The locked blades took the impact of Morgarath's mighty stroke. But Horace had stepped close to the taller man, and so reduced the leverage of the long blade and the force of the blow. Morgarath's sword clanged into the X formed by the two blades.
Horace's knees buckled, then held, and for a moment Morgarath and he stood locked, chest to chest. Horace could see the puzzled fury on the madman's face. Then the fury turned to surprise and Morgarath felt a deep, burning agony pour through his body as Horace slipped the dagger free and, with every ounce of his strength behind it, drove it through Morgarath's chain mail and up into his heart.
Slowly, the Lord of Rain and Night sagged and crumpled to the ground.
Stunned silence gripped the onlookers for a good ten seconds. Then the cheering started.
35
W HAT HAD, A FEWMINUTESBEFORE, BEEN A BATTLEFIELD NOW became a confusion. The Wargal army, released in an instant from Morgarath's mind control, now milled mindlessly about, waiting for some force to tell them what to do next. All sense of aggression had left them and most of them simply dropped their weapons and wandered off. Others sat down and sang quietly to themselves. Without Morgarath's direction, they were like little children.
The group struggling to escape up Three Step Pass now stood mute and unmoving, waiting patiently for those at the front to clear the way.
Duncan surveyed the scene in bewilderment.
"We'll need an army of sheepdogs to round up this lot," he said to Baron Arald, and his councillor smiled in reply.
"Better that than what we faced, my lord," he said, and Duncan had to agree.
The small inner circle of Morgarath's lieutenants was a different matter. Some had been captured, but others had fled into the waste-lands of the fens. Crowley, the Ranger Corps Commandant, shook his head as he realized that he and his men faced many long, hard days in the saddle after this. He would have to assign a Ranger task force to hunt down Morgarath's lieutenants and bring them back to face the King's justice. It was always this way, he thought wryly. While everyone else could sit back and relax, the Rangers' work continued, nonstop.
Horace, bruised, battered and bleeding, had been taken to the King's own tent for treatment. He was badly injured after his insane leap under the battlehorse's hooves. There were several broken bones and he was bleeding from one ear. But amazingly, none of the injuries were critical and the King's own healer, who had examined him immediately, was confident that he would make a full recovery.
Sir Rodney had hurried up to the litter as the bearers were preparing to carry the boy off the field. His mustache bristled with fury as he stood over his apprentice.
"What the hell did you think you were doing?" he roared, and Horace winced. "Who told you to challenge Morgarath? You're nothing but an apprentice, boy, and a damned disobedient one at that!"
Horace wondered if the shouting was going to continue for much longer. If it were, he could almost wish to be back facing Morgarath. He was dazed and sick and dizzy and Sir Rodney's angry red face swam in and out of focus in front of him. The Battlemaster's words seemed to bounce from one side of his skull to the other and back again and he wasn't sure why he was yelling so much. Maybe Morgarath was still alive, he thought groggily, and as the thought struck him, he tried to get up.
Instantly, Rodney's glare faded and his expression changed to one of concern. He gently stopped the wounded apprentice from rising. Then he reached down and gripped the boy's hand in a firm grasp.
"Rest, boy," he said. "You've done enough today. You've done well."
Meanwhile, Halt shoved his way through the harmless Wargals. They gave way without any resistance or resentment as he searched desperately for Will.
But there was no sign of the boy, nor of the King's daughter. Once they had heard Morgarath's taunt, the Araluens had realized that if Will were still alive, there was a chance that Cassandra, as Evanlyn was really called, might have survived as well. The fact that Morgarath hadn't mentioned her indicated that her identity had remained a secret. This, of course, Halt realized, was why she had assumed her maid's name. By doing so, she prevented Morgarath's knowing what a potential lever he had in his hands.
He pushed impatiently through another group of silent Wargals, then stopped as he heard a weak cry from one side.
A Skandian, barely alive, was sitting leaning against the bole of a tree. He had slumped down, his legs stretched straight in front of him in the dust, his head lolling weakly to one side. A huge stain of blood marked the side of his sheepskin vest. A heavy sword lay beside him, his hand too weak to hold it any longer.
He made a feeble scrabbling gesture toward it and his eyes beseeched Halt to help him. Nordal, growing weaker by the moment, had allowed his grasp on the sword to release. Now, weak and almost blinded, he couldn't find it and he knew he was close to death. Halt knelt beside him. He could see there was no potential danger in the man; he was too far gone for any treachery. He took the sword and placed it in the man's lap, putting his hands on the leather-bound hilt.
"Thanks:friend:" Nordal gasped weakly.
Halt nodded sadly. He admired the Skandians as warriors and it bothered him to see one laid as low as this-so weak that he couldn't maintain his grip on his sword. The Ranger knew what that meant to the sea raiders. He rose slowly and began to turn away, then stopped.
Horace had said that Will and Evanlyn had been taken by a small party of Skandians. Maybe this man knew something. He dropped to one knee again and put a hand on the man's face, turning it toward his own.
"The boy," he said urgently, knowing he had only a few minutes. "Where is he?"
Nordal frowned. The words struck a chord in his memory, but everything that had ever happened to him seemed such a long time ago and somehow unimportant.
"Boy," he repeated thickly, and Halt couldn't help himself. He shook the dying man.
"Will!" he said, his face only a few centimeters from the other's. "A Ranger. A boy. Where is he?"
A small light of understanding and memory burned in Nordal's eyes now as he recalled the boy. He'd admired his courage, he remembered. Admired the way the boy had stood them off at the bridge. Without realizing it, he actually said the last three words.
"At the bridge:" he whispered, and Halt shook him again.
"Yes! The boy at the bridge! Where is he?"
Nordal looked up at him. There was something he had to remember. He knew it was important to this grim-faced stranger and he wanted to help. After all, the stranger had helped him find his sword again. He remembered what it was.
":Gone," he managed finally. He wished the stranger wouldn't shake him. It caused him no pain at all, because he couldn't feel anything. But it kept waking him from the warm, soft sleep he was drifting into. The bearded face was a long way from him now, at the end of a tunnel. The voice echoed down the tunnel to him.
"Gone where?" He listened to the echo. He liked the echo. It reminded him of:something from his childhood.
"Where-where-where?" the echo came again, and now he remembered.
"The fens," he said. "Through the fens to the ships."
He smiled when he said it. He'd wanted to help the stranger and he had. And this time, when the warm softness crept over him, the stranger didn't shake him. He was glad about that.
Halt stood up from the body of Nordal.
"Thank you, friend," he said simply. Then he ran to where he'd left Abelard grazing quietly and vaulted into the saddle.
The fens were a tangle of head-high grasses, swamps and winding passages of clear water. To most people, they were impassable. An incautious step could lead to a person sinking quickly into the oozing mire of quicksand that lurked on every side. Once in the featureless marshes, it was easy to become hopelessly lost and to wander until exhaustion overcame you, or the venomous water snakes that thrived here found you unawares.