Twenty-Nine
They found the plateau, an exposed spot, very drear and rocky, with a belt of dark fir trees at its far side. Midway across, Giolitti had joined two other Roman soldiers, all on horseback. They wore the orange leggings and cloaks of the Fourteenth, but by their ornamented breastplates, roundels and greaves, and the plumes on their helms, the other two were high-ranking officers. One in particular, though he bore the same dents and abrasions of his comrades, had polished his plate so that it shone in the afternoon sun. His visor was drawn down, covering his face. Even from a distance Lucan could see that he was taut with fear.
As the new arrivals reined up, Giolitti approached them. “My master requests that you fight on foot,” he said.
“On foot?” Lucan replied. “He’s a cavalry officer, is he not?”
“His horse is lame.”
“As you wish.” Lucan and his men dismounted, Wulfstan signalling to Malvolio to take charge of the horses.
“There are some formalities first…” Giolitti began.
“There are no formalities,” Lucan interrupted. “Let’s get on with it.”
He put on his helmet, drew Heaven’s Messenger and was handed one of their few remaining shields, kite-shaped and painted jet-black. He advanced warily but confidently, the sword-blade angled on his right shoulder. By contrast, the visored Roman almost stumbled as he came forward. He’d drawn his gladius and hefted his round cavalry shield, which, though bossed and rimmed with iron, was far too small for hand-to-hand combat on foot.
The combatants halted when they were a couple of yards apart. In the intensity of the moment, it was probably understandable that neither noticed the favours bound to each other’s hilts — a red scarf for Lucan, a blue scarf for Rufio.
Though well concealed beneath polished plate, the Roman’s limbs were visibly shaking. In some ways this made it the more impressive that he had come here voluntarily. He must have known Lucan’s reputation, and Trelawna would certainly have made an effort to stop him. Assuming, of course, that this actually was Felix Rufio.
Lucan removed his own helm and said: “Let me see your face.”
The Roman lifted his visor. Only half the visage beneath was visible, but it was bathed with a sweat of fear. The eyes — bright, glassy baubles — had fixed on Lucan’s pale, scarred features as though mesmerised. Lucan immediately recognised the man who had verbally jousted with him at Camelot. He briefly wondered, that this twitching, thin-whiskered thing, clearly so terrified of him, could really be the source of all his woe.
“Felix Rufio.” Lucan’s voice dripped ice. “Welcome to the end of your days.”
“Wait!” Alaric cried. “Where is Countess Trelawna?”
Lucan glanced around, briefly puzzled. He’d expected Trelawna to be here, and it was a surprise to him that he had not noticed she wasn’t. What that said about the fight and his reasons for it, he didn’t like to ponder. He raised an eyebrow at Felix Rufio.
“In a place of safety,” the Roman said.
“A place of safety?” Alaric replied. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means nothing,” Lucan decided, pulling on his helmet. “Because from me, no such place exists. En garde, Rufio!”
Lucan lunged straight into the duel with a smashing overhead blow.
Rufio just had time to fend with his shield, which was cloven almost in two. He tottered backward. Lucan threw his own shield down; ostensibly a chivalrous measure, but now he took Heaven’s Messenger in both hands. Those who knew him of old had witnessed the power of his double-handed blows. Rufio backed away, gladius still hefted, but the black-clad avenger stalked him like a panther. The longsword swept around again. Rufio deflected it with a ringing clash, but so fierce was the impact that it numbed him to the shoulder. Again he staggered away. Lucan pursued, the slanted eye-slots giving him a demonic appearance. He launched a third blow, now from overhead. Again Rufio parried; again he was jolted to the breastbone. He staggered, the sweat inside his helmet blinding him. Saliva bubbled from his lips as he tried to stop himself from whimpering in fear.
“Are you going to fight or keep running?” Lucan growled.
Rufio could barely think straight. Suddenly his entire world, his whole experience of life had condensed to this handful of seconds; his survival through each one was all that mattered. But the next blow came with such devastating power that the gladius was swept from his grasp and sent spinning across the ground.
Lucan lowered Heaven’s Messenger and regarded the abject, cowering figure. Slowly, he removed his helmet and pulled back his coif. “Do you intend to die fighting like a man, or butchered like a hog?” he said. “Pick that sword up!”
Rufio tripped as he went after his weapon. He scrambled towards it on hands and knees, his Roman seconds watching in despair. When he grabbed the gladius, he stumbled back to his feet and waved it ineffectually.
“I’ve come all this way for such as you?” Lucan said. “I wouldn’t normally sully my steel. But too many good men are groaning in the darkness, waiting for justice.”
He drew Heaven’s Messenger back for the final stroke — and it was taken from him.
Snatched from his hand.
By something that had descended from above.
Some thing.
It was essentially female, in that it had a head with long, streaming hair, and arms, legs and breasts, but in place of hands and feet were eagle’s talons, and in place of skin it had a hard rind of greenish scales. It was immense in size; twice the height of a normal man, its bat-like wings spanning maybe fifteen feet. Its face was its most repellent aspect: a grotesque visage with bunches of bone sprouting from its brows and cheeks, a jutting chin and nose, and jagged spades for teeth. With an ululating shriek, it lofted skyward with its prize, a mane as wild and green as seaweed billowing around it.
At first the men could only gape, Briton and Roman alike.
Maximion, incredulous, shouted: “Stymphalianus!”30
The monster clutched Heaven’s Messenger triumphantly as it hovered, wielding it by the hilt. Lucan could barely comprehend what he was seeing, although one reality stung him quickly: Heaven’s Messenger — the sword his father had told him could never know defeat — was now, suddenly, to be turned against him.
The monster dropped with furious speed, and Lucan evaded the blade by inches, diving and rolling on the ground. Hubert, next in line, drew his own sword and parried the blow, but the winged monstrosity lashed out with its other claw and caught him by the harness, carrying him kicking and shouting into the air. It rose inexorably to ninety feet or more — and released him.
Hubert plummeted to earth in silence, landing with a ghastly crunch of bones.
In the midst of this mayhem, with men ducking for cover, Malvolio was unable to handle the horses. They tore free in their terror and bolted. Meanwhile, Rufio’s Roman seconds dashed forward, hauled him to his feet and hustled him from the field.
The winged horror swooped again on Lucan’s scattering force. It cut Guthlac down with a blow across his shoulders, which cut through his leather hauberk and shore deep into the muscle and tendons beneath. The man-at-arms staggered forward and dropped, sliding to a halt on his knees — only for the beast to catch him with its feet and wing its way skyward again. His blood rained across the others as it tore and slashed him apart in mid-air, before hurling him in a tumbling arc.
Then the first arrow struck it.
Davy Lug — less the archer than he once was, having lost an eye — had still managed to retrieve several feathered shafts from the dead baboons in the village, and now launched them one after another. The fourth was the first to make real impact, transfixing the monster’s right foot. The next caught it a glancing blow to its jutting, bony forehead, but sixth struck it clean in the right eye, burying itself in the soft pulp.