The dragon warriors recovered quickly, however, and began to shift into battle formation. They fought in pairs—one man, one woman—and they sprouted from the tall grass like some sort of deadly weed.
Marcus looked back over his shoulder and saw his knights charging after him, their swords flashing in the sunlight. He saw the blood on the horses and the dead on the ground and, most important, from the ridgeline, he heard the blaring of trumpets and the beating of drums. His brother and father could see for themselves now that the enemy was, indeed, upon them. Marcus enjoyed a brief moment of triumph and satisfaction that swiftly evaporated like the morning mist. He could tell by the motions made by the female dragon warriors and the eerie glow starting to shimmer around the fingers of the males that they were arming themselves.
“Fall back!” Marcus yelled, waving his arm. “Fall back!”
Wheeling his horse, he found his way blocked.
A dragon warrior raised glowing hands. The bluish fire of the magic roiled off his fingers. Spinning and twisting, the magic snaked toward Marcus, who had time only to suck in a breath. The blast struck him and his mount like a gust of wind blowing from the mouth of hell.
The horse screamed. Marcus had a sickening sensation of falling and then blackness and pain crashed down on top of him and buried him deep.
Sir Troeven saw the prince go down, and the knight galloped toward Marcus, using a powerful yell and a wave of his hand to direct the other knights, who were closing with him rapidly.
The dragon warriors did not try to stop them, but melted away at their coming. Troeven was feeling good about this until he happened to glance over his shoulder to see the strange warriors flowing in behind them and around them. The warriors had managed to cut off two knights, who had been lagging behind, laughing at the sight of the enemy standing to face them without weapons of any kind. Sir Troeven remembered what Edward had told them about this army and, though he had laughed then (when the king wasn’t paying heed), the knight wasn’t laughing now. These strange warriors might not be holding swords in their hands, but they were armed. He knew that by the confident way they moved and by their calm, implacable expressions and the fact that one of them had felled his prince. He had his sworn duty and he rode on.
Marcus’s horse was dead—that much was obvious—and it had fallen on top of him. Sir Troeven could see the prince’s head and shoulders, arms and torso pinned beneath the large animal. Marcus, encased in armor, lay still and unmoving. Two of the dragon warriors were approaching him.
Sir Troeven received another shock when he saw that one of the two warriors was a woman, young and attractive. He got over his shock quickly enough when he saw the woman reach out her hand toward the prince’s helm, as her male partner looked on.
Giving a shout to draw their attention, Sir Troeven dismounted and charged straight at them, yelling for all he was worth and swinging his sword. They both looked at him, their faces registering no particular concern at the formidable sight. The woman began to make odd circular motions with her hands, as though she were washing windows. Troeven aimed a slashing blow at the man.
His sword struck against what felt like a shield, though there was nothing between him and the warrior but dust. The sword bounced back, the blow jarring through Troeven’s arm. By this time, the other knights were riding up around him, and the two dragon warriors, seeing themselves outnumbered, withdrew, vanishing into the grass so rapidly that one moment they were there and the next he could see no sign of them.
“Why did you let them go?” one of the knights demanded. “Why didn’t you slay them?”
Troeven lifted his visor and scratched his grizzled chin. The sweat trickled down his face and neck, yet he felt chilled to the heart. He had only one thought now, and that was to keep his oath.
Kneeling awkwardly in his armor beside the prince, he managed to remove the prince’s helm. Marcus’s eyes were closed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his upper lip. At the man’s rough touch, Marcus moaned and turned his head.
Troeven smiled grimly. The prince might be grievously wounded—probably was, with a half-ton of horse on top of him. But he was alive, and it was Troeven’s sworn duty to try to keep him that way.
“You knew they were there, Your Highness,” he said to rally Marcus’s spirits on the off chance he could hear him. “The good God knows how, but you saw them. And you charged right into them, to make us see, too. I’ve never beheld a braver deed, and so I’ll tell your father to his beard. And I’ll apologize to you, Your Highness, and beg your forgiveness on my bent knees, and I’ve never done that with any man. First, though, we have to get you out of here alive. And that may be no small matter.”
He looked up to see the other knights had formed a cordon of horse and steel around the fallen prince. They were watching the enemy warriors with mounting amazement. In the heat of the action, they had not yet had a chance to take a good look at them.
The enemy, though not armed, was clad in armor that was strange in appearance. It was not plate armor, nor yet chain mail, such as the knights wore. The armor of these warriors was made of what looked to be shining scales that flowed like a second skin over their bodies and their limbs. And like a second skin, the armor appeared thin and fragile.
“And look at that,” a knight exclaimed in disgust. “They have women in their ranks.”
“Why don’t they attack us? They have us outnumbered a hundred to one.”
“Perhaps because they’re not armed. Say ‘boo’ at them, and they’ll all run away.”
“Next time I will leave my blade at home and bring a wooden stick. That’s all it would take to puncture that sorry excuse for armor.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Troeven sternly. “I hit something a good solid blow with my sword and didn’t even make a dent.”
