Instead, he had watched in horror the stabbing, hacking, shoving brawl of blood and dust and screams that had developed before him. Men and Wargals and horses had all died and their bodies sprawled now in the dust of the Plains of Uthal like so many scattered rag dolls. It had been fast and violent and confused. But now, as they rode forward, details began to emerge and he was horrified as he saw the red surcoats of Battleschool apprentices among the dead.
He saw one body, limp and lifeless as the stretcher bearers turned it over, and beneath the blood and dirt that smeared the pale face, he recognized Paul, a Year 4 apprentice who had been an assistant sword drill instructor. Over the past months, as Horace's natural skill with the sword had become evident, he and the older boy had become casual friends. When Horace was hurriedly packing his kit for the trip to Celtica, Paul had come to the barracks to lend him a warm cloak and a pair of strong boots. Now he was dead and the debt would never be repaid. Horace felt a sense of emptiness and loss.
He glanced now at Sir Rodney. The Battlemaster's grim face told him that it was always this way.
Horace's throat was dry and he tried to ease it by swallowing. He felt a sudden stab of doubt. He wondered, if he were called upon to fight, whether he would simply freeze in fear. For the first time in his life, it had been driven home to him that people actually died in battles. And this time, he could be one of those people. He tried to swallow again. This attempt was no more successful than the last.
Morgarath and his remaining soldiers were in a defensive formation at the base of the cliffs. The soft marshy ground held the cavalry back and there was no option but to take the infantry forward and finish the job in bloody hand-to-hand fighting.
Any normal enemy commander would have seen the inevitable result by now and surrendered to spare the lives of his remaining troops. But this was Morgarath and they knew there would be no negotiating. They steeled themselves for the ugly task ahead of them. It would be a bloody and senseless fight, but there was no alternative. Once and for all, Morgarath's power must be broken.
"Nevertheless," said Duncan grimly, as his front rank stopped a bare hundred meters from the Wargals' defensive half circle, "we'll give him the chance to surrender." He drew breath, about to order his trumpeter to sound the signal for a parley, when there was movement at the front rank of the Wargal army.
"Sir!" said Gilan suddenly. "They have a flag of truce!"
The kingdom's leaders looked in surprise as the white flag was unfurled, carried by a Wargal foot soldier. He stepped forward into the clear ground. From deep within the Wargal ranks came a horn signal, five ascending notes-the universal signal that requested a parley. King Duncan made a small gesture of surprise, hesitated, then signaled to his own trumpeter.
"I suppose we'd better hear what he has to say," he said. "Give the reply."
The trumpeter moistened his lips and blew the acceptance in reply-a descending sequence of four notes.
"It will be some kind of trick," said Halt grimly. When the cavalry had swept through the Araluen army to attack the Wargals, he had resumed his place at the command center. Now he frowned at the enemy's latest move. "Morgarath will send a herald to talk while he's making his escape. He'lclass="underline" "
His voice tailed off as the Wargal ranks parted once more and a figure rode forward. Immensely tall and thin, clad in black armor and a beaked black helmet, it was, unmistakably, Morgarath himself. Halt's right hand went instinctively to the quiver slung at his back and, within a second, a heavy, armor-piercing arrow was laid on his bowstring.
King Duncan saw the movement.
"Halt," he said sharply, "I've agreed to a truce. You'll not cause me to break my word, even to Morgarath."
The trumpet signal was a pledge of safety and Halt reluctantly returned the arrow to his quiver. Duncan made quick eye contact with Baron Arald, signaling him to keep a close eye on the Ranger. Halt shrugged. If he chose to put an arrow into Morgarath's heart, neither Baron Arald nor anyone else would be quick enough to stop him.
Slowly, the vulturine figure on the white horse paced forward, his Wargal standard bearer before him. A low murmur rose among the kingdom's army as men saw, for the first time, the man who for the past fifteen years had been a constant threat to their lives and well-being. Morgarath stopped a mere thirty meters from their front rank. He could see the royal party where they had moved forward to meet him. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the small figure hunched in a gray cloak on a shaggy pony.
"Duncan!" he called, his thin voice carrying through the sudden silence. "I claim my rights!"
"You have no rights, Morgarath," the King replied. "You're a rebel and a traitor and a murderer. Surrender now and your men will be spared. That's the only right I will grant you."
"I claim the right of trial by single combat!" Morgarath shouted back, ignoring the King's words. Then he continued contemptuously, "Or are you too cowardly to accept a challenge, Duncan? Will you let thousands more of your men die while you hide behind them? Or will you let fate decide the issue here?"
For a moment, Duncan was caught off guard. Morgarath waited, smiling quietly to himself. He could guess at the thoughts running through the minds of the King and his advisers. He had offered them a course of action that might spare the lives of thousands of their soldiers.
Arald moved his horse alongside the King's and said angrily: "He has no claim to a knight's privileges. He deserves hanging. Nothing more." Some of the others muttered agreement.
"And yet:" said Halt quietly, and they all turned to look at him. "This could solve the problem facing us. The Wargals are mind-bound to Morgarath's will. Now that we can't use cavalry, they'll continue to fight as long as he wills them to. And they'll kill thousands of our men in the process. But, if Morgarath were killed in single combat-"
Tyler interrupted, finishing the thought: "The Wargals would be without direction. Chances are they would simply stop fighting."
Duncan frowned uncertainly. "We don't know that:" he began. Sir David of Caraway interrupted.
"Surely, sir, it's worth a try. Morgarath has outsmarted himself here, I think. He knows we can't resist the chance to end this on a single combat. He's thrown the dice today and lost. But he obviously plans to challenge you-to kill you as a final act of revenge."
"What's your point?" Duncan asked.
"As Royal Battlemaster, I can respond to any challenge made to you, my lord."
There was a brief murmur at this. Morgarath might be a dangerous opponent, but Sir David was the foremost tournament knight of the kingdom. Like his son, he had trained with the fabled Swordmaster MacNeil, and his skill in single combat was legendary. He continued eagerly.
"Morgarath is using the rules of knighthood to gain a chance to kill you, sir. Obviously, he's overlooked the fact that, as King, you can be represented by a champion. Give him the right to challenge. And then let me accept."
Duncan considered the idea. He looked to his advisers and saw grudging agreement. Abruptly, he made up his mind.
"All right," he said finally. "I'll accept his right to challenge. But nobody, nobody, says anything in acceptance. Only me. Is that clear?"