Lewin knew that such archery at such a range had to be elven. Even in his innermost heart, where he despised the elves as much or more than he did the other lesser races, he acknowledged their prowess at archery. But they had used that prowess, to kill a man sworn to the Knights of Solamnia. There could be no further question of the embassy’s immunity from attack and capture. Lewin preferred to capture the elves, because even in a red rage he knew that many questions needed answering and dead elves would answer none.
He would not, however, much care whether elves taken in arms against him and his men survived to say anything at all. He rode forward, drawing his men after him. They in turn drew the sell-swords after them. The whole array surged toward the citadel walls, clambered over the rubble, flowed to either side of the fight around Sir Darin. They were plagued by archery from the walls, but convinced that in moments they would be ending it and avenging fallen comrades.
The only one on the field who recognized Darin as a Knight of Solamnia and thought that madness had been unleashed was Sir Esthazas. He was not only far junior to Sir Lewin but was also far to the rear of the other Solamnics-his assigned and therefore honorable position. Even so, from there he could not help fight the madness.
By the time the defenders’ archery and the attackers’ advance were both in full spate, Pirvan had arrived at the wall on that side. Messages that Darin was in peril had reached him; what he saw made the messages seem tame.
The younger knight had cleared around him a circle littered with the dead and dying. Even in a desperate battle, he seemed to be trying not to step on the enemy’s wounded!
But he could not break out, anymore than his foes could break in. About all that kept Darin alive besides his own prowess was that all the sell-swords’ archers were well to the fore, trying to beat down the defenders’ archery. They were making headway, too, by sheer weight of numbers-one elf was already down with a bleeding thigh, and two humans were hurt and one was dead.
Meanwhile, there was Sir Lewin, whom Pirvan now recognized. He even hailed the Knight of the Rose several times. Lewin did not seem to even hear. Was it Pirvan’s hails lost in the battle din, or Lewin’s judgment fled in battle fury?
Only one way to be sure-and only one man who could do that particular work. Pirvan grasped one of the grappling hooks held ready to pull down scaling ladders and set the prongs into a crack in the stonework. Then he gripped the attached rope and lowered himself over the battlements.
The hook pulled loose about the time someone on the walls noticed what their commander was doing. The thud of Pirvan’s landing and the yells of protest came simultaneously. Pirvan rolled with his old agility, came up with sword in hand, waved to the staring faces above, and ran toward the swirling fight around Darin.
Back to back, he and Darin should both survive, and in surviving make enough trouble for the sell-swords to draw Lewin’s notice. Lewin of Trenfar could not be thick skulled enough to go on fighting after that, or Sir Marod would never have trained him!
No messenger needed to carry word of Pirvan’s departure. The shouts from the wall on his side told everyone in the citadel, including Rynthala.
She sent a messenger to Tharash to mount the archers. She thought of sending one to Pirvan’s men-at-arms, but she had no authority over them, and they would doubtless move at once when they heard of the knight’s whereabouts.
She also thought briefly of a message to her parents, who stood with Threehands and Haimya on the wall facing the first two attacking columns. They no longer really deserved the name, but nobody in Belkuthas was prepared to turn their back on nearly a thousand armed enemies.
She slung her bow and ran toward the stables. She had no time to go herself, and what she really wanted to say, no messenger should carry. Besides, if she fell today, it was likely enough that even with her last breath she could say it to Darin herself.
Tharash was already mounted, with eight archers, and the men-at-arms were plainly chafing to move out as well. The old elf was grinning through the dust on his long face.
“I left a couple of the lads to keep an eye on those Silvanesti volunteers,” he said. “They can take care of themselves against enemies, but we may need to keep Lauthin the Loud out of their hair.”
He lowered his voice. “The sell-swords wanted to join us, too. I didn’t quite trust them, so I said that we couldn’t take anybody who wasn’t already mounted. Rugal Nis wasn’t happy, but he swallowed it.”
“Well done, Tharash. We may yet see today’s sunset.”
“Don’t wager anything you can’t afford to lose, Lady Rynthi.”
“I’m already wagering my life, old friend. Lose that, and what else is there?”
Rynthala sprang into the saddle without touching her stirrups, and turned her horse without touching the reins. “Follow me and-where do you think you’re going, Eskaia?”
“My post of duty is beside my father, Rynthala. It is kind of you to provide an escort for me.”
Rynthala would have erupted in rage at the Solamnic woman’s impudence-except that Tharash and Pirvan’s men-at-arms erupted in laughter first.
The heiress to Belkuthas finally joined the laughter. “Very well. It seems rescuing people from their own folly has become this days’ favorite sport at Belkuthas. Let us go and join the games!”
Pirvan had covered nearly a hundred paces before anyone noticed him-the virtue of climbing down the wall.
It helped further that the sell-swords wore many colors, except for those who wore none. In his light armor, bareheaded, and carrying only sword and dagger, Pirvan looked rather like one of the better-off foot soldiers, or perhaps a dismounted light horseman.
All of this luck took Pirvan to within thirty paces of Darin. He had just hailed the younger knight when a fresh torrent of enemies following Sir Lewin rushed up. This time they did not flow past the circle around Darin, as if it were a rock in a stream. This time many of them joined the circle, and began pressing it inward.
Pirvan looked about for a captain with some authority, or better yet, Sir Lewin. He searched with increasing desperation, in the middle of an archery duel, with the sell-swords’ bowmen and the men on the wall filling the air with shafts. Pirvan could not say if he and Darin were more likely to be skewered by friend or by foe.
The one task he had to accomplish was, fortunately, the one closest to hand-saving Sir Darin.
Honor forbade Pirvan the simplest opening, which was to stab in the back the nearest half dozen men in the circle, cut down the next few as they turned to face him, and go on wielding steel until either he went down or he and Darin joined forces.
So he filled his lungs and shouted:
“Belkuthas forever!”
Then he started slashing and stabbing, as men whirled to face this new apparition.
“Slashing and stabbing” is a very inadequate description of Pirvan’s bladework. Those qualified to judge, who lived to tell their tales, said they had never seen a man half Pirvan’s age move so quickly. He was not the most accomplished swordsman they had ever seen, but his speed and his dagger added to the sword made him formidable, even terrifying.
They also made him deadly, to at least a dozen men in less time than it would have taken them to empty a jug of wine. Of the sell-swords, some lacked skill with weapons, some lacked strength, all lacked the willingness to stand by a stranger. None had anything they cared to risk losing by facing a swordsman apparently sprung from the Abyss to hurl them down to death.
With Pirvan distracting half the circle around him, Sir Darin waded into the other half. The younger knight was an accomplished swordsman, he had a shield as both defense and weapon, and the sheer length of his reach had already slain many and frightened more into flight.