by Peter Telep
The Saxon’s gauntleted left hand seized his wrist with a force that made him drop his spatha. As he looked down toward the fallen blade, he saw the Saxon’s dagger advancing toward his chest. With his free hand he latched onto the Saxon’s wrist-and stopped the blade short as it nicked the thin linen of his shirt.
Each man had a wrist; it was muscle and sinew against the same, and though the Saxon’s will and strength felt unwavering, Christopher did not aban don hope. Instead, he slid his foot behind one of the Saxon’s sabatooned feet, jolted his body abruptly toward the man, and, with nowhere else to go, the Saxon tripped backward.
Christopher tore his sword arm out of the invader’s grasp and released his hold on the Saxon’s dagger arm. He dodged back, leaned over, and scooped up his spatha. Jaw locked, an exhalation coming hard through his nose, Christopher turned toward the cavalryman.
The Saxon rolled onto his side and dragged himself to his feet. Dagger against spatha now. When Christopher had fought Dallas, a huge oaf and rogue in Mallory’s old band, it had been, as it was now, dagger versus spatha. Dallas had thrown the dagger, and the tremors of remembered pain phantomed below Christopher’s collarbone. He would not let this young barbarian get away with the same; he would not give him the opportunity.
The Saxon leaned forward into a fighting stance, knees and arms bent, dagger hand eager to carve.
Normally, Christopher would have squared off with the man and given him the opportunity to make the first move. Christopher preferred a riposte as his first move in hand-to-hand; it was a good way to feel out the opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. And sometimes, he liked to warm up a bit before he let loose with everything he had.
But Christopher had offered mercy to the Saxon. The man had rejected his offer. Now Christopher would offer him something else altogether-a journey to the afterlife. Christopher would not fight like a gentleman, but as a Saxon-and he knew like no other Celt how to do that. During his service to the Saxons under Garrett, he had witnessed firsthand what bru tality and contempt for human life really were.
He strode toward the Saxon with his blade raised, the very act throwing the man off guard. He hadn’t bothered to square off, hadn’t bothered to assume a fighting stance or even a defensive position. He was all offense. Once his spatha was in reach, Christopher drew back and came down in a vertical chop-but he didn’t put any strength behind the maneuver. It was a carefully planned feint.
The Saxon went for the bait. He came up with the dagger to deflect Christopher’s blade.
Christopher yanked his blade back, swept it around and under the Saxon’s dagger arm, then came across with a horizontal stroke that could not have been more perfectly aimed or timed. The honed edge of his patha caught the seam of the Saxon’s gauntlet where it met the vambrace that protected the Saxon’s forearm. The spatha pried into that groove and parted the metal. The blade drove past the link-mail beneath, cut through the flesh like butter, then tore through the bones in the Saxon’s wrist as if they weren’t there at all.
The Saxon’s gloved hand tumbled to the stone, still clutching the dagger.
“My hand!” he cried, in a voice that belonged to a boy.
Moving swiftly, not bothering to look at the Saxon’s wrist, which undoubtedly spurted blood, Christopher hoisted his blade above his head with both hands and then tilted the tip toward the Saxon. He blazed forward and drove his sword into the yelping invader’s mouth, then continued on into the man, sending himself and the Saxon crashing into the opposite wall. He felt the tip of the spatha chip off on the stone behind the Saxon’s head. The Saxon coughed-his last act-and his breath carried with it a mist of blood that Christopher felt dapple his face.
He let go of the sword and backed off the Saxon. The cavalryman, no longer under his own control, slid along the wall to his rump, leaving a blood trail in his wake.
The corridor was strangely quiet. The unbroken shouts of Saxons in the distance were there, like the steady rustling of leaves in the autumn zephyrs, but the closer sounds of the engagement were gone. Heart still racing, lungs doing all they could to take in more and more air, Christopher palmed the back of his neck free of sweat as he looked up to where Neil and Doyle had been.
