The Burning Bridge Page 22

  “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.

  34

  MORGARATH WAS WHEELING HIS HORSE IN A WIDE CIRCLE TO gain room. Horace knew that he’d swing around soon and charge down on him, using the momentum of his charge as much as the force of his sword to try to strike him from the saddle.

  Guiding his horse with his knees, he swung away in the opposite direction, shrugging his buckler around from where it hung on his back and slipping his left arm through the straps. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Morgarath, eighty meters away, spurring his horse forward in a charge. Horace clapped his heels into his own horse’s ribs and swung him back to face the black-clad figure.

  The two sets of hoofbeats overlapped, merged, then overlapped once more as the riders thundered toward each other. Knowing his opponent had the advantage of reach, Horace determined to let him strike the first blow, then attempt a counterstrike as they passed. They were nearly on each other now and Morgarath suddenly rose in his stirrups and, from his full height, swung an overhand blow at the boy. Horace, expecting the move, threw up his shield.

  The power behind Morgarath’s blow was devastating. The sword had Morgarath’s immense height, the strength of his arm and the momentum of his galloping horse behind it. Timing it to perfection, he had channeled all those separate forces and focused them into his sword as it cleaved down. Horace had never in his life felt such destructive force. Those watching winced at the ringing crash of sword on shield and they saw Horace sway under the mighty stroke, almost knocked clean from his saddle on the first pass.

  All thought of a counterstrike was gone now. It was all he could do to regain his saddle as his horse skittered away, dancing sideways, as Morgarath’s mount, trained for battle, lashed out with its rear hooves.

  Horace’s left arm, his shield arm, was rendered completely numb by the terrible force of the blow. He shrugged it repeatedly as he rode away, moving the arm in small circles to try to regain some feeling. Finally, he felt a dull ache there that seemed to stretch the entire length of the limb. Now he knew real fear. All his training, he realized, all his practice, was nothing compared to Morgarath’s years and years of experience.

  He wheeled to face Morgarath and rode in again. On the first pass, they had met shield to shield. This time, he saw his
opponent was angling to pass on his right side—his sword arm side—and he realized that the next shattering blow would not land on his shield. He would have to parry with his own sword. His mouth was dry as he galloped forward, trying desperately to remember what Gilan had taught him.

  But Gilan had never prepared him to face such overpowering strength. He knew he couldn’t take the risk of gripping his sword lightly and tightening at the moment of impact. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword and, suddenly, Morgarath was upon him and the massive broadsword swung in a glittering arc at his head. Horace threw up his own sword to parry, just in time.

  The mighty crash and slithering scream of steel on steel set the watchers’ nerves jangling. Again, Horace reeled in the saddle from the force of the blow. His right arm was numb from fingertip to elbow. He knew that he would have to find a way to avoid Morgarath’s near-paralyzing blows. But he couldn’t think how.

  He heard hoofbeats close behind and, turning, realized that this time, Morgarath hadn’t gone on to gain ground for another charge. Instead, he had wheeled his horse almost immediately, sacrificing the extra force gained in the charge for the sake of a fast follow-up attack. The broadsword swung back again.

  Horace reared his horse onto its hind legs, spinning it in place, and taking Morgarath’s sword on his shield once more. This time, the force behind it was a little less devastating, but not by much. Horace cut twice at the black lord, forehand and backhand. His smaller, lighter sword was faster to wield than the mighty broadsword, but his right arm was still numb from the parry and his strokes had little power behind them. Morgarath deflected them easily, almost contemptuously, with his shield, then cut again at Horace, overhand this time, standing in his stirrups for extra purchase.

  Once again, Horace’s shield took the force of the sword stroke. The circular piece of steel was bent almost double by the two massive strokes it had taken. Much more of this and it would be virtually useless to him. He spurred his horse away from Morgarath, scrambling to remain mounted.

  His breath now came in rapid gasps and sweat covered his face. It was as much the sweat of fear as of exertion. He shook his head desperately to clear his vision. Morgarath was riding in again. Horace changed his direction at the last moment, dragging his horse’s head to the left, taking him across the path of Morgarath’s charging horse as he tried to evade that huge sword. Morgarath saw it coming and changed to a backhand stroke, crashing it onto the rim of Horace’s shield.

  The broadsword bit deep into the steel of the shield, then caught there. Seizing the moment, Horace stood in his stirrups and cut overhand at Morgarath. The black shield came up just a fraction too late and Horace’s blow glanced off the black, beaked helmet. He felt the shock of it up his arm, but this time, the jarring felt good. He cut again as Morgarath wrenched and heaved to remove his sword.

  This time, Morgarath caught the blow on his shield. But for the first time, Horace managed to put some authority behind the stroke and the Lord of Rain and Night grunted as he was rocked in his saddle. His shield dropped fractionally.

  Now Horace used the shorter blade of his sword to lunge at the gap that had opened between shield and body and drove the point at Morgarath’s ribs. For a moment, those watching felt a brief flare of hope. But the black armor held against the thrust, which was delivered from a cramped position and had little force behind it. Nonetheless, it hurt Morgarath, cracking a rib behind the mail armor, and he cursed in pain and jerked at his own sword once more.

  And then, disaster!

  Weakened by the crushing blows Morgarath had struck at it, Horace’s shield simply gave way. The huge sword tore free at last, and as it went, it ripped loose the leather straps that held the shield on Horace’s arm. The battered, misshapen shield came free and spun away into the air. Horace reeled in the saddle again, desperately trying to retain his balance. Too close to use the full length of his blade, Morgarath slammed the double-handed hilt of the sword into the side of the boy’s helmet and the onlookers groaned in dismay as Horace fell from his saddle.

