A Man Rides Through (61 page)

Geraden was clearer. He, too, jerked free of Prince Kragen. Swinging toward the throne, he cried out like a trumpet, "My lord King—! Houseldon is destroyed. Sternwall is falling. The people of Fayle are butchered by ghouls.
Your
people, my lord King, everywhere!"

King Joyse was on his feet. Terisa hadn't seen him stand: she only saw him standing now, towering over her on the pediment with his beard thrust forward and his hair full of light.

"And?"
he demanded.
"And?"

As if he left her no choice, she replied, "And the Queen is gone. She's been abducted."

Then her stomach knotted as if she were about to be sick.

The idea that he would crumple now, that she had hurt the King hard enough to break him, was too much for her. Prince Kragen was shouting, "You fools! He will have me killed!" Too late. She turned her back on King Joyse, hugged her arms over her belly.

A movement on the balcony caught her eye. She cast a glance upward in time to see one of the archers fold to the floor.

Hands grabbed her, spun her. King Joyse had come down from his seat so fast that she didn't have time to think, to react; he clenched his fists in her soft shirt. Shouting the King's name, Geraden tried to intervene. King Joyse thrust him away.

"Who took her?" The king seemed to swell over Terisa. His eyes were blue fire; his teeth flashed; he shook her as if her heart were an empty sack. "I'll have that man's head!
Who took her?"

Terisa struggled to turn her head, look back up at the balcony. But King Joyse was shaking her too hard; she couldn't get her gaze into focus.

"Alends!" cried Geraden. "She was taken by Alends!"

So suddenly that Terisa nearly fell, King Joyse dropped her. His sword came into his hands swiftly, catching the light like a whip of fire.

She stumbled around to scan the balcony.

Three of the archers were down.

The rest were so engrossed in the scene below them that they hadn't realized what was happening.

King Joyse and Prince Kragen confronted each other. The Prince had drawn his own blade: the tips of their swords danced at each other in the glow of the lamps and candles.

"Where is she?" demanded the King.

Wildly, Geraden pushed himself between the blades. "They were dressed like Alends!" he panted. "We think it's a trick! Prince Kragen came here to prove his good faith!" Before his King could cut him down, he added, "Torrent went after her. She's going to leave a trail for help to follow."

"The balcony," Terisa said. She was hardly able to hear herself.

Shielded by Geraden, Prince Kragen lowered his sword. Facing King Joyse regally over Geraden's shoulder, he avowed, "My lord King, I spit on the men who did this to you. And I spit on the cheap ploy which made them appear Alend. I would rather die than become a man who can only gain his ends by violence against women."

He was too late: the blow which felled him was already in motion. Too quickly for any reaction—even from King Joyse—Artagel reared up behind the Prince and chopped him so hard across the back of the neck that he went down as if he had been hit with an axe.

At the same time, Castellan Lebbick cried like a howl of glee,
"Gart!"

Terisa could see the High King's Monomach now. As the fourth archer went down, Gart rounded the balcony to attack those on the other side. He was black and swift, a slash of midnight, and his sword seemed to splash blood in all directions.

The remaining archers had their bows ready to protect King Joyse from Prince Kragen. Instantly, they shifted their aim toward Gart and let fly.

Unfortunately, he wasn't alone. He had a number of his Apts with him. Swooping like shadows, they caught the archers from behind, hacking the guards down, spoiling their aim. Only one of the arrows went true.

Gart knocked the shaft aside with the flat of his blade.

His return stroke beheaded the nearest archer. The head flopped lopsidedly over the balcony railing and fell among the benches with a thud.

Men yelled everywhere. Castellan Lebbick roared, "I'm coming, you bastard!
I'm coming!"
and sprinted toward a door hidden behind one of the screens. Most of the Imagers started to flee. Master Barsonage lashed them back to his side with curses.

Geraden cried at Artagel uselessly, "You idiot!"

"I didn't know!" retorted Artagel. Looking frantic and self-disgusted, he flung a glance up at the balcony, at Gart, then scanned the hall; he couldn't decide what to do. In spite of his uncertainty, however, he didn't hesitate to help himself to Prince Kragen's sword.

Laconic in the tumult, Norge demanded reinforcements. Two of the captains headed out of the hall to rally Orison; the rest of Lebbick's men followed him toward the stairwell to the balcony.

The noise awakened the Tor. He opened his eyes with a snuffle and gazed around blearily.

Terisa felt that she was still watching the severed head flop off the balcony and fall. The sound when it hit the bench was unmistakable: she would remember it for the rest of her life. She had to get out of the way, but for some reason she couldn't move. Geraden turned toward the Masters: she thought she heard him ask, "Can you fight? Have you got mirrors with you?" The strain around Artagel's eyes was clear as he hefted the Prince's blade; he moved stiffly. She knew as if he had explained his dilemma at length that he yearned to go after Gart—that he feared to go because he was no match for the High King's Monomach. Distinctly, she heard a Master snap, "We brought none. How could we know that mirrors would be needed in the audience hall?" She really ought to get moving. Before Gart or his Apts had a chance to come after her.

Instead of moving, she waited until she felt
a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slide straight through the center of her abdomen.

