The Lost Stories (25 page)

Now that he was closer to the beacon, all he could see was the circle of flaring light that surrounded it. Outside of that there was only blackness. He shielded his eyes from the direct glare of the flames and peered out to sea. The ship was there, even closer now. His hand went to the cover of his satchel, where the oilskin-wrapped block of dye was ready. He began to unbuckle the retaining strap when he became conscious of movement in the darkness to his right.

“What the blazes are you up to?”

Instinctively, he threw himself sideways. He felt the wind of the battleax as it whipped past him, missing him by centimeters.

HE REGAINED HIS BALANCE AND THE SAXE KNIFE SEEMED TO leap from its scabbard into his hand. He circled so that his back was to the fire and took stock of his attacker.

Big, powerful, and unexpectedly light on his feet. The man matched Will's shuffling movements quickly, never getting off balance. And between them, its head wavering from side to side, was a long-handled, single-bladed battleax.

Without warning, the man swung the ax in a whistling, deadly arc. Will leapt backward, only just avoiding the massive blade. Then, as he tried to close in and get inside the ax's reach, his attacker reversed the blow with incredible speed, swinging the blunt back of the ax at him like a heavy metal club or war hammer, causing him to leap out of the way once more.

The second leap had taken him away from the beacon fire. He contemplated throwing the saxe knife, but he'd seen how fast his assailant was. Chances were he might deflect the knife and Will would be left without a weapon, other than his small throwing knife. Throwing the saxe was very much a last option, he decided.

He backed away, eyes on the ax head as it caught the light of the flames, glittering yellow. He had to get back to the beacon and drop the dye in it. But their constant circling meant that the man was now between him and the fire.

He thought about drawing his throwing knife and using the two knives together. Then he had a sudden memory of a time in Celtica, many years before, when Horace had queried Gilan over the right tactics to use against a man armed with an ax.

“I wouldn't advise anyone to face a battleax with just two knives,” Gilan had told him. As Will recalled, that particular training session had ended with Gilan suggesting that the best tactic might be to jump off a cliff.

At least there's one of them close by, he thought.

The man suddenly swung again and, instinctively, Will threw the saxe up to parry the blow. But the swing was a feint and the man, with incredibly strong wrist work, twisted the ax back again and caught the saxe knife squarely in the middle of the blade. There was a ringing clang and the force of the blow tore the big knife from Will's grip, sending it flying across the headland, the firelight flashing on its pinwheeling blade as it went. At the last moment, Will managed to avoid the follow-up stroke with another desperate leap.

He was farther than ever from the beacon now. He had no time to look and see how close the ship might be. This man was too good, too fast. Somehow, he had to neutralize that ax, with its enormous reach. For a moment, he thought of calling Tug. Then he stopped. The long-handled ax was designed as a weapon for foot soldiers to use against mounted warriors and, more specifically, their horses. Tug would come charging in to save him and the odds were he would be killed or maimed by a stroke from that ax.

An idea came. He slipped the longbow off his shoulder, holding it upright in his right hand, below the grip.

“Planning on shooting me, then, are you?” The man grinned at him. The minute Will reached for an arrow, the ax would split him from shoulder to waist, and they both knew it.

Will shuffled to his left, working his way back to the beacon. The man feinted several times and Will danced out of reach each time. But on each occasion, he managed to get closer to the beacon.

He slipped the satchel from his other shoulder, holding it by the strap, swinging back and forward, threatening the axeman with it. The man's eyes narrowed warily as he watched.

Then Will flipped it overhand so that the strap caught on the edge of the iron firebox and the satchel swung into the fire. It was a totally unexpected move, and the man, expecting Will to swing the satchel at his head or face like a weapon, couldn't stop his eyes from following it. He was distracted for no more than a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Will stepped in and slipped the end of the bow over the head of the ax, snagging the weapon in the narrow gap between the bow and the taut bowstring.

The bowstring was a string in name only. It was a stout cord designed to handle the eighty-pound draw weight of the longbow. Will heaved back on the bow, dragging the ax head down. His opponent tried to pull his weapon clear, and for a moment they struggled. Will had the bow in his right hand, which made it awkward to draw his throwing knife. He scrabbled in his pocket and found a striker, bringing it out and closing his left fist around its heavy brass shape.

The man was still jerking and tugging at the ax, twisting it in an attempt to break it free from the tenuous hold of the bow and the string. Will knew he had only seconds to act. Any moment now, the bow or the string would break.

An immense explosion erupted in the firebox. A blinding pillar of flame, vivid purple in color, shot seven meters into the air.

“What . . . ?” The axeman threw his disengaged left hand up in an instinctive movement to shield himself from the sudden explosion. As he turned toward the firebox in shock, his right jaw was exposed and Will swung the striker as hard as he could, an unsophisticated full round-arm swing that slammed his reinforced fist into the man's jaw—at a point where nerve centers connected to the brain.

Will felt the grip on the ax suddenly loosen as it fell from the man's hands to the grass, its weight dragging the bow tip down with it. A second later, his opponent hit the ground himself, his eyes rolled up in his head, his limbs slack and his body folding up like a rag doll.

Will staggered away from the flaring beacon. Fine grains of purple ash drifted down from the dark night sky and covered him. Shielding his eyes from the blaze, he looked out to sea. The ship had gone about and was clawing away from the beach, heading out to safe waters once more.