  His foot caught in the stirrup and he was dragged for twenty meters or so behind his terrified, galloping horse. Oddly enough, that fact probably saved his life, as he was carried clear of the murderous reach of Morgarath’s broadsword. Finally managing to kick himself free, he rolled in the dust, his sword still grasped in his right hand.

  Staggering, he regained his feet, his eyes full of sweat and dust. Dimly, he saw Morgarath bearing down on him again. Gripping his sword with both hands, he blocked the downward cut of the huge sword, but was beaten to his knees by the force of it. A flailing rear hoof took him in the ribs and he went down in the dust again as Morgarath galloped clear.

  A hush had fallen over the watchers. The Wargals were unmoved by the spectacle, but the kingdom’s army watched the one-sided contest in silent horror. The end was inevitable, they all knew.

  Slowly, painfully, Horace climbed to his feet once more. Morgarath wheeled his horse and set himself for another charge. Horace watched him coming, knowing that this contest could have only one possible result. A desperate idea was forming in his mind as the dead-white battlehorse thundered toward him, heading to his right, leaving Morgarath room to strike down with his sword. Horace had no idea whether or not his armor would protect him from what he had in mind. He could be killed. Then, dully, he laughed at himself. He was going to be killed anyway.

  He tensed himself, ready. The horse was almost upon him now, swerving away to his right to leave Morgarath striking room. In the last few meters, Horace hurled himself to the right after it, deliberately throwing himself under the horse’s front hooves.

  Unprepared for his suicidal action, the horse tried desperately to avoid him. Its forelegs crossed and it stumbled, then somersaulted in a tangle of legs and body into the dust. A great, wordless cry went up from the onlookers as, for a moment, the scene was obscured by a cloud of roiling dust. Horace felt a hoof strike him in the back, between the shoulder blades, then saw a brief red flash as another slammed into his helmet, breaking the strap and knocking it from his head. Then he was hit more times than he could count and the world was a blur of pain and dust and, most of all, noise.

  As his horse went down, Morgarath somehow kicked his feet out of the stirrups and fell clear. He crashed heavily to the ground, the broadsword falling from his grasp.

  Screaming in rage and fear, the white horse struggled to its feet again. It kicked one more time at the prone figure that had brought it down, then trotted away. Horace grunted with pain and tried to stand. He came to his knees and, vaguely, he heard the swelling cheers of the watching army.

  Then the cheers gradually died away as the still, black-clad figure a few meters away began to move.

  Morgarath was winded, nothing more. He dragged in a vast lungful of air and stood. He looked around, saw the broadsword lying half buried in the dust and moved to retrieve it. Horace’s heart sank as the tall figure, outlined now against the low afternoon sun, began to advance on him, one long stride at a time. Desperately, Horace retrieved his own sword and scrambled to his feet. There was hardly an inch of his body that wasn’t throbbing with pain. Groggy and trying to focus, he saw that Morgarath had discarded his triangular black shield. Now, holding the broadsword in a two-handed grip, he advanced.

  Again came that nerve-jangling, screeching clash of steel. Morgarath rained blow after blow down on Horace’s sword. Desperately, the apprentice warrior parried and blocked. But with each massive blow, his arms were losing their strength. He began to back away, but still Morgarath came on, beating down Horace’s defense with blow after shattering blow.

  And then, as Horace allowed the point of his sword to drop, unable to find the strength to keep it up anymore, Morgarath’s huge broadsword whistled down one last time, smashing onto the smaller sword and snapping the blade in two.

  He stepped back now, a cruel smile on his face, as Horace stared dumbly at the shorn-off blade in his right hand.


  “I think we’re nearly finished now,” Morgarath said in that soft, toneless voice. Horace still looked at the useless sword. Almost unconsciously, his left hand reached for his dagger and slid it from its sheath. Morgarath saw the movement and laughed.

  “I don’t think that will do you much good,” he sneered. Then, deliberately, he took the great broadsword up and back for a final, mighty overhand blow that would cleave Horace to the waist.

  It was Gilan who realized what was going to happen, a second before it did.

  The broadsword began its downward arc, splitting the air. And now Horace, throwing everything into one final effort, stepped forward, crossing the two blades he held, the dagger supporting the shortened sword.

  The locked blades took the impact of Morgarath’s mighty stroke. But Horace had stepped close to the taller man, and so reduced the leverage of the long blade and the force of the blow. Morgarath’s sword clanged into the X formed by the two blades.

  Horace’s knees buckled, then held, and for a moment Morgarath and he stood locked, chest to chest. Horace could see the puzzled fury on the madman’s face. Then the fury turned to surprise and Morgarath felt a deep, burning agony pour through his body as Horace slipped the dagger free and, with every ounce of his strength behind it, drove it through Morgarath’s chain mail and up into his heart.

  Slowly, the Lord of Rain and Night sagged and crumpled to the ground.

  Stunned silence gripped the onlookers for a good ten seconds. Then the cheering started.

  35

  WHAT HAD, A FEW MINUTES BEFORE, BEEN A BATTLEFIELD NOW became a confusion. The Wargal army, released in an instant from Morgarath’s mind control, now milled mindlessly about, waiting for some force to tell them what to do next. All sense of aggression had left them and most of them simply dropped their weapons and wandered off. Others sat down and sang quietly to themselves. Without Morgarath’s direction, they were like little children.