He reached out with his flagging will to engage Ismar once more.
Nothing. He felt no resistance to his magic at all. He didn’t know how it had happened, but somehow, the presence of evil had vanished.
At that same instant the light changed again, bringing back the colours of nature in a wave that seemed to begin on the battlements and spread out evenly until all was as it should be. Except for one thing. Marcel felt it even if those around him didn’t. Something was gone, the balance he had fought to maintain had tipped, and already the battle was turning in Cadell’s favour. Everywhere he looked, the invaders were being forced back.
‘Their faces, look at their faces!’ he cried.
Although the rebels fought on, they had lost the inhuman glaze in their eyes and, with it, the ferocity of their attack. As Marcel stood watching, one threw down his sword and jumped back onto the siege tower. Others soon followed, eager to escape, to stay alive, and when that is the first thought in a soldier’s mind, he has already lost the battle.
The battlements were a safer place already and Marcel began to move along them, searching for the cause of this wonderful change. The first hint of an answer came when he spotted Gadfly standing with her wings folded neatly against her flanks, as though it was nothing special for a winged horse to watch the fighting from high on the walls.
A horse, yes, that had been the call as he lost consciousness, which could only mean that … Shading his eyes with a tired hand, he searched among the sea of bodies, then glanced up at the watchtower. There he found the man he sought, standing alongside General Kendally. Rhys Tironel.
Marcel limped up the spiral stairs calling the Grand Master’s name. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Ismar is dead?’
‘You felt it then?’
‘Just now when the light changed. It was you? You killed him.’
‘No one kills a wizard as powerful as Ismar, not with spells or enchanted weapons or even the strongest of wills. The power was drained from him until the spark of life left his body with the last of his foul magic.’
‘He’s dead though?’
‘Oh yes, thanks to you.’
‘Me! But I fainted —’
‘Just as I arrived, yes, but by that time Ismar was spent. All I did was keep up the struggle and let his ruthless spirit drive him to his own demise. It was you, Marcel, your magic had worn him down as only a great sorcerer could have done. Do you still have the tooth I gave you?’
‘You mean the stone!’
‘Ah, so you discovered the truth on your own. What you did here today didn’t need my trickery then. You know who you are.’
‘And I know why,’ said Marcel.
Below them the battle had become a rout as the rebels swung down from the siege towers like frightened monkeys and retreated from the walls as fast as they could.
‘Spread the word,’ General Kendally ordered a messenger beside him. ‘Open the gates and let our men go after them. We don’t want the remains of Ismar’s army to regroup in the forest.’
It wasn’t long before the blue uniforms of Cadell’s soldiers began to appear outside the walls and the city’s defenders turned to attack. Marcel watched with the same glee as the rest, until one boisterous figure caught his eye.
‘Fergus!’
‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Rhys. ‘He brought me back from Noam on that remarkable horse of yours.’
‘But he’s got a sword in his hand, his right hand.’
‘I repaired his fingers with a simple spell to save him pain on our journey back to Cadell. Don’t be too concerned, Marcel, there’s no fight left in the rebels now. If he confronts any of them in the forest, the poor wretches will surrender, even to a boy.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Marcel in anguish. ‘There’s one man down there who won’t surrender, and if Fergus finds him —’
He didn’t finish because his legs already had him on the move towards the stairs.
CHAPTER 28
Mêlée
FERGUS HAD SEEN THE fighting from above as Gadfly circled over Cadell. Even without a memory of his early years, he knew that he’d waited all his life to be part of a battle. Behind him on the horse’s back rode Rhys Tironel, who had been as eager as Fergus to return once he heard of the scourge Ismar had become.
As soon as Gadfly’s hooves touched the ground, the wizard slipped down and began to use his magic, without so much as a backward glance towards Fergus. That was just as the boy wanted it and before Marcel or Finn could appear to stop him, he charged along the battlements to where the nearest siege tower spat rebel soldiers into the fray. Pausing only to draw the enchanted sword from his belt, he plunged in among them.