They stood together, staring at him. Behind them, the old Saxon lay quivering, his armor newly red dened with his own blood.
“Remind me not to get you mad,” Neil said. He had obviously intended it as a joke, but the intensity of the moment diluted the humor out of his voice. It came out like a fact.
Christopher flicked a glance toward the man he had just killed. The spatha still hung from the Saxon’s mouth.
I will see you again. In black sleep, where you will rise to seek your revenge. But it is your fault. I offered mercy. I did not want to kill you.
“You have blood all over your face,” Doyle said.
Christopher reached up and self-consciously ran fingers over his cheek; they came up bloody. Then he inspected his friends. Their clothes and arms soiled crimson, and they had blood on their faces as well.
A hatchet fell in Christopher’s mind, severing his connection to the gruesome moment. “Gather up whatever we need and let’s go,” he said curtly.
“I was going to say that,” Doyle answered. “Sorry,” Christopher said.
“Don’t be. I’m glad you’re doing some of the work for a change.” Doyle fingered the fine hairs of his beard, then added, “And you know, I was thinking about the strangest thing when I was fighting that man back there. I was thinking that I cannot remember the last time I had a drink of ale.”
“In your case,” Neil growled good-naturedly, “that is an amazing feat.”
“Close your mouth and gather the weapons,” Doyle chided, without looking at Neil.
Christopher felt the walls press in around him, and he saw that they were covered completely in blood. A second, closer look proved him wrong. A ghost image. Something inexplicable. He had to leave. “I’ll meet you at the end of the hall.”
“Don’t go alone,” Doyle argued. “I can’t stay here.”
“Just go up to the torch,” Doyle suggested. “All right.”
As Christopher shifted away, he heard Neil ask Doyle, “Hey, where’s he going? We need some help with these weapons.”
“Let him go,” Doyle answered.
7
Christopher shivered in the torehlight as he spat on his palms and rapidly wiped the blood off his face and out of his thin beard. He lifted his shirt and wiped some of it along the bottom, wiped his cheeks on his shoulders, and continued the process with an almost-manic determination, feeling he would never get all of it off. He asked himself why he trembled. It couldn’t be because he had just killed a man; he’d done that before, and though he always felt miserable about it, he had never reacted this way before. Then, he reasoned, it was the blood. Yes, that was it. Just too much blood all in one place. He had seen carnage far worse than what was down the corridor, but this time it had gotten to him. Why? He felt weak, and suddenly insecure. Thank St. Michael his friends were with him.
Then he realized why he was so overrun with this postbattle fear. Throughout the fight he had let his body work and, as taught, had not thought.
But there had been a mind picture that had shim mered to life several times: Marigween, in the cave, holding his son.
Lord, that is why. That is why I am so scared now. I came so close to death, so close to leaving my son fatherless, and M arigween, well, without me.
Say it. Say it to yourself You’re going to marry her. I might. If I live.
You know you will. You love her.
I do. But how deeply? Do I love her because she is the mother of my child, or do I love her because she is the woman who means more than anything in the world to me, the woman I would sacrifice everything for, the woman who gives meaning to my existence? I should love her for all those reasons. But do I?
You know why you should love her. But not if you truly do? Why is that?
/>
Brenna.
What am I to do about her? I don’t want to hurt her? Before Christopher could continue his internal argu- ment, Doyle and Neil hurried into view. Neil sported a sword belt with sheathed spatha at his side. He carried with him another sword belt and sheathed spatha that Christopher assumed was his. Doyle wore a spatha and carried his confiscated crossbow, his quiver of bolts slung by a leather cord over his shoulder.
“Here,” Neil said, handing him the sword belt. “You didn’t take any of the armor?” Christopher
asked.
“I told him we should have,” Neil said, referring to Doyle with a smirk, “but he said we don’t have time.” “That’s right,” Doyle said firmly, then he regarded Christopher. “Get that belt on and let’s make haste to the well.”