Then she flipped forward, dove to the floor, rolled away. When she got her feet under her again, she ran toward Geraden and the Masters.

Out of the air where she had been standing stepped Master Gilbur and Master Eremis.

Master Gilbur gripped his dagger in one fist. The hunch of his back and the thickness of his arms made his hands look as powerful as battering rams.

Master Eremis carried a sword in a scabbard belted around his jet cloak. His chief weapon was already in his hands, however.

A mirror the size and shape of a roofing tile.

With a precision that seemed like lunacy, she noticed that both men still wore their chasubles.

Immediately, Master Gilbur leaped to attack Prince Kragen.

Grinning happily, Master Eremis came toward Terisa and Geraden.

There were no guards to oppose them. Norge's reinforcements hadn't arrived. And the rest of the men had followed Castellan Lebbick.

Lebbick burst out onto the balcony with his sword in both hands, snarling for blood. And he almost caught Gart. Unfamiliar with the stairwell, Gart couldn't know where it opened; out of ignorance, he had placed himself in an awkward position. Nevertheless he countered Lebbick's first cut, blocked it against the railing so hard that chips flew. Retreating nimbly, he countered the backstroke.

That gave him all the time he needed to recover his balance.

Behind the Castellan, six guards and as many captains led by Norge rushed from the stairwell one at a time to engage the Monomach's Apts.

Gart had only four men with him: they were badly outnumbered. But the balcony was too narrow for any two men to stand and fight abreast. Gart blocked Lebbick on one side; on the other, an Apt battled the first pikeman to come at him. The rest of the defenders were caught in the middle, helpless.

Gart struck furiously, trying to jam his opponents against each other; he almost succeeded at driving the Castellan backward. Lebbick slipped one blow, blocked a second which hit hard enough to jar his joints and leave a notch on his blade. But he was happy at last, nearly ecstatic at the chance to fight without restraint. Savage joy
lit his face as he held Gart's attack.

"Bastard!" he panted. "I'll teach you to think you can do what you want in my castle!"

Behind him, unfortunately, the first pikeman didn't fare as well. The guard probably hadn't had a fraction of the training given to Gart's Apts. He stumbled; and his black-armored opponent gutted him almost without effort, then used the moment of surprise while he fell to cut halfway through the nearest captain's chest.

Norge stooped, snatched up one of the bows. So placidly that he didn't seem to be hurrying, he flipped a shaft into the Apt's throat.

Across the hall, one of Gart's men recklessly flung a dagger. It should have missed from that distance: its target should have seen it coming. Unluckily, he didn't. The guard went down with the blade buried in his left eye.

Norge shot the Apt cleanly in the chest.

Gart's gaze swept the balcony. He took in the positions of the people below him. Instead of ripping Castellan Lebbick's parries aside, the High King's Monomach began to give ground.

Artagel watched what was happening above him for one more moment, then turned his attention to Master Gilbur.

Plainly, Gilbur intended to kill the Alend Contender.

It was also plain that he wasn't going to succeed. Artagel's side was sore and tight; in some sense, he was a cripple. Nevertheless he could have handled a lone Imager armed with only a dagger in his sleep.

"Guard the Prince!" shouted the Tor for no discernible reason. He was on his feet, his legs splayed, swaying under the influence of too much wine.

Smiling pleasantly, Artagel aimed Prince Kragen's sword—and barely saved himself when Master Gilbur turned suddenly, picked up one of the benches, and hurled it at his head.

A corner of the bench punched his shoulder, and he went down; he hit the floor heavily, lost his direction. The Master's strength was prodigious. How was it possible to fight somebody who could throw benches around with one hand? Shock numbed Artagel's shoulder, but he ignored it. He ignored his side. Suppressing any kind of pain, he surged upright again as smoothly as he could—

Facing in the wrong direction.

He wheeled back to the Prince's sprawling body just in time to block Master Gilbur's dagger.

Roaring, Gilbur hit Artagel's blade so hard that Artagel nearly dropped it.

Nearly: not quite.

Mustering his balance, his poise, his old skill, Artagel pointed his sword at the base of Master Gilbur's throat and dared the Imager to move again.

The struggle over Prince Kragen apparently held no interest for Master Eremis. He approached Geraden and Terisa and the knot of Masters as if he were on the verge of an epiphany. His smile was so keen it seemed to cut the air. When Geraden cried in frustration, "Doesn't anyone have a mirror?" Eremis began to laugh.

He tightened his fingers, murmured something Terisa couldn't hear.

Instantly, a creature the size and shape of a fruit-bat swept out of the glass, flapped forward, and fastened itself to the nearest Imager's cheek.

The man toppled backward, screaming.

"Eremis!"
Geraden yelled as if that were the worst obscenity he knew. From under his jerkin, he produced a knife—an eating utensil he must have appropriated at breakfast—and threw it with all his strength.

For once in his life, he did something right. He had never trained with a knife; but by chance his blade shattered the glass in Eremis' hand as neatly as if that was what he had intended all along. Splinters sprayed out of Eremis' grasp, glittering like jewels in the light.

The Master's laugh turned to a snarl.

While he ripped out his sword, the doors of the hall slammed open and twenty guards charged inward.

Norge's reinforcements.