Burning Bridge (19 page)

T
HE KINGDOM’S MAIN ARMY ADVANCED SLOWLY ACROSS THE
littered battlefield. The crushing attacks by the cavalry on three sides had given them a decisive victory in the space of a few short minutes.

In the second line of the command party, Horace rode beside Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster had selected Horace as his shield man, riding on his left side, in recognition of his service to the kingdom. It was a rare honor for someone in his first battle, but Sir Rodney thought the boy had more than deserved it.

Horace viewed the battlefield with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he was vaguely disappointed that, so far, he had not been called upon to play a part. On the other, he felt a profound sense of relief. The reality of battle was far removed from the glamorous dreams he had entertained as a boy. He had pictured a battle like this as a series of carefully coordinated, almost choreographed actions involving skillful warriors performing brave acts of chivalry. Needless to say, in those dreams, the most prominent and chivalrous warrior on the field had been Horace himself.

Instead, he had watched in horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. But now, as they rode forward, details began to emerge and he was horrified as he saw the red surcoats of Battleschool apprentices among the dead.

He saw one body, limp and lifeless as the stretcher bearers turned it over, and beneath the blood and dirt that smeared the pale face, he recognized Paul, a Year 4 apprentice who had been an assistant sword drill instructor. Over the past months, as Horace’s natural skill with the sword had become evident, he and the older boy had become casual friends. When Horace was hurriedly packing his kit for the trip to Celtica, Paul had come to the barracks to lend him a warm cloak and a pair of strong boots. Now he was dead and the debt would never be repaid. Horace felt a sense of emptiness and loss.

He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster’s grim face told him that it was always this way.

Horace’s throat was dry and he tried to ease it by swallowing. He felt a sudden stab of doubt. He wondered, if he were called upon to fight, whether he would simply freeze in fear. For the first time in his life, it had been driven home to him that people actually died in battles. And this time, he could be one of those people. He tried to swallow again. This attempt was no more successful than the last.

Morgarath and his remaining soldiers were in a defensive formation at the base of the cliffs. The soft marshy ground held the cavalry back and there was no option but to take the infantry forward and finish the job in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.

Any normal enemy commander would have seen the inevitable result by now and surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining troops. But this was Morgarath and they knew there would be no negotiating. They steeled themselves for the ugly task ahead of them. It would be a bloody and senseless fight, but there was no alternative. Once and for all, Morgarath’s power must be broken.

“Nevertheless,” said Duncan grimly, as his front rank stopped a bare hundred meters from the Wargals’ defensive half circle, “we’ll give him the chance to surrender.” He drew breath, about to order his trumpeter to sound the signal for a parley, when there was movement at the front rank of the Wargal army.

“Sir!” said Gilan suddenly. “They have a flag of truce!”

The kingdom’s leaders looked in surprise as the white flag was unfurled, carried by a Wargal foot soldier. He stepped forward into the clear ground. From deep within the Wargal ranks came a horn signal, five ascending notes—the universal signal that requested a parley. King Duncan made a small gesture of surprise, hesitated, then signaled to his own trumpeter.

“I suppose we’d better hear what he has to say,” he said. “Give the reply.”

The trumpeter moistened his lips and blew the acceptance in reply—a descending sequence of four notes.

“It will be some kind of trick,” said Halt grimly. When the cavalry had swept through the Araluen army to attack the Wargals, he had resumed his place at the command center. Now he frowned at the enemy’s latest move. “Morgarath will send a herald to talk while he’s making his escape. He’ll…”

His voice tailed off as the Wargal ranks parted once more and a figure rode forward. Immensely tall and thin, clad in black armor and a beaked black helmet, it was, unmistakably, Morgarath himself. Halt’s right hand went instinctively to the quiver slung at his back and, within a second, a heavy, armor-piercing arrow was laid on his bowstring.

King Duncan saw the movement.

“Halt,” he said sharply, “I’ve agreed to a truce. You’ll not cause me to break my word, even to Morgarath.”

The trumpet signal was a pledge of safety and Halt reluctantly returned the arrow to his quiver. Duncan made quick eye contact with Baron Arald, signaling him to keep a close eye on the Ranger. Halt shrugged. If he chose to put an arrow into Morgarath’s heart, neither Baron Arald nor anyone else would be quick enough to stop him.

Slowly, the vulturine figure on the white horse paced forward, his Wargal standard bearer before him. A low murmur rose among the kingdom’s army as men saw, for the first time, the man who for the past fifteen years had been a constant threat to their lives and well-being. Morgarath stopped a mere thirty meters from their front rank. He could see the royal party where they had moved forward to meet him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the small figure hunched in a gray cloak on a shaggy pony.