Silence fell. The horses, skittish, blew and bared their teeth and flattened their ears. They moved restlessly beneath their riders, so that it was all some of the knights could do to keep them under control. The two knights who had been cut off from the main force were completely engulfed by the warriors. Yet, the warriors made no move to strike.
“The horses don’t like them, that’s for damn certain.”
“Horses are smarter than men, sometimes.”
The knight who had talked about the sharp stick snorted in derision and glanced back over his shoulder. “How’s His Highness?”
“Alive,” Troeven answered shortly.
He took stock of the situation. The Prince’s Own surrounded him and His Highness. The enemy encircled them, and, beyond, the king’s forces were falling all over each other. He could hear the shouts and curses of officers and the beating of drums and the clash and clatter of an army preparing to go suddenly to war. Close at hand, the battlefield was eerily quiet. No sounds of swords thwacking against each other or banging on armor or bashing in shields. No crunch and thud of battle. No panting, grunting, swearing, screaming. Only the buzz of grasshoppers and the rustle of the dry grass as the warriors gathered silently around them, watching, waiting.
“My Lord Summerson, help me get His Highness out from under his horse,” said Troeven.
His voice boomed unnaturally loud in the stillness, causing several of the knights to flinch at the sound. Lord Summerson, a bear of a man, heaved and grunted himself off his horse and lumbered over to assist.
Panting and straining, Summerson managed to lift up the portion of the horse under which the prince was pinned. Troeven gripped the prince by the shoulders and pulled him free. Marcus moaned when the knight shifted him, and Troeven judged by this that the prince had broken bones, but this was no time to try to physic him. They’d have to take off his armor to see what was wrong with him, and he deemed that Marcus was far safer in his armor than out of it—a judgment call that the next few moments would prove horribly wrong.
One of the two knights who had been cut off from their comrades suddenly raised his voice in an oath.
“By my liver and
lungs, I won’t put up with this!”
The knight spurred his horse at one of the male warriors, intending to ride him down. The horse would have none of this, however. The animal reared up, throwing the knight heavily to the ground. Terrified, the horse galloped off.
“Mother of God! His hands!” a knight near Troeven gasped at almost the same moment. “Look at his hands!”
One of the enemy warriors stood near the fallen knight, but did not touch him. A soft warm glow spread from the tips of the warrior’s fingers up his arms.
“God save us! Demons!” gasped one of the younger knights.
Another stirred in his saddle. “We should go to his aid—”
“No!” said Troeven. He could see the eyes of the enemy watching them closely. “Every man hold your position.”
Shaken by his fall, the knight lay for a moment on the ground before coming to himself and the realization of his danger. Clumsy in his armor, he rolled about on his back like an upturned turtle, fumbling for the sword that had been knocked from his hand. The male warrior began to make motions with his red-glowing hands and pointed toward the dismounted knight.
The knight could not understand what was going on. Any other enemy would have leapt on him, helpless as he was on the ground, and run him through. He managed to regain his feet, sword in hand, and took a step forward, thinking, as he did so, how the heat of the day had markedly increased. He was baking inside his armor.
The knight started to sweat profusely. His armor—plate and chain—was growing hot to the touch. So hot that it began to burn his skin.
The metal began to glow red. The knight yelped in pain and flung down his sword and tried, frantically, to rip off pieces of the armor. He could smell his own seared flesh. Screaming in agony, he flung himself to the ground and thrashed about in a frenzy, shrieking for someone to help him, as his skin bubbled and blistered.
“He’s being roasted!” his comrade cried in horror. “Roasted alive!”
They could all see and hear and smell that for themselves. Waves of heat, radiating off the armor, rippled the air. There were sizzling and popping sounds, as of meat being grilled in a skillet. The stench of burning flesh and hair caused more than one knight to cover his mouth with his hand or lean over his horse’s flank, retching.
The second knight could stand it no longer. Sliding from his horse, he tried to break through the lines of warriors to reach his dying comrade. Another warrior held up red-glowing hands. The knight clutched at his own armor and fell to his knees, gasping as the metal began to grow hot to the touch. He tried desperately to undo the lacings and the fastenings that held the armor in place, though he knew quite well it was hopeless. He cast one silent, pleading glance toward his fellows.
“God is mercy! I’m not going to sit still and watch this!” cried a knight, and spurred his horse forward.
One of the enemy reached down to his belt and drew from a leather pouch what appeared to be a small, feathered dart.
An ordinary-looking dart, Prince Marcus had told them. Such as you might see in any tavern game. The dart pierced a woman’s throat. It was thrown from a distance of five, maybe six hundred paces.
Troeven drew in a breath to shout a warning.
The warrior threw the dart.
The knight gave a cry, and his head jerked. He stiffened in the saddle, hung there a moment, and then toppled off the horse. He landed on his back not far from where Troeven was standing. The man’s eyes stared at the heavens, where, presumably, his soul had sped. Between his eyes was a bloody, gaping hole. The dart had pierced the back of his helm, gouged its way through his brain, and exited out the front of his head.
Troeven let go his breath in a whistling sigh.