They reached the end of the hall. Ahead was the alcove that led to the stairwell. A connecting corridor streaked off to their right. Both alcove and corridor were left unguarded. The siege was in full tilt on the opposite side of the castle, and that was more than likely the reason for the lack of security here.
Doyle was first into the well, his feet scampering over the stone steps.
“You’re going too fast!” Neil cried.
“The wretches below will never know what hit them!” Doyle called back. “We’ll blast right through them!”
Neil huffed. “I threw up and I haven’t eaten since. I have no energy for blasting!”
“Just keep going,” Christopher urged the barbarian, placing a palm on his back and pressuring him on.
Christopher put his sandal down, expecting the next step to be there, but in his haste, he misjudged the distance and his heel caught the lip of the step, driving him down not one, but two steps. As if buffeted by a gale, Christopher lost his balance, crashed into Neil, drove the gasping barbarian into the center post, and then continued downward toward Doyle-head first.
Doyle barely turned his head as Christopher plowed into his left shoulder blade, throwing the archer sideways into the wall.
Wheeling forward, he felt his spatha catch on one of the steps, and his velocity caused the swordbelt to snap off his waist. His body found an odd, exceed ingly painful rhythm as it bounced off the stone stair case, all parts vulnerable and taking turns at smacking onto the steps. He could barely see any thing, but what he did glimpse was the floor and high ceiling spinning in the dim light of a twirling torch.
The landscape changed radically, and he felt him self rolling across level stone. Then his right arm and both knees hit what could only be a wall. He bounced off one of the great, rectangular stones, then remained still. He was on his back, breathing heavily. What he saw was unsettling: stone spiraled away into a blurry nothingness.
“Christopher!” Neil shouted, his voice floating down from somewhere above.
He heard the patter of steps coming quickly toward him, and then someone leaned over him. Out of focus at first, Doyle’s concerned face finally sharp ened into view. He reached down with his good hand and tapped gently on one of Christopher’s cheeks.
“I’m all right,” Christopher said.
“No, you’re not,” Doyle answered, “but you did beat us all to the second floor. We’re here.”
“Help me sit up.”
Doyle complied, grasping one of Christopher’s hands in his own and then pulling him to a sitting position.
Blood fled from Christopher’s head, and the rush of it made the world rock a moment, blur in and out, and then become stable. “Oh, I’m dizzy. But it’s gone already,” he said, blinking.
Neil arrived on the second floor landing and squat-ted down to view him. “You’re going to have quite a bruise on your shoulder,” he said, then pointed with an index finger to an area barely exposed near the collar of Christopher’s shirt. Christopher forced his gaze as far down as it would go and saw the red skin.
“That’s not the only place,” he added.
The full extent of the pain had not yet hit him. The minor bruises would reveal themselves on the mor row. Right now he would only have to contended with the major aches.
Lord, please don’t let anything be broken.
He began to pull himself up, and Doyle offered his hand once again. Christopher took it and then rose, feeling the results of the many isolated blows to his legs and arms. He could move his limbs, despite the fact they were badly battered. It didn’t matter whether he felt like he had spent some time on an armorer’s anvil being pounded by the man’s bloody hammer. What mattered was that he functioned. That was enough. He could still escape.
“You sure you can go on?” Neil asked. “Absolutely,” Christopher answered. ‘‘I’m as nimble as ever.”
Doyle flipped a smirk to Neil. “What choice does he have?” Then he regarded Christopher. “And you’re a liar. But I’m going to hold you to your word. Fetch your sword.”
Christopher ventured slowly toward the staircase, and he was about to climb up the six or seven steps to where his spatha lay, but then it hit him: a thought, clear as an unmuddied lake, pure and precise and logical as anything he had ever pondered. It was not a complex notion, but a simple conclusion that for some unexplainable reason he had not come to sooner. Then again, there had been so much con-fusion, so much blood and so much fear, that there had been little time for logical thinking. But now it struck him, as hard as each of the steps had.