With bodies pressing in on all sides, it was difficult to swing his weapon. The magic worked just as well, however, as he cut and slashed at those ahead of him. He brought down a man twice his size then moved into the space made when his victim fell, standing on the dead man’s corpse without a second thought to gain extra height for his next attack. The blue uniforms of Cadell were behind him now and to his left. To his right, he found one of the enemy, a man who was so intent on fighting another that he paid no attention to Fergus.
It should have been an easy matter to kill him, but before Fergus could swing his sword, he had to protect himself from the blade of an axe aimed between his eyes. He fought it away, confronted the man who wielded it, and would have killed him if a sudden surge in the bodies around him hadn’t shoved him into the path of a new opponent.
He was caught up in a mêlée, the deadliest place to fight, he recalled Stig telling him — a memory he had let fade too quickly. He was terrified, but, locked in among the bodies, he couldn’t back away. All he could do was wield his sword against those nearest and hope they were Ismar’s men he wounded and not Cadell’s, for in the frenzy he couldn’t tell one colour from another.
More men went down, some under Fergus’s own sword until he’d lost count of how many he’d killed, and still the fighting went on. When will the end come for me, he wondered. Will I even see the weapon that kills me or will I be fighting one moment, and the next moment … nothing?
Then a shout of ‘Heave!’ and the screams of men falling to their death. The siege tower swayed back from the battlements, pushed by a dozen long pikes in the hands of Cadell’s defenders. After teetering for a moment, the tower began to gather speed on the long fall to earth, where it splintered into fragments of wood fit only for the fireplace.
The rebels stranded on the battlements fought like madmen all the same, killing even as they were killed, until one by one they fell and finally there were none left to fight. Fergus felt the sudden silence as though an enormous hand had closed around him, yet it was an odd kind of quiet, letting noises in through the gaps. The din of battle might have ceased close by, but that only allowed him to hear the moans of men whose wounds would kill them before the day was over. Nothing could be done for them and they knew it.
‘We’re not finished yet,’ cried the captain. ‘There are still towers in place and rebels climbing over the walls.’ He marshalled what was left of his troop, not even noticing the new face among them, and marched them towards the nearest skirmish.
Fergus obeyed with the rest, but even as his legs carried him forward, he felt reluctance sitting heavily in his gut. He’d fought until his sword was sticky with the blood of strangers and he’d looked into the startled, staring eyes of men he’d killed. Now he must do it all again. He knew already why Stig had needed ten years to wash the smell of blood from his hands.
As Fergus and his companions lunged into battle again, the sky above them suddenly changed. White lightning crackled in the air and for an instant the world, as far as he could see, lost its colours, leaving Cadell as a wintry landscape. Then, as quickly as they had fled, the colours returned and with them victory.
The first rebel Fergus approached threw down his weapon and begged for mercy. Another three surrendered nearby, and those who did fight on l
acked the inhuman frenzy Ismar’s men had shown until then. Everywhere along the battlements, the rebel forces began to flee. Some jumped back onto the remaining siege towers; those already there shinned down faster than any had climbed up earlier in the day.
‘After them,’ the captains cried. ‘Look, the gates are opening. Chase them out into the forest.’
A jubilant wave of blue-clad soldiers charged free of the city and the citadel, some riding ahead, but most keeping up whatever pace they could manage on foot. One of them was Fergus.
There was little fighting to do now, for the rebels seemed to have lost courage, as though the ruthless urge that had sent them time and again to the walls had simply died in their hearts. Many stopped their desperate running and fell to their knees, claiming they’d never wanted to fight at all. Their bewildered faces had Fergus half convinced.
‘Watch out up ahead,’ one of the leaders called back to the rest. ‘There’s fight in some of their commanders still. They’re ready to stand and do battle, even if their men are running away in droves.’
This slowed some of Cadell’s exuberant soldiers, but not Fergus. His speed soon had him among the leaders of the chase, where he saw one of the enemy captains on horseback. With sword drawn, he slashed and chopped at men who refused to turn back and fight on.
