"I doubt it, since they both sue for the same woman." Delilah tossed back her head, eyelids drooping. "But we shall make sure of him. I shall see to the bandit myself. He is not worth killing, that one—but he is certainly worth a few moments' attention." She glided out of the room.
The men all stared after her.
The women knew why Delilah was willing to do it—it was her victory over Cordelia, if not as she had originally planned it.
At that moment, each of the men would have slain Forrest happily, if by doing so, they could have changed places with him.
But since they could not, they went to slay Alain.
CHAPTER 15
Alain dreamed that Delilah was bending over him, loosening the fastenings of her gown—but she changed even as she loosened, becoming Cordelia; and even as she was sliding the gown down over her hips, she was murmuring with excitement, "Alain! Alain, wake up!"
But why was her voice urgent instead of seductive? And why were her ears growing into points? In fact, why was she turning into an elf?
"Crown Prince! Awaken!"
Alain's eyelids snapped open. It must have been a dream. Cordelia would never address him by his title. He lay very still, and heard the voice again. "Waken, Crown Prince!"
Alain lay unmoving, his gaze flicking about the room. Then he saw the brownie woman, hanging from the bedpost, calling down, "Crown Prince, awaken!" She glanced nervously up at the door. "Waken, Prince Alain!"
"I have waked." Alain sat up.
"Praise be!" the elf breathed. "They come to slay thee, Prince! Catch up thy sword and flee!"
More than his sword—Alain, like most medieval folk, slept naked. He leaped out of bed and seized his hose. Fortunately, he had left all the points tied, and had only unbuckled the belt. Now he had only to wrestle the hose on, not pausing to smooth them out, and buckle up.
"Quickly, quickly!" the brownie woman hissed. "Wilt thou lose thy life for a pair of drawers? Surely 'tis better to live naked than to die clothed!"
If they had sent a male elf, Alain probably would have agreed—but as it was, he was embarrassed to be seen naked by a woman. Standing up, he buckled his belt, then caught up his baldric, throwing it over his head and drawing both sword and dagger.
Just in time. The door swung open, slowly, without a squeak.
Alain held his breath and stepped back against the wall. His impulse was to leap out and start stabbing, but he needed to be sure that the men were truly hostile before he would let himself strike a blow that might kill. If they were, he intended to make sure he had them all in sight before he began work.
One ... two ... and they held swords and daggers drawn! Three ... four ... five ... none more came in; they moved toward the bed.
Silent as a cat, Alain circled opposite their direction, slipping behind the tapestry that hung on the wall. Peering around its edge, he watched the five men gather around the bed in the darkness. What cowards were they! So many men, to slay one poor sleeping knight! Anger boiled within him at the treachery. He tried to let it ebb, but not too far, for it held at bay the fear that had begun to pool in his stomach. He remembered what Geoffrey had told him—that all the swordsmen Alain had ever fought would never have dared to beat the Crown Prince. Had the bandits known who he was? Had the witch's henchmen?
But these men did not, or if they did, they did not care. Alain realized that he was about to discover whether or not he really was a capable swordsman. Why they wished to kill him, he did not ask—there would be time enough to understand it later.
"Light," the first man hissed.
A beam speared out. Alain blinked with surprise—he had not heard the sliding of a metal shutter, nor did he smell the flame-heated tin of a lantern. What manner of men were these?
He stepped out from behind the tapestry, circling behind their backs toward the door.
"He is fled!" the leader hissed. "Where ...?"
"There!" another man shouted, his forger spearing at Alain.
The leader spun wide-eyed, as Alain threw himself forward in a lunge, howling, "Havoc!"
The nearest man fell back, barely getting his sword around in time to parry—which was perfect, because Alain whirled his thrust into a slash, coming in low and cutting upward. The man cried out and fell back, holding his hands to his side. Alain braced himself and yanked the sword free as the man fell—but even as he did, he was catching the second swordsman's blade on his dagger. Not quite well enough—the blade nicked his shoulder, but Alain ignored the pain. He didn't even take time to riposte, only pulled the sword straight out of one man and stabbed it into the next. The second's sword managed to parry at the very last second, but Alain slipped his blade around the parry and thrust, scoring the man's thigh. The man howled and collapsed.
Alain sprang aside as the third man lunged. The edge scored the Prince's ribs and the pain burned, but he ignored it and swung backhanded, striking the man on the back of the head with the heel of his hilt even as he raised his dagger to block an assault by the fourth man. He leaped back as the two remaining men crowded him, their blades flickering. He parried, blocked, then slammed a kick into the midriff of the nearest and spun away toward the door.
The leader shouted and charged at him. He leaped aside at the last second, and the man slammed into the wall. Before he could recover, Alain was out the door.
The leader shouted a curse, and his thrown dagger struck Alain on the back of the head. Dizzy for a second, he reeled back against the wall. Then his head cleared, and he leaped to his right, plastered himself back against the wall—and sure enough, the leader came charging out, yelling, "Stop him! Guards! Stop that man!"
Alain caught him in the right shoulder with his dagger. The man spun around, saw Alain's blade chopping down, and sprang aside with a howl of fright. His sword fell from numbed fingers—and one of the other men dragged himself out the door, gasping for breath, but cutting at Alain with his sword.
Alain leaped aside, then cut low, slicing the man's calf. It would have been a foul blow in a foil match, but here, it spared his opponent's life. The man cried out and collapsed.
But the leader was running away down the hall, crying, "A rescue! A rescue! Seize him!"
Alarm, and the old instinct to chase when you're winning, almost sent Alain after him, but prudence dictated that he find an escape.
"Flee, King's Son!" cried the brownie from the lintel. In answer came shouting from around the corner, and the sound of boots running. The rattle of steel punctuated the drumming.
Alain whirled about and ran down the hallway, not knowing where he was going, a wild exhilaration beating in his breast, for he was alive, and his enemies were disabled. He decided that perhaps he was as good a swordsman as he had thought.
A section of panelled wall swung out before him. He jarred to a halt, dagger up, sword on guard, panting, the feet and the shouting swelling closer behind him. Alain stood, ready for whatever danger would come at him out of this secret door ...
An elf leaped through, crying, "Inside, King's Son! Quickly, ere they come in sight of thee!"
Alain didn't argue. He ducked down and shot into the hole behind the panelling. The door clapped shut behind him, and he knelt in the darkened space, holding his breath, though his lungs clamored for air. The pounding feet came closer, the shouting was louder and louder, and his heart was hammering within him ...
Then the feet were fading away, and the shouting with them.