Figures sprang from the stairwell, silent, stabbing. The sentries howled “Murder!” even as they parried one spear after another, howled and howled until steel thudded through their chests and into the doorjambs. They died, but the rest of the bodyguard came boiling out. The fighting was thick and furious then, but the way was narrow, and though there were only fifty bodyguards, they forced the attackers back into the stairwell.
Then the door of the bedchamber slammed open and the duke strode out in his robe, calling, “Slay them! Slay every traitorous one of them!”
Then figures rose up behind him—a butler, two footmen, and half a dozen potboys. Hard hands pinioned his arms and a carving knife pressed against his throat. “Guards, throw down your weapons,” the butler cried, “or your duke dies!”
The bodyguards froze.
“Throw them down!” the duke cried in a strangled tone.
Slowly, the bodyguards dropped their spears. The soldiers swarmed back up the stairs with coils of rope to tie them fast while the butler and his men took the duke back inside, to seat him in his bedside chair with all due respect—and naked blades. His wife thrust herself back against the headboard, eyes wide in fright, blankets clutched at her throat.
“Peace, my lady,” the butler soothed. “No harm shall come to you—so long as you stay in your bed.”
Earl Pomeroy had better spies than most. In the dead of night, his soldiers surrounded the revolutionaries, raised spears, and stabbed them dead in their bunks. Then they hauled the dead bodies out into the bailey, to the foot of the stairs that led down from the main door of the keep, where the earl stood, hands on his hips, laughing with vindictive satisfaction. He came down to kick at the bodies, shouting abuse, after which he went back to his bed to sleep soundly, and so did his soldiers.
When they woke, the courtyard was filled with outlaws, and the only soldiers who still lived were tied to their bunks. Duke Trangray, of course, woke to find himself surrounded by spearpoints, with a white-haired sergeant saying, very courteously, “My lord, we ask that you consider our requests.”
The duke went red with fury. He ranted, he raved, he swore—but the spears never wavered, and under the circumstances, he could hardly refuse.
But less than half isn’t enough, and in every barracks, half a dozen soldiers woke to see revolutionaries tying down their comrades. They leaped to their feet, catching up their weapons, and ran bellowing to the attack. Steel rang in every barracks; the fighting spilled out into the courtyard. In two duchies, far from the King’s Town, the rebels were conquered and butchered where they stood—but in all others, when the fighting was done, a handful of sergeants presented themselves to their lord, panting, to bow and hear him command, “Slay them all!”
“I regret that we cannot obey you in this, my lord,” the oldest sergeant said. “We will obey you in all that is lawful, but we will no longer murder our fellows.”
Each lord paled as he realized his loyalists had lost, and that the only soldiers remaining to him were victorious rebels.
The king woke to clamor and saw his own troops fighting one another in the courtyard. Over the battle towered a huge knight in full armor, knocking down any other knight who came near, his back guarded by a smaller armored figure. “Insanity!” swore the king, and called for his own armor. Fully clad and horsed, he rode out to the melee but found the fighting done, except for a cluster of knights who stood at bay, surrounded by a forest of pikes and halberds. The scene was frozen, though; neither knight nor soldier moved.
The huge armored figure rode up to the king, breathing in huge hoarse gasps. The man pushed up his visor and bowed. “Your Majesty,” said Sir Gar, “I bring word that the armies of all three dukes are immobilized, and will not fight.”
The king’s heart sang; in his own army, at least, the loyalists had won! “Seize the opportunity!” he cried. “Attack them one by one, and bring them to me bound in chains!”
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” the giant replied, “but I will not fight this war, nor will any of your soldiers who still stand armed.”
The king stared, frozen by the magnitude of the realization that in his own army, it was the rebels who had won after all—and that Sir Gar Pike led them!
Then he shouted in fury. “To me! To me, all men of mine!” His bodyguard formed up around their monarch, then followed him into battle, swerving around Sir Gar and striking hard into the forest of pikes. He broke through to his knights, and they rallied to him with a shout. Bellowing, they tore into the throng of serf-soldiers, laying about them with sword and mace, striking down from horseback, not caring whether they hit loyal man or rebel. They didn’t notice that one knight after another was falling from his horse until, finally, a space opened around the king as if by magic, and a huge armored form faced him, mounted on a horse as high as his own. Another armored figure rode out beside him, sword and shield upraised, moving toward the few remaining Kings knights.
The knights braced themselves, then charged as one, yelling. But quarterstaves tipped half of them from their saddles as they leaped into motion, and the smaller knight rode to meet the rest, laying about him, parrying cut after cut and counterthrusting while knight after knight fell crashing to the ground. The last two knights suddenly realized what was happening and charged down at Dirk, bellowing. He ducked one thrust and stabbed in under the gorget, then turned to the other knight just in time for a roundhouse swing to smash into that knight’s helmet, toppling him from his saddle. But a soldier leaped up to grab his arm and dragged down, while two others levered him from his saddle. The man fell, crashing.
“Is this your idea of honor, Sir Gar?” the king demanded, his voice thick with fury.
“Your Majesty,” the giant said gravely, his voice hollow within his helmet, “your subjects ask that you listen to their petition.”
The king roared with inarticulate fury and spurred his horse. He swung a huge blow with his sword, but Sir Gar caught it on his shield, then caught the next and the next, never returning the blows until the king drew back, panting and trembling, but still furious. “You are no knight! You are a traitor to chivalry!”
“You shall not fight this war,” Sir Gar told him.
“Who are you to tell me whether or not I shall attack my dukes!” the king ranted. “You are a foreigner, a ne’er-do-well knight so incompetent that you could not even find a lord to take you into his household, but had to sell your lance instead! Mercenary! Hireling! Who do you think you are?”
“I am Sir Magnus d’Armand,” the faceless helm answered. “I am of the line of the Counts d’Armand of Maxima, and the son of Lord Rodney Gallowglass of Gramarye, knighted by the king himself.”
The king sat rigid. Then his voice hissed out. “A nobleman? A son of a lord, and his heir? And you strike against your own class?”
“Noblesse oblige,” Gar replied, “and your dukes and earls have forgotten the obligations of their stations. We must remind them of those together, you and L”
“How dare you!” the king whispered. “ ‘You and I’? How dare you! ” Suddenly, his voice turned calculating. “Of which obligations do you speak? Would you remind my dukes of their obligations to their king?”