A veteran of many battles, Troeven had seen arms hacked off shoulders, hands sliced off wrists. He’d seen skulls cleaved in two—whole men cleaved in two, entrails spilling over the ground. Over the years, he’d become hardened, inured to the sights and the sounds and the smell of death. Or so he had thought.
This was different. This affected not only the mind, but the heart and the soul, turning them all inside out and wringing them.
The young knight who had spoken of demons slid off his horse and dropped to his knees. He began to pray fervently, his voice broken and anguished. No others followed his example, but several blessed themselves. All of them edged closer together.
These warriors were armed with the most powerful weapon known to mankind—fear. They could have attacked en masse and probably slaughtered Troeven’s small force in less time than it would take to speak of it. Such an attack would gain them nothing, however. Mere death. Whereas now, his knights were shaken and demoralized. White-faced beneath their visors, they cast terrified glances at the enemy and each other, wondering who was going to fall next. And, to make matters worse, the king’s army was watching with all their eyes and listening with all their ears. Some of the footsoldiers—good, stout yeomen, but illiterate and superstitious—could hear the screams and the cry of “demons.” They would see their knights, their commanders, their liege lords, being picked off one by one at the enemy’s leisure. Dying on their knees. Unable to fight back. King Edward would see his son captured, or, worse, roasted in his own armor like a plucked goose at Yuletide.
“No, by my soul,” Troeven swore to himself. “Damn your eyes, shut up!” he cried viciously to the knight, who was praying. “And get off your knees! God Himself would be ashamed of you. There’ll be no miracles here unless we make them!”
His voice snapped whiplike, and the knight fell silent.
“We swore an oath to protect our prince,” Troeven said, looking around the assembled knights, looking each man straight in the eyes. “And, by God, I intend to keep that oath. Are you with me?”
There were hesitant nods from some, curt nods from others. Here and there was a firm, “I am with you, my lord.”
“Good,” said Troeven grimly. “Now we must all make up our minds to one thing—none of us will leave this battlefield alive.” He glanced out at the enemy, watching, waiting. “Give yourself to Death and you take away Death’s hold over you.”
He went on swiftly, not giving them time to think, “I need the lightest man among you.”
Everyone looked to Sir Reynard, a knight who had just won his spurs in the last tourney, a young man of such slender build that one of his fellows had joked only this morning that he rattled around in his new armor like a dried bean in a kettle.
“I am the lightest, my lord,” said Reynard. His courage was holding firm, even under this onslaught. “What is your need of me?
“You will be responsible for the prince. Toss away your sword and shield. You won’t have use for weapons. Your task is to ride for our lines. No matter what happens around you, you pay no attention. You ride. Do you understand?”
“I do, my lord,” said the young man.
“Is your horse fast? If not, take mine.”
“My horse is as swift as the stooping hawk, my lord,” boasted Reynard proudly. “And he can bear the weight of two of us.” He gave his sword, a family heirloom, into the keeping of a friend and rode his horse near Sir Troeven.
“Summerson, help me lift His Highness.”
The two men lifted the prince by his shoulders and legs and heaved him onto the horse, slinging his body over the front of the saddle. The young knight took a firm grip on the prince with one hand and grasped hold of the reins with the other.
“The rest of you, fall in around His Highness,” ordered Troeven, remounting his horse. “We will form a shield wall with our bodies. If one man falls, another rides up to take his place.”
He had kept sight of the enemy out of the corner of his eye, seeing them taking in all of this. He wondered if they spoke the language, if they understood the commands he was giving. Not that it mattered. They would know soon enough what was at hand. The knights took their places, forming a solid wall of armored men riding in front of the prince, men riding behind, and flanking
the prince on either side.
“God save our prince,” Sir Troeven said in reverent tones, and every man repeated the prayer.
“God save our immortal souls,” Troeven said.
Every man repeated that prayer. Every man’s voice was firm.
Troeven raised up in the saddle and lifted his sword. He touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks. The animal plunged ahead, and the knights rode after him.
The Prince’s Own began their race against death.
34
STANDING ATOP THE RIDGELINE, KING EDWARD WATCHED THE nightmare scenario he himself had predicted (but in which he’d never in his heart believed). Edward had watched in grief and (God forgive him) shame as his poor mad son had gone haring off down the hillside, riding wildly through the army encampment, and galloping out into an empty field, waving his sword at the grasshoppers. The king had turned away from the heart-wrenching sight and from the looks of pity and well-meaning banalities of his commanders, when suddenly he heard Wilhelm gasp.
Edward whipped around to see warriors springing up out of the tall grass. Again, God help him, Edward’s first thought was triumphant vindication.
“My son was right!” he cried grimly. “He was right, by heaven!”
His joy at knowing his son was not insane was quickly quenched by the knowledge that if Marcus was right about everything, the king and his army were now facing a terrible foe. In the next instant, he saw Marcus’s horse lurch sideways and fall to the ground, carrying Marcus down with him. Edward lost sight of his son in the tall grass.
The Prince’s Own were there, however, shocked at the sight of the enemy springing up under their noses, yet keeping their heads, keeping their oaths to guard their prince.
Master of Dragons Page 26