Fergus halted in his tracks. There was something familiar about the mounted commander who treated his men so cruelly. The set of his shoulders, the profile of his face … could it be him? He went closer, ten paces, twenty, until he was sure. His stomach seemed to fall suddenly into his boots and his breath came in gasps he could barely control. The black hair, the cold fury in his eyes. It was Damon.
The man’s futile efforts to stem the retreat continued with mounting savagery. One soldier couldn’t dart around him and fell bleeding when Damon cut at his shoulder. He would have died under a final blow if his two companions hadn’t gone to his aid.
‘Leave the coward to me!’ Damon roared. ‘Find your weapons and go back to the wall or you’ll suffer the same fate.’ When they ignored him, he reared his horse and came at them, sword raised.
By then another two had joined the huddle of deserters and, in his rage, Damon misjudged their numbers. When he lunged at one man, another leapt bravely at his arm, a third grabbed his leg, and together they pulled him from the horse. Damon was lucky that the only revenge they took was to kick him into the dirt a second time when he tried to rise. By then, still more retreating soldiers had helped the injured man onto Damon’s horse and led him away, leaving their commander to dust himself off, alone, on foot and with only his sword to protect him.
When he looked up he found a familiar face staring at him from twenty paces away.
‘You!’ he cried in dismay.
Fergus raised his sword to let Damon see the fine steel of its blade. ‘This is the sword I spoke about at my trial. A witch named Tilwith made it so that every fight becomes a test of skill instead of strength. You’ve seen how it works before, haven’t you?’ He paused to watch the fear build in the man’s face. ‘It’s going to kill you, Damon. I only wish the Book of Lies could hear me say it. It would be glowing like it always did when it heard the truth.’
Fergus had chosen his words carefully to unsettle Damon, because a worried opponent was easier to defeat and that was his only aim. He wasn’t ready for what happened next.
‘I learned something else in that Gilded Hall,’ Damon said, ‘not at your trial but before then, from your cousins. Marcel and the princess are your cousins, aren’t they, not your brother and sister. Did they tell you the truth? Your mother wasn’t Ashlere; she was the love-struck fool Clemenza.’
‘They told me.’
‘And the rest. Did they tell you that as well, Fergus, or Edwin, or whatever name you go by? They may be your cousins, but you are my son.’
‘Yes, they told me that too.’
‘Then put up your sword. No boy wants to kill his father.’
Damon came forward with his free hand outstretched, as though he expected his son to pass the enchanted sword into his keeping. The movement threw Fergus completely off guard. For one vital instant he stopped thinking about the revenge he’d craved for more than a year, and that hesitation almost killed him.
Damon was only two paces away, close enough to grasp the blade if Fergus offered it to him. Close enough, as well, to swing his own weapon, and when he sensed the boy’s confusion that was exactly what he did.
Fergus just managed to thrust his sword in the way, then staggered backwards, off balance and angry that he’d been so easily deceived. Damon charged at him again and almost cut through his defences a second time, but Fergus was regaining his composure with every breath. After three futile slashes, the attack petered out and Damon’s face began to show a familiar desperation. He came at the boy again, hacking with all the energy he could muster.
‘That’s right, keep it up,’ Fergus goaded him. ‘The sooner you tire yourself out, the sooner you’ll make a fatal mistake.’
He stayed loose on the balls of his feet and kept the sword ready as, slowly, he circled Damon, the wolf this time, with Damon the frightened lamb. Striking with a wolf’s savagery, he thrust his blade at Damon’s shoulder, drawing blood. The wound heightened Damon’s frustration and he lashed out wildly, leaving himself open a second time. Now he was bleeding from a gash on his thigh as well.
Fergus watched him tire, chopping and charging like a tormented bull while the hope leaked from his body as quickly as the blood. Patience, Fergus reminded himself. The sword’s magic would bring him the revenge he’d sought for so long. He was going to kill Damon and all that remained was to pick the right moment.
