It had happened so fast. The second rider, who a moment ago had been beside me, had vanished. All I saw was a flash of armour disappearing into the forest, pursued by half a dozen Armagnaken hurling curses and stones. Near my feet the first guard’s horse flailed in a froth of blood and mud. The dying hooves still had enough power that there could be no thought of rescuing the rider trapped under the mount. We probably could not save ourselves.
With a final whimper, the horse rolled over and lay still. I darted forward. Ignoring the guard’s pleas, I grabbed the sword he had dropped and ran back. I had never wielded one before: I had no idea it could be so heavy. I dragged it along the ground like a plough and offered it to Kaspar.
‘Don’t waste your time.’ He pulled a dagger from a fold of his cloak and threw the scabbard away. ‘Have you got a knife?’
‘Only a penknife.’ In all the hours patiently trimming reeds and quills with that knife, I had never imagined my life might depend on it.
Many of the pilgrims already lay dead, but a few had managed to form a line across a narrow gap between two houses. They jabbed the Armagnaken back with their staffs: one had managed to find a billhook, which he swung with lethal effect. It only served to draw more of the wild men onto him.
‘The mill,’ I said. ‘It’s stone: they can’t burn it. Maybe we can find a storeroom to hide in.’
‘We’ll be trapped against the river.’
I remembered Kaspar’s fear of water. But we would not get far in the dark forest. Before Kaspar could argue, I started across the square.
The fighting was desperate. Nick sat hunched over the keyboard, firing off sequences of buttons that launched the Wanderer in a blizzard of dizzying lunges and parries. He hadn’t played the game in months, but somehow the commands had written themselves into his subconscious. Hordes of goblins pressed all around him, while the black knight paced in the background, directing the battle.
The Wanderer tripped one goblin and stabbed him through the back, blocked an incoming sword and leapfrogged his next opponent’s spear thrust. He landed behind, spun round and sliced off the goblin’s head with a single cut. To his right, he saw Urthred wheeling and leaping like a dancer as he fended off the enemies who pressed around him. The tip of his staff smouldered with magic fire: any goblin who touched it reeled back with a burning scar seared into him.
‘Keep close to the tree.’ Randall’s voice was calm and concentrated. On screen, he somersaulted into the air and swept his staff around full circle. A shock wave of green fire rippled out around him, throwing back a whole cohort of the goblins who ringed him. The bodies lay there for a second, then faded away. But more rushed in to take their places almost immediately, pressing hard to drive him back from the oak tree.
Nick tried to advance. Goblins hemmed him in, jabbing and stabbing from all sides. Their computer-generated attacks never tired, while fatigue was beginning to take its toll on Nick. A goblin charged; Nick moved to duck and come up under his guard but nothing happened. The Wanderer just stood there, unnaturally still, utterly vulnerable.
He must have pressed the wrong key. He stabbed at the keyboard to get it right, but too late. The goblin’s spear struck the Wanderer clean in the stomach. He staggered back, arms flailing; Nick tried to bring up his sword in defence but the game wouldn’t respond to his desperate commands. His health status flashed red. The goblin raised the spear over his shoulder for the killing blow.
A bolt of lightning crackled across the clearing from the end of Urthred’s staff; it lifted the goblin off the ground and sent him spinning into oblivion. The Wanderer jumped back, stabbed the next attacker and turned to thank-
‘Urthred!’
Seeing his chance, the black knight had waded back into the battle. The goblin army were like dogs at his feet. He towered over Urthred, whirling his mace over his head. Urthred turned; he flung out his staff and shouted an incantation.
But the lightning strike had drained the last of his magic. The spiked mace head struck the staff and splintered it in two. The surrounding goblins edged back obediently, forming a circle around the two combatants as Urthred wearily drew his sword.
‘Get to the tree.’
On screen, Urthred was swaying like a drunkard, ducking and rolling to avoid the thundering sweeps of the mace. Through the speakers, Randall sounded close to exhaustion. Nick glanced at the oak. Above its tangled roots a glowing sphere had appeared, a ball of light hovering among the branches like forbidden fruit.
The black knight must have known what it was. With a roar of fury he swung the mace and struck Urthred on the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground. The goblins shrieked in triumph as they poured in to finish him.
‘Randall?’
There was no answer. The black knight strode towards the tree, kicking goblins out of his way as he walked. Nick checked his health. His avatar was bruised and bloody, his robes torn. One more blow would finish him. There must be fifty goblins between him and the tree, and the black knight was almost there.
We slipped between two houses and crouched behind a wattle fence. Night had almost fallen: the battle had become a fog of blurred shapes and sharp sounds. Some of the Armagnaken had kindled torches, windows in the darkness revealing ghastly tableaux of savagery.
I heard footsteps to my left and ducked down. Through the gnarled weave of the fence I saw a woman run past, closely followed by two Armagnaken. One carried an enormous club which he swiped merrily as he pursued her. It looked too huge to wield, until I saw it was actually a lute held by its neck. He must have plundered it from one of the houses. He swung it again, missing the woman and smashing into a post he had not seen in the dark. With a twang and a groan, the lute shattered. He tossed it aside and carried on.
The way was clear. We vaulted over the fence and sprinted over the open ground to the mill door. My foot snagged on something; I almost tripped, but fear drove me on. Grey clouds puffed up like spectres around our feet as we crossed the spilled flour. Then we were inside.
The mill smelled like a stable. Straw crackled underfoot, and dust in the air coated my tongue. I heard the toil of stone, the creak of axles, the rush of water under my feet. Oblivious to the horror outside, the mill grumbled on. I found it strangely comforting.
I put out my hand and steadied myself on Kaspar’s shoulder. We felt our way forward through the cluttered room, careful lest we catch ourselves in some piece of the mechanism.
We reached a wall and edged along it. I felt a door, pulled it open. Cold air rushed over my face together with a blast of noise: the rattles, splashes and squeaks of the wheel turning in the mill race. Looking down, I could see silver foam where the paddles churned the water.
‘Not that way,’ I whispered. I left the door open to admit what light there was and carried on.
All of a sudden the room lit up like a lantern. I spun around, blinking. Two Armagnaken stood in the door. One was a hunched ogre of a man, with a hooked nose and bulging cheeks; he carried a burning brand in one hand and an axe in the other. His companion was very different: an angel, with soft fair hair gone gold in the torchlight, buttery skin and slender shoulders. It was a strange beauty to behold in that awful moment.
They saw us at once. The ogre whooped with delight; the angel smiled. He lifted his arms into the light, and I saw they were drenched in blood up to the elbow. He carried a sickle.
The ogre went to his right, picking his way over the debris of fallen rafters and broken furniture that littered the floor. The angel stayed by the door, watching. The smile never left his face.