"Really, Morgarath, is this your knightly challenge? You want to fight an apprentice? A mere boy? I've always known you as a treacherous swine, but at least I never doubted your courage. Now I see you've turned coward as well as traitor."
Morgarath smiled sardonically at the King before he answered.
"Is that the best you can do, Duncan?" he asked. "Do you really think I'll fall for such a transparent ploy? Do you believe I care what you or your toadies think of me? I'll fight the boy, and I'll do it gladly. As you know, once a challenge is given and accepted, there can be no withdrawal."
He was right, of course. The strict rules of chivalry and knighthood, by which they had all sworn solemn oaths to be bound, did decree just that. Morgarath smiled now at the boy beside him. He would make short work of him. And the boy's quick death would serve to infuriate Halt even more.
Halt, meanwhile, watched the Lord of Rain and Night through slitted eyes.
"Morgarath, you're already a dead man," he muttered.
Halt felt a firm hand on his arm and he turned to look into Sir David's grim eyes. The Battlemaster had his sword drawn and resting over his right shoulder.
"The boy will have to take his chances, Halt," he said.
"What chances? He has no chance!" Halt replied.
Sir David acknowledged the fact sadly. "Be that as it may. You can't interfere in this combat. I'll stop you if I even think you're going to try. Don't make me do that. We've been friends far too long."
He held Halt's angry gaze for a few seconds, then the Ranger agreed bitterly. He knew the knight wasn't bluffing. The codes of chivalry meant everything to him.
The byplay hadn't been lost on Morgarath. He was confident that the moment the boy fell, Halt would accept his original challenge, King's orders or no King's orders. And then, at least, Morgarath would know the satisfaction of killing his old, hated enemy before his own world came crashing down around him.
He turned now to Horace.
"What weapons, boy?" he said in an insulting tone. "How do you choose to fight?"
Horace's face was white and strained with fear. For a moment, his voice was trapped inside his throat. He wasn't sure what had come over him when he'd galloped forward and issued his challenge. It certainly wasn't something he'd planned. A red rage had overtaken him and he had found himself out here in front of the entire army, throwing his gauntlet into Morgarath's startled face. Then he thought of Morgarath's threat to Will, and how he'd been forced to leave his friend at the bridge and he managed, at last, to speak.
"As we are," he said. Both of them carried swords. In addition, Morgarath's long, kite-shaped shield hung at his saddle and Horace carried his round buckler slung on his back. But Morgarath's sword was a two-handed broadsword, nearly a foot longer than the standard cavalry sword Horace carried. Morgarath turned now to call once more to Duncan.
"The whelp chooses to fight as we are. You'll stand by the rules of conduct, I assume, Duncan?" he said.
"You'll fight unmolested," Duncan agreed in a bitter tone. Those were the rules of single combat.
Morgarath nodded and made a mocking bow in the King's direction.
"Just be sure that murderous Ranger Halt understands that," he said, continuing his plan of driving Halt to a cold fury. "I know he has little knowledge of the rules of knighthood and chivalry."
"Morgarath," said Duncan coldly, "don't try to pretend that what you're doing has any connection with real chivalry. I ask you one more time, spare the boy's life."
Morgarath feigned a surprised expression. "Spare him, Your Majesty? He's a lump of a boy, big for his age. Who knows, you might be better served asking him to spare me."
"If you must persist with murder, that's your choice, Morgarath. But save us your sarcasm," said Duncan. Again Morgarath made that mocking bow. Then he said casually, over his shoulder, to Horace:
"Are you ready, boy?"
Horace swallowed once, then nodded.
"Yes," he said.
It was Gilan who saw what was coming and managed to shout a warning, just in time. The huge broadsword had snaked out of its scabbard with incredible speed and Morgarath swung it backhanded at the boy beside him. Warned by the shout, Horace rolled to one side, the blade hissing inches above his head.
In the same movement, Morgarath had set spurs to his dead-white horse and was galloping away, reaching for his shield and settling it on his left arm. His mocking laughter carried back to Horace as the boy recovered.
"Then let's get started!" He laughed, and Horace felt his throat go dry as he realized he was now fighting for his life.
34
M ORGARATH WAS WHEELING HIS HORSE IN A WIDE CIRCLE TO gain room. Horace knew that he'd swing around soon and charge down on him, using the momentum of his charge as much as the force of his sword to try to strike him from the saddle.
Guiding his horse with his knees, he swung away in the opposite direction, shrugging his buckler around from where it hung on his back and slipping his left arm through the straps. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Morgarath, eighty meters away, spurring his horse forward in a charge. Horace clapped his heels into his own horse's ribs and swung him back to face the black-clad figure.
The two sets of hoofbeats overlapped, merged, then overlapped once more as the riders thundered toward each other. Knowing his opponent had the advantage of reach, Horace determined to let him strike the first blow, then attempt a counterstrike as they passed. They were nearly on each other now and Morgarath suddenly rose in his stirrups and, from his full height, swung an overhand blow at the boy. Horace, expecting the move, threw up his shield.
The power behind Morgarath's blow was devastating. The sword had Morgarath's immense height, the strength of his arm and the momentum of his galloping horse behind it. Timing it to perfection, he had channeled all those separate forces and focused them into his sword as it cleaved down. Horace had never in his life felt such destructive force. Those watching winced at the ringing crash of sword on shield and they saw Horace sway under the mighty stroke, almost knocked clean from his saddle on the first pass.
All thought of a counterstrike was gone now. It was all he could do to regain his saddle as his horse skittered away, dancing sideways, as Morgarath's mount, trained for battle, lashed out with its rear hooves.
Horace's left arm, his shield arm, was rendered completely numb by the terrible force of the blow. He shrugged it repeatedly as he rode away, moving the arm in small circles to try to regain some feeling. Finally, he felt a dull ache there that seemed to stretch the entire length of the limb. Now he knew real fear. All his training, he realized, all his practice, was nothing compared to Morgarath's years and years of experience.
He wheeled to face Morgarath and rode in again. On the first pass, they had met shield to shield. This time, he saw his opponent was angling to pass on his right side-his sword arm side-and he realized that the next shattering blow would not land on his shield. He would have to parry with his own sword. His mouth was dry as he galloped forward, trying desperately to remember what Gilan had taught him.
But Gilan had never prepared him to face such overpowering strength. He knew he couldn't take the risk of gripping his sword lightly and tightening at the moment of impact. His knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword and, suddenly, Morgarath was upon him and the massive broadsword swung in a glittering arc at his head. Horace threw up his own sword to parry, just in time.
The mighty crash and slithering scream of steel on steel set the watchers' nerves jangling. Again, Horace reeled in the saddle from the force of the blow. His right arm was numb from fingertip to elbow. He knew that he would have to find a way to avoid Morgarath's near-paralyzing blows. But he couldn't think how.