‘Fergus, stop! Don’t kill him,’ shouted a voice.
A swordsman never took his eyes from an opponent, not if he wanted to stay alive, and Fergus was too well trained by Stig to look away. He knew the voice, though.
‘Stay out of this, Marcel.’
‘I can’t! There are things I haven’t told you. Leave Damon to the other soldiers. They’ll be here soon.’
‘No, he’s mine, I’m going to kill him. That’s why I left Elstenwyck; that’s why I’ve stayed away so long.’
The clash of swords continued, with Damon’s blows growing weaker with every flurry. Why did Marcel have to turn up now when the way ahead seemed so clear? And his cousin wouldn’t stay out of the struggle. Fergus felt a powerful tug at his heart. Magical hands were clawing at his will, demanding that he change his mind.
‘Stop it, Marcel,’ he cried. ‘Keep your spells for the others.’
In front of him, Damon faltered, his sword coming up too slowly after a half-hearted swing. Fergus caught the man’s hand with the flattened blade of his own sword and, with a squeal of pain, Damon dropped the weapon. He reeled backwards immediately and fell over his own clumsy heels, ending on the ground, his arms splayed wide, his chest open to attack.
This was the moment: there was nothing to stop Fergus plunging his sword into Damon’s heart. He looked down at his foe, a man who had betrayed him more times than he could count, a man whose death would bring him release from the anger that drove him still.
Marcel was shouting at him, something about a curse, but he was beyond the appeal of his cousin and blocked his voice from his ears. He entered a kind of silence where time passed in a different way, each second lasting as long as he wanted. It was in this private world that he heard another voice, one he couldn’t dismiss so easily.
Kill a man you could leave alive and you won’t be welcome in my house, Stig had told him. In that moment, with his sword poised above Damon, those words became a curse of a different kind, one Fergus couldn’t bring himself to defy.
He backed away, staring at the weapon. It felt suddenly strange in his hand, so he tossed it aside. It came to rest close by his cousin’s feet. ‘I can’t kill him,’ he said to Marcel. ‘All this time I’ve wanted to, and now it doesn’t seem worth what I’d have to give up.’
He returned to the separate place where movement and sound didn’t reach him in the same way. Marcel said something to him calmly, a word of comfort, he guessed. He wished he could understand it. He was tired of living in a world of his own like this, warmed only by his own hatred. He wished it was over, and wondered now that he held no sword in his hand whether it was.
Marcel was speaking again, though his face had changed to a look of panic. He was waving his arms wildly. What was going on?
A shout broke through. ‘Fergus, behind you!’
He swivelled quickly on his heels and saw Damon groping for the sword he’d dropped among the tufts of grass. There it was, in easy reach. The fighting wasn’t over, after all. He reached for the enchanted sword, only to find it gone from his belt. He remembered quickly what he’d done and cursed his foolishness.
‘Run!’ Marcel shouted.
No, he wouldn’t run. It wasn’t in his nature.
Damon staggered towards him, both hands clutched around the hilt of his sword, which he raised high above his head. Sunlight caught the blade, turning it silver and gold. They were the last colours he would see, the colours that would kill him. So strange, when earlier on the battlements death had melted into a single, nameless tone. Damon was almost on him now, the fatal blow would surely come at any moment.
Movement caught Fergus’s eye and a figure stepped in front of him. Steel flashed in a single, desperate jab, bringing a dull grunt that echoed from tree to tree. The figure fell back, revealing Damon once more, still with the sword raised in a two-handed grip. But, instead of the wicked grin that had filled his face as he’d charged, he was staring down at his chest in utter surprise. The weapon fell from his hands and his arms dropped limply by his sides, then he slumped forward onto his knees and finally onto his side. With what strength remained, he brought a hand to his chest where it touched the blade of the enchanted sword now buried between his ribs. As if to show how deep it had plunged, he coughed and blood from his lungs smeared his lips red and dripped from the corner of his mouth.
Master of the Books Page 27
