He pushed off, shoving away as best he could, and the forward momentum of the horse did help it move a step and a half forward before it landed. This left him clear of the knight, but the horse was big. The rear flank crushed Royce’s left leg into the mud and wrenched his hips. Royce cried out as his leg broke. The pounding in his head and ringing in his ears reached a maddening pitch as if all the bells of the world were ringing alarms and his head was the clapper. The horse rolled and kicked, trying to right itself, driving Royce deeper into the mud.
“Royce!” He heard Hadrian and saw his figure moving toward him out of the gloom.
He still held the kite shield, only now it had five arrows decorating it. He planted the shield in the mud and struggled to pull Royce free.
“The knight!” Royce shouted.
“He’s dead,” Hadrian said, digging in the mud to gain enough clearance.
At the doorway he spotted Tom with his longbow, exchanging fire with bowmen near the barn.
“Why isn’t the horse getting up?”
“It’s dead too. The archers are lousy shots.”
Royce let his head fall back into the muck where the rain pelted him in the face. “We needed that horse.”
Hadrian slipped his arms under Royce and pulled. As his body slipped out from underneath the horse, as he felt the pressure subside, he heard another bee and Hadrian stiffened. Tom cursed and let another arrow fly and across the barnyard Royce heard a grunt.
Hadrian, who was already down on one knee, fell forward. Royce caught him as best he could, his hands brushing the arrow shaft in his back.
“That’s nine!” Tom shouted.
Hadrian lay with his head across Royce’s chest, wheezing and coughing up blood. “Did you hear that … we won?”
The rain poured.
What had been a shower became a flood. The skies opened and an ocean came down. Royce couldn’t see. He couldn’t stand up. His leg was broken and buried in the muck. He and Hadrian were wallowing in a pool of brown water that had mixed with their blood, making it the color of tea.
Hadrian collapsed on him like a wet rag. He’d stopped coughing, maybe breathing too. He had no way to tell.
“Hadrian?” Royce gasped for air and got mostly water. He struggled to prop his head above the water. It wobbled like a broken wrist.
Loud splashes and both Tom and Arthur were beside them.
“Leave us,” Royce growled. He tried to stand on his own but couldn’t even sit up. The stitches were ripped. He could feel the skin on his side open. “More will be coming. Leave us or they’ll know you helped.”
The world was swimming. Hadrian’s head lay still on his chest. Except for the mud and the blood, he might have been sleeping.
“He’s alive,” Tom the Feather shouted over the crash of rain, maybe to his son, maybe to Royce. “Lucky the cheap bastards used bodkins instead of broadheads.” He pulled the arrow out. Hadrian didn’t even flinch.
Tom had a cloth he stuffed under Hadrian’s shirt.
Amidst the violence of the downpour came another sound-the clopping of horse hooves. It wasn’t the knight’s. His mount was still on its side in the mud. Sir Holvin looked to have drowned in a huge puddle after the horse crushed him. It was also possible he was dead before then. Royce had opened parts of his armor with Alverstone and his puddle was just as tea-like.
The horse he was hearing was a new arrival. Reinforcements? That didn’t take long.
“Over here!” Tom shouted, a note of desperation in his voice.
Smart. Old Tom, you’re not as dumb as I thought. You got your wish, Hadrian … They’ll be fine, and it was a great fight. How did you manage to beat all of them while wounded? Arcadius was right about you. Too bad I didn’t see it earlier. But you were a fool. You should have left me on the tower. You’d be kicking back in some tavern by now, not dying in a mud puddle.
Royce groaned as he felt himself lifted by strong hands. He was placed in a wagon.
They really are taking me to trial! Joke’s on them. I’m going to die before then.
Hadrian was moved and laid beside him and a tarp thrown over both. The pelting rain disappeared and was replaced by the loud patter on canvas two feet above his face. It mingled with the ringing and the pounding, and finally darkness closed in and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not that Royce was fighting anymore-he was ready to die.
He felt around and found Hadrian’s arm, patting it. “Old lunatic was right … We did make a good team.”
CHAPTER 21
The halting of the cart woke Royce, and he wished it hadn’t. He was in agony, feeling like a horse had fallen on him.
Oh, right.
Royce opened his eye-only one responded; the other was swollen shut. Everything was dark and silent. Hadrian was still beside him and the canvas still over their heads. He reached up and pulled, but the tarp was tied. He felt around and discovered Alverstone had made the trip with him. The handle was crusted with dry mud.
How long have we been traveling?
With little effort, Royce cut a long slice through the canvas. Cold fresh air spilled in and overhead he saw stars. The rain and clouds were gone. Royce inched up and peered over the sides.
Buildings. Dirty wooden shacks with mud splattered halfway up the sides. They were on a narrow dirt road, deep with ruts and still decorated in puddles. Royce turned his head, which made him woozy. More buildings. They were in a city. A crappy, miserable-looking town. A place he didn’t recognize. The buildings to either side were dark, the street deserted. Looking forward, he saw the driver of the cart was gone. No soldiers either.
They were alone.
Maybe it wasn’t soldiers at all. The wagon was small. It looked like a peasant’s cart.
Royce heard him then. Hadrian was still breathing.
Weak and wheezing, his breath struggled like he had a garrote tied around his throat. If they had lived this long, they might yet have a chance.
Using the sides of the wagon, Royce drew himself upright. The pain in his midsection screamed again. He ignored it. His arms were all that held him up and they were shaking so badly they made the wagon quiver. He could think of no other way out of the wagon. He couldn’t climb.
How long have we been in that wagon? How long does he have left?
Hadrian sounded like he was choking, or close to it.
For perhaps the first time in decades, Royce acted without a plan. Merrick had taught him never to make a move without a goal and a means of getting there. At that moment he had neither, just a vague sense that Hadrian was dying, and he needed to do something to stop that-and there was only one thing to do. He pulled himself up on the side guard and let himself fall over.
He couldn’t help crying out as he hit the ground. The jolt was almost enough to send him back into unconsciousness, but this time he couldn’t let that happen. He sucked in a breath and pushed up with his good leg. On palms and one knee, dragging one leg, he crawled to the closest door and hammered the foot of it with his fist. No sound, no light. He moved back out into the street. The agony was becoming too much. He couldn’t think. His clothes had dried stiff, but there was a new wetness to his shirt. He was bleeding again.
In desperation he cried out, “Help!” It didn’t sound like his voice. He couldn’t recall having used that word since boyhood. He hated the sound, hated the taste it left. “Help us!”
He heard the slap of shutters against the upper-story windows. Whatever doors may have been open were now bolted. No one wanted anything to do with them.