And now, for the first time, he became conscious of voices shouting on the beach and the ringing clash of weapons. He turned and looked. There was a large crowd of men visible in the light of the fires and lanterns—many more than the original number of moondarkers. They were fighting and struggling with each other, but as he watched, the fighting died down and it was obvious that one group had gained the upper hand in the struggle. The others were being compelled to sit down on the beach, their hands held behind their heads, under heavy guard. Will wasn't surprised to see a familiar cloaked figure striding among the victorious group, pointing and issuing orders.

He moved over to the prone figure of the axeman, who was beginning to stir now. He rolled him onto his stomach and fastened his hands behind his back with a pair of leather thong thumb cuffs. Then he sank wearily onto the grass to wait for Halt.

As they rode home a few days later, Halt allowed himself one of his rare smiles. The majority of the moondarkers had been captured, with the aid of the Hambley town watch. Two of the wreckers had managed to escape in the confusion on the beach, but the other fourteen had been secured. Most important, the tall bearded man, their leader, was one of the prisoners.

Halt and Will had escorted them, secured together with chains and with their hands shackled, to the nearest garrison castle, where the local lord had been delighted to find room for them in his dungeon. They would be tried at the next District Assizes. With Will's and Halt's sworn testimony noted down by the castle lord's secretary, there was no doubt that they would be convicted. All in all, it was a good result. Although Halt noticed that his young friend didn't seem to share in his sense of satisfaction.

“Why the long face?” he asked.

Will turned to him moodily. “Don't you start. I get enough of that from Tug.”

“Still,” said Halt, seemingly unaware of Tug's interjection, “it's been a good operation. We've shut down the moondarkers, captured their ringleader and saved a ship and its crew. You should be feeling happy.”

“I ruined my bow in the fight,” Will said. “The upper limb is hopelessly twisted. It'll never shoot straight again.”

Halt shrugged. “You can always replace a bow,” he said. “Can't say the same for your head.”

“It was my favorite bow,” Will said.

Halt raised an eyebrow. “Well, that makes it much more valuable than your head, I suppose.”

Will sighed. “I suppose you're right,” he said. “I can always make another bow. But there was something else . . .”

He paused and Halt turned toward him, frowning, wondering what was on his mind. He'd noticed that his usually exuberant young friend had been somewhat withdrawn since his struggle with the axeman on the headland. Will had said little about the encounter and Halt wondered if, in fact, it had been a closer call than he was letting on. Perhaps that fight had shaken his confidence, he thought.

“Something else?” he prompted. If Will was having a reaction to the struggle with the moondarker, it would be better for him to get it out in the open and not bottle it up inside.

“I forgot . . . ,” Will said miserably. “When I threw my satchel in the fire, I forgot that my speech was in there.”

Halt took a few seconds to recognize the full import of the tragedy. Then he spoke very deliberately.

“You threw your speech in the fire?” he said.

Will gave a very dejected nod. “Yes.”

“And . . . would I be right in assuming that this was your only copy of the speech?”

“Yes.”

A long pause. Then: “You didn't make any notes, did you?”

“Well, yes. I did. Quite a lot of them, in fact.”

“Ah. I see.”

“But . . . they were in the satchel too.” Will shook his head and turned to Halt. “Halt, it was such a great speech! I'd been working on it for weeks, you know.”

“I know,” Halt said. He was working very hard to keep his voice noncommittal.

They rode on in silence for several minutes. Then, tentatively, Halt opened the subject once more.

“Can you by any chance remember any of it?” he asked.

Will shook his head. “Not a word. I've been trying ever since. But I can't think of a single word.”

“You know, Will, a great speech is usually a pretty memorable one,” Halt said carefully. He was treading on delicate ground here. The previous time he'd discussed the speech with Will, Pauline had berated him for his lack of sensitivity.

“I suppose so,” Will agreed.

“So, doesn't the fact that you can't remember a single word of that speech tell you anything?”

Will frowned. That thought hadn't occurred to him and he didn't know if he cared to consider it.

“Are you saying that maybe it wasn't such a great speech?”

“No. You're saying that. Let me put it another way. Who is this speech for?” It wasn't grammatical, but Halt had a habit of ignoring good grammar for the sake of brevity and clarity.

“Who? Well, it's for—”

But before he could answer, Halt interrupted.“Is it for the King, or the Baron, or the hundreds of guests who will undoubtedly be present?”

“No.”

“Is it for some future historian, leafing through the records and finding an account of the wedding?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

Will shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. He could see where Halt was going. “I suppose it's for Horace and Evanlyn.”

“You suppose?”

“I know. It's for Horace and Evanlyn.” There was a note of certainty in his voice now.

Halt nodded several times. “And what do you want to say to them?”

“I don't know . . . I suppose I want to say that . . . I love them both. They're two of my very dearest, very oldest friends. That I can't imagine a more perfect match than the two of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they're both brave and loyal and totally honest. They're just perfectly suited to each other. She's bright and vivacious and funny. He's steadfast and utterly dependable. And just as funny in his own quiet way. I would trust my life to either one of them without hesitation. I have done so in the past.”

He paused, thinking, hearing his own words and his true thoughts for the first time, devoid of any false embellishments and overblown phrasing.