crossbow bolt in his shoulder was beginning to cause him a great deal of pain now. He could not afford to dwell on it. Hunter had to be right, he had to be. The thought of so much killing to no purpose…
Where was it?
There remained two more places where he had not searched. Please, God, Finn thought, let it be in one of them, please. He tried the door. It was bolted from within, like several of the others had been, where people had attempted to hide from him. He took a small amount of the plastique and blew it open. A man rushed at him with a sword. Finn shot him. There was no one else inside. He looked down at his attacker.
He wasn't even old enough to shave.
Irving clocked back into his chambers. Safe, for the moment, behind a bolted door. He was breathing hard. He was almost completely spent. Each time, he tried to rest a little, to catch his breath, but the strain of the temporal fugue was beginning to wear him out.
He had almost bought it when the fugue began. They were using a chronoplate as well! He had been certain that the other referee would not have risked it, would not have had a plate issued to his team. This changed everything. Obviously, there was no chance of tracing the plate. He hadn't been aware of it before and that meant that the tracer function had been bypassed, just as he had done on his unit. Those fools! Didn't they realize what they were forcing him to do? He had gone to a great deal of trouble to become Richard and he hated to abandon his role, but he had to recognize the possibility that he would have to clock out to another period, start a new scenario. They might never find him then. They had forced his hand. He hated to leave now when he had come so close, but it appeared that he would have little choice.
But before he did anything else, he had to bring the fugue to a conclusion. He could not risk being outmaneuvered. He had to stop that man; he was the only one left… And perhaps that would even end it. He had killed the other agent. Perhaps when he killed this one the scenario would take a turn in his favor. Maybe this time the other ref would be too late. He still had a hole card.
Andre de la Croix.
She was carrying a PRU slaved to his chronoplate. He could clock her back into his chambers and bring her back into the fugue with him. He could not hope to explain the mechanics of a temporal fugue to her, but she already believed him to be a wizard, he could pass it all off as sorcery and tell her that the only thing she needed to concern herself with was the death of his opponent. Together, they would outnumber him and he would stand no chance. He had given her the unit in expectation of trouble, but he had not suspected just how badly he would need her. He would end it now.
Reaching for the control console of the chronoplate, he punched out the sequence that would clock her back to Nottingham. Then, when her usefulness was ended, he could kill her at his leisure.
Bois-Guilbert was putting up a valiant str
uggle, but he was being hammered into the ground. He couldn't understand how de la Croix's armor was standing up so well under his repeated assaults. Both knights were exhausted, but where Bois-Guilbert's armor bore the marks of Andre's assaults, de la Croix's armor was undamaged. She had already drawn blood.
Andre was fighting with a fury unlike anything that she had known before. For the first time, she felt the fire of blood lust coursing through her. She was tired and Bois-Guilbert was strong, but her ensorcelled armor and her charm gave her protection he did not enjoy. He had killed Marcel and he would pay.
With a savage stroke, she smashed at him. He caught the blow on his shield, which was badly battered, and the force of it was too great for him to hold on. She struck again and he lost his shield. Holding his sword with both hands, he attempted to strike back, but de la Croix was on him with a vengeance, pounding away at him, breaking through his armor, getting past his defenses…
He was growing weak from loss of blood. He could not accept that he was losing. It could not be happening, it was impossible. Her sword came down in a vicious chopping stroke and he felt it bite into his armor, penetrate through into his arm. He cried out and felt his sword slip from his hand, felt the floor come up beneath him…
For a moment, there was an incandescent respite. He looked up and saw de la Croix poised with sword held overhead.
"Damn," he whispered softly.
The sword-
— came down.
Irving never knew what killed him.
Andre froze. She did not know what had happened. One moment, Bois-Guilbert was at her mercy, prepared to meet his maker. The next, she was… elsewhere. And her sword had split the sorcerer's head right down the middle. He was at her feet, kneeling before some strange and mystifying apparatus. His helmet was on the floor, inches away, as though he had only just removed it. Dazed, she backed away and watched the corpse topple.
The door exploded inward and Finn Delaney barged into the room. He fired a quick burst into her chest, knocking her off her feet, and then he saw the chronoplate and Irving's corpse. Andre lay on her back, not moving. She was in shock. Not giving her a second glance, Finn set the charge on the chronoplate and hit his PRU. When Andre looked up, he was gone.