“Duncan!” he called, his thin voice carrying through the sudden silence. “I claim my rights!”

“You have no rights, Morgarath,” the King replied. “You’re a rebel and a traitor and a murderer. Surrender now and your men will be spared. That’s the only right I will grant you.”

“I claim the right of trial by single combat!” Morgarath shouted back, ignoring the King’s words. Then he continued contemptuously, “Or are you too cowardly to accept a challenge, Duncan? Will you let thousands more of your men die while you hide behind them? Or will you let fate decide the issue here?”

For a moment, Duncan was caught off guard. Morgarath waited, smiling quietly to himself. He could guess at the thoughts running through the minds of the King and his advisers. He had offered them a course of action that might spare the lives of thousands of their soldiers.

Arald moved his horse alongside the King’s and said angrily: “He has no claim to a knight’s privileges. He deserves hanging. Nothing more.” Some of the others muttered agreement.

“And yet…” said Halt quietly, and they all turned to look at him. “This could solve the problem facing us. The Wargals are mind-bound to Morgarath’s will. Now that we can’t use cavalry, they’ll continue to fight as long as he wills them to. And they’ll kill thousands of our men in the process. But, if Morgarath were killed in single combat—”

Tyler interrupted, finishing the thought: “The Wargals would be without direction. Chances are they would simply stop fighting.”

Duncan frowned uncertainly. “We don’t know that…” he began. Sir David of Caraway interrupted.

“Surely, sir, it’s worth a try. Morgarath has outsmarted himself here, I think. He knows we can’t resist the chance to end this on a single combat. He’s thrown the dice today and lost. But he obviously plans to challenge you—to kill you as a final act of revenge.”

“What’s your point?” Duncan asked.

“As Royal Battlemaster, I can respond to any challenge made to you, my lord.”

There was a brief murmur at this. Morgarath might be a dangerous opponent, but Sir David was the foremost tournament knight of the kingdom. Like his son, he had trained with the fabled Swordmaster MacNeil, and his skill in single combat was legendary. He continued eagerly.

“Morgarath is using the rules of knighthood to gain a chance to kill you, sir. Obviously, he’s overlooked the fact that, as King, you can be represented by a champion. Give him the right to challenge. And then let me accept.”

Duncan considered the idea. He looked to his advisers and saw grudging agreement. Abruptly, he made up his mind.

“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll accept his right to challenge. But nobody, nobody, says anything in acceptance. Only me. Is that clear?”

His council nodded agreement. Duncan stood in his stirrups and called to the ominous black figure.

“Morgarath,” Duncan called, “although we believe you have forfeited any rights you may have had as a knight, go ahead and make your challenge. As you say, let fate decide the issue.”

Now Morgarath allowed the smile to creep over his entire face, no longer trying to conceal it from those who watched him. He felt a quick surge of triumph in his chest, then a cold wash of hatred swept over him as he looked directly at the small, insignificant-looking figure behind the King.

“Then, as is my right before God,” he said carefully, making sure he used the exact, ancient words of challenge, “and before all here present, I do so make my challenge to prove my cause right and just to…” He couldn’t help hesitating and savoring the moment for a second. “Halt the Ranger.”

There was a stunned silence. Then, as Halt urged Abelard forward to accept the challenge, Duncan’s penetrating cry of “No!” stopped him. His eyes glittered fiercely.

“I’ll take my chance, my lord,” he said grimly. But Duncan threw out an arm to stop him from moving forward.

“Halt is not a knight. You cannot challenge him,” he called urgently. Morgarath shrugged.

“Actually, Duncan, I can challenge anyone. And anyone can challenge me. As a knight, I don’t have to accept any challenge, unless it is issued by another knight. But I can choose to do so. And I can choose whom I challenge.”

“Halt is forbidden to accept!” Duncan said angrily.

Morgarath laughed thinly. “Still slinking and hiding then, Halt?” he sneered. “Like all Rangers. Did I mention that we have one of your Ranger brats as a prisoner? So small, we nearly threw him back. But I’ve decided to keep him for torture instead. That will make one less sneaking, hiding spy in the future.”

Halt felt the blood draining from his face. There was only one person Morgarath could be talking about. There was an ominous calm to his voice as he spoke.

“Turn him loose now, Morgarath, and I’ll let you die quickly. Otherwise…”

He left the rest of the threat unspoken. But Morgarath saw the pale face and recognized the barely restrained anger in his old enemy. Obviously the Ranger brat meant something special to Halt. Then, instinctively, he recognized the truth. The boy was Halt’s own apprentice!

