The peasants vaulted the ditch and struck into the Moorish army.
Too late, the Moors realized the trap and turned to repel the “peasants”… but they were packed too tightly to fight well; their scimitars needed room. The defenders, though, jabbed and stabbed with their pikes and halberds. Someone began to sing Sir Guy’s war song, and the troopers who came running down the hillside joined in as they struck and struck again, hardened pikes ramming through boiled-leather armor and stabbing unarmored horses:
Chanting, Alisande’s army hewed its way through the wall of Moors.
At the head of the column, Alisande did the best she could to hew, too, but Lord Gautier and his knights were always there before her. The Moors, who could ordinarily dance rings around the “Franks,” were packed too tightly to do more than try to render blow for blow. The heavier swords and axes of the knights cleaved through the lighter Moorish armor and left a wake of blood as they churned through to the center of the army, and the commander.
Suddenly they were there. Tafas bin Daoud sat waiting on his horse with buckler on one arm and scimitar in the other hand, a comely youth flanked by grizzled, grim veterans. The knights halted, awed by his self-possession, by the sheer charisma of the Mahdi.
Alisande rode out between her courtiers and reined in her horse, amazed by her opponent’s youth. She swung up her visor out of courtesy to a gallant foe.
Tafas inclined his head in respect. “Your Majesty, our hour has come.”
“It need not,” Alisande returned, touched and stricken by the thought of having to strike down a man so young. “I am loath to smite you, boy.”
Tafas’s eyes flashed at the term, but he remained all courtesy. “And I am loath to strike a woman, especially one so fair… but it seems I must.”
“Not at all,” Alisande returned. “You may yet withdraw your armies to Morocco.”
But Tafas shook his head and raised his blade in salute. “I am Tafas bin Daoud of the Rif, and I pray that you may surrender to Allah before the life leaves your body.”
“I am Alisande of Merovence,” the queen returned. “I commend my soul to Christ, and pray that He will grant you the grace to believe in Him and seek baptism ere you die, so that He may receive your soul into Heaven this day.”
Tafas inclined his head again. “I thank you for your good wishes, Your Majesty. Now defend yourself!”
In the mountains behind them, the sorcerer in white gestured and chanted, then cried out in anger as the power he sought to command deserted him.
Tafas howled his ululating war cry and spurred his horse into a gallop, scimitar swinging high.
Someone pressed a lance into Alisande’s hand. She kicked her horse into motion, crying, “For Merovence and Ibile!”
She charged at Tafas, lance level, a ton of force focused on that point… but the Moor danced aside at the last second, chopping down at her lance arm with a blade of Toledo steel. It glanced off the finest armor Merovence could boast and chopped into the lance itself instead. Tafas wrenched it out, almost pulled off his horse by Alisande’s momentum, and the queen reined in. Moors scattered before her, but not one sought to interfere between Queen and Mahdi, nor did a single one of her knights. All understood that this must be a battle of the two commanders.
Tafas rode madly at Alisande’s back, but she managed to turn her horse in time… as he had planned, for his stroke slashed down even as her gaze fell upon him. But Alisande had turned her horse counterclockwise, so that it was her shield at which he swung. The Moorish blade slid off it. Tafas recovered and swung his blade high again, but Alisande’s own sword flashed out, and the Mahdi had to abort his own stroke to turn and take her blow on his buckler.
For a moment, they circled one another, swords raised, each seeking an opening. Then Alisande struck, and sword rang on sword, blows rained on shield and helmet. At last the two opponents drew back, both breathing heavily, both wary and watching for the slightest opening… but neither bleeding from even the slightest wound.
The knights and Moors shouted with joy. Slowly, the footmen stopped their slaughter, turning to watch.
Tafas slashed at Alisande’s waist, and her shield moved too slowly; one hip plate fell, its thongs cut through. The Moors shouted at this sign of victory, and Tafas galloped around Alisande’s horse with blinding speed. She tried to turn with him, to keep her shield between them, but he came up on her right, feinted high, then struck low, at the joint exposed by the lost plate. Alisande dropped her point as quickly as he slashed, though, parrying, then stabbing at him so quickly that he couldn’t lean aside fast enough, and a trail of blood gleamed on his cheek.
The knights of Merovence roared approval; the cavalry of Morocco shouted in rage.
Tafas drew back, face darkening in anger, but he knew the score was even again… his cut was equal to Alisande’s lost plate. Then he leaped his horse forward, blade slashing and circling too fast for eye to follow, until it stabbed straight at Alisande’s eye-slits. But the queen ducked at the last moment and the scimitar glanced ringing off her helmet. She came up stabbing, and Tafas barely managed to drop his buckler in time to deflect her sword… but it scored a long groove in his breastplate.
Both sides were shouting so constantly now that neither Mahdi nor queen could hear their own strokes.
They circled each other, gasping in hoarse gulps and wearying, each seeking an opening, neither finding any.
Then Tafas shouted, “O Nirobus! Grant me power now, I pray, that I may strike down this enemy of Islam!” He held his sword high, waiting.
Alisande stared, spellbound by the action, dread creeping over her as she waited for magic to strike.
Then she recovered, realizing what an opportunity Tafas had given her, and struck at his undefended side.
Tafas swept his sword down with a cry of dismay, barely managing to parry. “Nirobus! Why do you desert me now?”
He was meat for her cleaving, Alisande realized, weakened by fatigue and now by despair… and if she could just summon the energy to strike, she could finish him with one blow.
She tried to lift her arm, but she was just too weary.
On the road half a mile away, Mama suddenly straightened in her saddle. “Ramon! She needs us!”
“Sir Guy!” Papa cried. “We must race!”
“No!” Mama held up her hand, then caught his. “We will come too late! It is energy she needs now, not an army!” Her eyes glazed and she chanted in Spanish, then went limp. So did Papa. He felt suddenly weary. He hoped his strength had saved his daughter-in-law.
Energy suddenly gushed through her. Alisande swung her sword up with a cry of triumph and slashed at the Mahdi. The sword went flying from his hand.
The Moorish knights shouted in anger and started to move in… then froze as they saw the queen’s sword, unwavering, fixed directly before the Mahdi’s eyes. “I charge you yield, my lord,” Alisande panted, “and all your army with you.”
“I cannot,” Tafas said, pale and taut “Strike.”
A shout went up, Merovencian troopers pointing out across the fields. Alisande spared a quick glance and saw men in European livery running across the furrows toward the rear of the Moorish army. “It is the King of Ibile!” Lord Gautier cried. “King Rinaldo rides!”