By the time he reached the bottom of the hill he could just hear the sound of something going on at the top over the pounding of his own heart. He kept running, without knowing how; he was a boat on the back of a big wave, arching its back like a cat before jumping on its prey. At one point he had to jump over the dead body of a monk to keep himself from tripping and sprawling. Someone was screaming somewhere, but he had no way of knowing what it was about.
The next monk he met was definitely still on his feet, a lay brother who stepped out of a house a yard or so in front of him holding a short pike. Yesterday he'd have stopped and taken guard, knowing how difficult it is for a swordsman to get the better of a spearman in a one-to-one fight. Today he swerved round him, slashing wildly as he went past to ward off any thrust the man might make-no intention of killing anybody, just defence. He didn't feel any shock of contact run up his arm from the sword blade, and he didn't have time to look round. The lay brother was dead anyway, he'd already seen it, so there didn't seem to be much point.
His magic strength evaporated, suddenly and completely, about fifty yards from the top of the hill. Without warning his knees folded under him, and once he'd stopped he felt a pain in his chest so severe that nothing else could possibly matter. When he could at last see again he watched the raiders engulfing a couple of lone sword-monks who'd stood and waited for them instead of running away. When the raiders had passed them by, they were still there, but broken and cut up, ground into the dirt until their shapes ceased to be human.
(So this is how the raiders win all their battles, he decided; the deadly secret of their success. What would General Cronan have thought of it, he wondered; would he have realised that there was nothing at all to be done about it, this ability to run past and through their enemies as if they weren't really there? He dismissed the thought abruptly.)
'Dawdling again.' His self-appointed shadow, directly behind him. 'What's the matter, stone in your shoe?'
'Worn out,' Poldarn replied. 'All this running about is too bloody energetic for me.'
The voice laughed. 'You need to get yourself in shape,' it said. 'You'll miss out on the good bit if you aren't careful.'
'There's a good bit?'
'Oh yes,' the voice replied, 'there's a good bit.'
Poldarn found the good bit soon afterwards, after he'd dragged himself up the rest of the slope and into the abbey proper. The porters hadn't had time to close the gates; the raiders had streamed past them, cutting them down as they went almost as an afterthought. The monks were spilling out into the yard singly or in groups of two or three, apparently not realising what was going on-many of them weren't wearing their swords-and the raiders were surging up round them, six or seven to one. That was beyond the limits of religion; even the most advanced forms, practised by the upper ten per cent of the order, only envisaged facing four opponents at once. Faced with such blatant violation of the rules, such an abomination, the monks weren't even trying to draw, and those that did found their cuts parried with moves that weren't on the syllabus, while illegally placed enemies stepped up behind them and severed their necks. True, a group of about twenty monks were crowded together in the doorway of a janitor's hut and were standing shoulder to shoulder, their drawn swords forming an impenetrable fence; but the raiders were standing off fifteen yards or so and pelting them with bricks from a pile left over from some minor building works. Poldarn watched, fascinated; for the first dozen seconds or so, the monks managed to bat the bricks out of the air with their swords (those lovingly nursed cutting edges, sharpened with a steel instead of a stone and lightly anointed with camellia oil every night and every morning), but then there was one brick too many, and it cracked a monk just about the right eyebrow and he grunted and folded up; one gap compromised the wall, and five seconds later the raiders rushed in to chop up the fallen. They're overwhelming the monks, Poldarn thought, just as they overwhelmed me. They don't fight, they simply prevail. Like gods.
A monk came running straight at him. He recognised him: Torcuat, who'd presided over his defeat and humiliation, back when he'd tried to escape. Torcuat's face was distorted into a mask of sheer hatred; it was the masterpiece of a great artist who'd spend his entire life trying to paint the pure essence of an emotion. His sword was drawn and he was holding it in both hands over his head as he ran. Poldarn turned to face him and flipped the backsabre over the back of his hand-showing off, and he didn't know why, it had just happened-and just as the monk edged against the outer limit of his circle, like a runner breasting the finishing rope, he stuck out his hand with the sabre in it, a very short, mundane little movement, the sort of thing a novice would do from pure instinct on his first day in the schools. Torcuat's momentum drove the broad point deep into his stomach until it jarred against bone, whereupon the shock of contact shot up Poldarn's arm to his elbow, making him let go. Torcuat fell forward on to the sabre hilt, and as he landed, the sword-point burst through his back like a crocus.
I didn't do anything, really, Poldarn thought, as he rolled the dead monk on to his side with his boot. He had to stand on Torcuat's chest to get enough purchase to haul the sword out again (but he couldn't just abandon it, it didn't belong to him). I suppose that counts as revenge, but I wasn't really all that fussed. I didn't blame him, personally.
'Nicely,' said the voice behind his shoulder. 'These freaks, they think they know it all, but when it comes to a real fight, they haven't got a clue.'
Poldarn straightened his back. 'No,' he said, 'they haven't.'
'Goes to show,' the voice went on. 'If you'd been one of them, I expect you'd have tried to have a fencing match. But you sorted him out just like I'd have done, so I guess you're one of us after all. So that's all right.'
'Good,' Poldarn said. Part of him seemed to mean it.
'Right,' the voice went on, 'now that I've seen you kill one of 'em, not much point in me hanging round you any more. You carry on, and have a good time. Any idea where they keep the small, valuable stuff?'
Poldarn thought for a moment. 'You could try the abbot's lodgings,' he said. 'I saw some nice inkwells and candlesticks and small silver lamps.'
'Sounds good to me,' the voice said, and someone brushed past Poldarn's left shoulder. He got a glimpse of the man's back as he strode away.
This, then, was the good bit. Judging by the number of bodies scattered round the main yard, most of the monks must already be dead; certainly, their numbers had to have fallen below the critical point where they could no longer mount any kind of meaningful resistance. Poldarn guessed that there would now be a short interval for looting, after which they'd burn the place down and be on their way-down the hill into the town, maybe, or perhaps their schedule wouldn't allow it. Over at the coach-house, they were backing out carts ready to be loaded up with good things (harvest festival, bringing home the fruits of hard work and divine favour). And for his own part, he was on his own, with nobody watching. Copis, he thought.
Of course, he had no way of knowing whether she was still alive, or still in the abbey, let alone where to find her, but instinct had served him well this far, and he had nothing else to do. If she was still alive, chances were she'd be in whatever the monks used as a prison or dungeon. From what he'd seen of the order, he figured it was a safe bet they had something of the sort.