“You really should have taken better care of your whelp, Halt,” he said casually. “After I’ve finished with you, I’ll see to him personally.”

Halt felt a red surge of rage and hatred for the vulturelike figure before him. Hands reached out to stop him, but he shoved his horse forward, facing Morgarath.

“Then, let’s get to it, Morgarath!” he said. “I acc—”

“Halt! I command you to stop!” Duncan shouted, drowning him out.

But then all eyes were drawn to a sudden movement from the second rank of the army. A mounted figure burst clear, covering the short distance to Morgarath in a heartbeat. The Lord of Rain and Night reached for his sword, then realized the newcomer’s own weapon was sheathed. Instead, his right arm drew back and he hurled his gauntlet into Morgarath’s thin face.

“Morgarath!” he yelled, his young voice cracking. “I challenge you to single combat!”

Then, wheeling his horse a few paces away, Horace waited for Morgarath’s reply.

W
ILL AND
E
VANLYN NEVER LEARNED WHAT IT WAS THAT
caused the wave of uncertainty in the Wargals who surrounded their small group. They had no way of knowing that it had happened at the moment when Morgarath realized he had been tricked into exposing his army to Duncan’s cavalry.

The two captives and the four Skandians all noticed the sudden uneasiness and hesitancy in the twenty or so Wargal warriors who had been left to guard them. Erak glanced quickly at his men, sensing an opportunity. So far, they had not been disarmed. The odds of four against twenty were too much, even for Skandians, and the Wargals had only been told to detain them, not disarm them.

“Something’s happening,” the Skandian jarl muttered. “Stay ready, everyone.” Unobtrusively, the small party made sure their weapons were free and ready for action. Then the moment of uncertainty turned to real, palpable fear among the Wargals. Morgarath had just signaled a general retreat and those at the rear didn’t distinguish themselves from the front line troops for whom the order was intended. Over half of the Wargals guarding them simply ran. One sergeant, however, retained a vestige of independent thought and he growled a warning to his section—eight in total. As their companions struggled and fought to make their way into the jam-packed entrance to Three Step Pass, the remaining eight black-clad troops held their position.

But they were distracted and nervous and Erak decided that the opportunity wouldn’t get any better than this.

“Now, lads!” he yelled, and swept his double-headed ax in a low horizontal arc at the sergeant. The Wargal tried to bring his iron spear up in defense, but he was a fraction too slow. The heavy ax sheared through his armor and he went down.

As Erak sought another opponent, his men fell on the rest of the Wargal troop. They chose the moment when another mind command went out from Morgarath for his men to withdraw and form a defensive position. The confusing orders in their minds made them easy targets for the Skandians and they fell in short order. The others around them, intent on escaping to Three Step Pass, took no notice of the brief and bloody skirmish.

Erak looked around him with some satisfaction, wiping his ax blade clean on a cloth he’d taken from one of the dead Wargals.

“That’s better,” he said heartily. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days.”

But the Wargals hadn’t left their group unscathed. As he spoke, Nordal staggered and sank slowly to one knee. Bright blood stained the corner of his mouth and he looked hopelessly at his leader. Erak moved to his side and dropped to his knees.

“Nordal!” he cried. “Where are you wounded?”

But Nordal could barely talk. He was grasping his right side, where the sheepskin vest was already heavily stained with his blood. The heavy sword he favored as a weapon had fallen from his grip. His eyes wide with fear, he tried to reach it, but it was beyond his grasp. Quickly, Horak scooped up the weapon and put it in his hand. Nordal nodded his thanks, and slowly let himself drop to a sitting position. The fear was gone from his eyes now. Will knew that Skandians believed a man must die with his weapon in hand if his soul were not to wander in torment for eternity. Now that he had his sword firmly in his grasp, Nordal was not afraid to die. Weakly, he waved them away.

“Go!” he said, finally finding his voice. “I’m…finished…get to the ships.”

Erak nodded quickly. “He’s right,” he said, straightening up from beside his friend. “There’s nothing we can do for him.” The others nodded and Erak grabbed first Will and then Evanlyn and shoved them along in front of him.

“Come on, you two,” he said roughly. “Unless you want to stay here till Morgarath gets back.”

And, moving together in a tight little group, the five of them shoved their way through the milling crowd of Wargals, all trying to move in the opposite direction.

Morgarath was stung by the impact of the heavy leather glove on his face. Furious, he turned to stare at the challenger who had ruined his plan. Then he allowed that thin smile to spread over his face once more.

His challenger was no more than a boy, he realized. Big, certainly, and muscular. But the fresh face under the simple conical helmet couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.