By now, Seaver knew they had escaped. And where would he assume they would go to exit the castle? Why, the way they had come in, of course. It was the simplest way out, and, once outside, they would be able to con ceal themselves from the Saxon archers on the wall walks by holding their breath and going underwater. They would have to pop up once or twice for air-but only for one deep breath, and then they would be under again, until they reached the shoreline of the moat.
A rather foolproof escape plan-except that Seaver probably knew all about it. Where would most of his men be? In the dungeon, waiting for them.
Christopher mounted the staircase and climbed to his spatha. The thin brass buckle had been broken by his fall, so he removed the spatha from its sheath and abandoned the belt and sheath altogether. On the way down the stairs, he could not help wincing as the bending of his knees and the swaying of his arms caused flashes of discomfort. He would wear the scars of the fall for the rest of the moon, to be sure. Perhaps Orvin or Merlin knew of a way to expedite his healing … .
He rejoined Neil and Doyle on the landing, and, as they turned their backs to him, about to round the cor ner and continue their descent on the next staircase, he called, “Wait. We’re not going to the dungeon.”
Slowly, and nearly in unison, the archers turned to face him.
Yes, they were both bowmen, but that was the only thing similar about Doyle and Neil. They looked completely different, spoke differently, ate differently, reasoned differently, and the list went on. There were, in Christopher’s opinion, no two men as dis parate as these two.
Yet at the moment, they shared a look that was extraordinarily identical.
“What?”
“What’re you talking about?”
Neil nudged Doyle with his shoulder. “He hit his head. That’s it. We cannot listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Listen to me. We can’t go down there. It’s no good. Seaver and his men will be waiting for us. That’s just where he expects us to go.”
“I care not if he’s there,” Doyle said cockily. “In fact, I hope he is, so I can return the pain he inflicted upon me.” Doyle shook his bandaged hand as if it were a raised fist.
“You really believe there will be a lot of men down there?” Neil asked, the apprehension already flooding into his voice.
“Where else would he expect us to go? There is no easier way to leave the castle.”
“All right then,” Doyle said, “I’ll play along. How do you propose we leave?”
They had to get into the moat. That was a good way to avoid the archers. Beside
s, there was no way they would get the gatehouse drawbridge down; to initiate that plan would require a score of men, and the chances of its happening were slim. It could not even be a consideration.
“How deep is the moat?” he asked Doyle.
Neil released a sigh. “I don’t like where this conversation is leading.”
Doyle furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure. I believe its depth varies, though I’d venture to say it’s deepest near the gatehouse.”
“That’s too far for us.” Christopher strained his thoughts, then remembered. “Wait a minute.” He looked at Neil. “We swam into the tunnel on the north side, you and I, Neil. That water was fairly deep, wasn’t it?”
Christopher was rationalizing all of it to himself, he knew; hearing Neil agree would complete the process.
“Who cares how deep the water is? Let’s hurry up and decide what we’re going to do! I don’t like stand ing here!” Neil rubbed tense fingers over the hilt of his sheathed spatha, knuckles white, veins bulging. He backhanded sweat from his forehead, then exhaled. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe any of this!”
“Let’s go in the completely opposite direction.
Seaver thinks we’re going down. Let’s go up.”
“That’s it,” Neil said. “You do what you like. I’m going to the dungeon to get out of here.” He pivoted to leave.
Doyle grabbed Neil by his tunic sleeve. “Hear him out,” he said.
Christopher tightened the gap between himself and the barbarian; he fervently hoped the few steps closer would add a little weight and emphasis to his words. “Listen to me, Neil. We go up to the wall-walk. Sure, it’ll be lined with archers. But busy archers. I believe the king has most of our men on the northeast side of the castle. There won’t be as many on the northwest, where we’ll be.”
Neil frowned, then shook his head negatively as he had done so many times before-especially when listening to one of Christopher’s plans. “Where do we go from there?”