Before the startled members of the King’s council could react, he replied swiftly.

“I accept the challenge!”

He was a second ahead of Duncan’s furious cry: “No! I forbid it!” Realizing he was too late, he sought desperately for a way to prevent this one-sided contest. He forced himself to laugh scornfully at the black-clad figure.

“Really, Morgarath, is this your knightly challenge? You want to fight an apprentice? A mere boy? I’ve always known you as a treacherous swine, but at least I never doubted your courage. Now I see you’ve turned coward as well as traitor.”

Morgarath smiled sardonically at the King before he answered.

“Is that the best you can do, Duncan?” he asked. “Do you really think I’ll fall for such a transparent ploy? Do you believe I
care
what you or your toadies think of me? I’ll fight the boy, and I’ll do it gladly. As you know, once a challenge is given and accepted, there can be no withdrawal.”

He was right, of course. The strict rules of chivalry and knighthood, by which they had all sworn solemn oaths to be bound, did decree just that. Morgarath smiled now at the boy beside him. He would make short work of him. And the boy’s quick death would serve to infuriate Halt even more.

Halt, meanwhile, watched the Lord of Rain and Night through slitted eyes.

“Morgarath, you’re already a dead man,” he muttered.

Halt felt a firm hand on his arm and he turned to look into Sir David’s grim eyes. The Battlemaster had his sword drawn and resting over his right shoulder.

“The boy will have to take his chances, Halt,” he said.

“What chances? He has no chance!” Halt replied.

Sir David acknowledged the fact sadly. “Be that as it may. You can’t interfere in this combat. I’ll stop you if I even think you’re going to try. Don’t make me do that. We’ve been friends far too long.”

He held Halt’s angry gaze for a few seconds, then the Ranger agreed bitterly. He knew the knight wasn’t bluffing. The codes of chivalry meant everything to him.

The byplay hadn’t been lost on Morgarath. He was confident that the moment the boy fell, Halt would accept his original challenge, King’s orders or no King’s orders. And then, at least, Morgarath would know the satisfaction of killing his old, hated enemy before his own world came crashing down around him.

He turned now to Horace.

“What weapons, boy?” he said in an insulting tone. “How do you choose to fight?”

Horace’s face was white and strained with fear. For a moment, his voice was trapped inside his throat. He wasn’t sure what had come over him when he’d galloped forward and issued his challenge. It certainly wasn’t something he’d planned. A red rage had overtaken him and he had found himself out here in front of the entire army, throwing his gauntlet into Morgarath’s startled face. Then he thought of Morgarath’s threat to Will, and how he’d been forced to leave his friend at the bridge and he managed, at last, to speak.

“As we are,” he said. Both of them carried swords. In addition, Morgarath’s long, kite-shaped shield hung at his saddle and Horace carried his round buckler slung on his back. But Morgarath’s sword was a two-handed broadsword, nearly a foot longer than the standard cavalry sword Horace carried. Morgarath turned now to call once more to Duncan.

“The whelp chooses to fight as we are. You’ll stand by the rules of conduct, I assume, Duncan?” he said.

“You’ll fight unmolested,” Duncan agreed in a bitter tone. Those were the rules of single combat.

Morgarath nodded and made a mocking bow in the King’s direction.

“Just be sure that murderous Ranger Halt understands that,” he said, continuing his plan of driving Halt to a cold fury. “I know he has little knowledge of the rules of knighthood and chivalry.”

“Morgarath,” said Duncan coldly, “don’t try to pretend that what you’re doing has any connection with real chivalry. I ask you one more time, spare the boy’s life.”

Morgarath feigned a surprised expression. “Spare him, Your Majesty? He’s a lump of a boy, big for his age. Who knows, you might be better served asking him to spare me.”

“If you must persist with murder, that’s your choice, Morgarath. But save us your sarcasm,” said Duncan. Again Morgarath made that mocking bow. Then he said casually, over his shoulder, to Horace:

“Are you ready, boy?”

Horace swallowed once, then nodded.

“Yes,” he said.

It was Gilan who saw what was coming and managed to shout a warning, just in time. The huge broadsword had snaked out of its scabbard with incredible speed and Morgarath swung it backhanded at the boy beside him. Warned by the shout, Horace rolled to one side, the blade hissing inches above his head.

In the same movement, Morgarath had set spurs to his dead-white horse and was galloping away, reaching for his shield and settling it on his left arm. His mocking laughter carried back to Horace as the boy recovered.

“Then let’s get started!” He laughed, and Horace felt his throat go dry as he realized he was now fighting for his life.