Arrows began to strike the behemoth, even in the pouring sheets of rain. And almost, the great monster might have been a victim-something from the art on the rocks at the edge of the inner sea, or perhaps some cave all in the south. Ringed by irks and men, it took blow after blow, and trumpeted its rage and sorrow-to die alone, far from kin, to be tormented by these tiny predators, to fall for so little gained-
Its tragic trumpet-call pierced the rain and sounded for every creature that died in the mud that day.
And then it fell, and the Faery Knight was free. Like the bursting of a dam, his Wild Hunt spilled over the ridge at last, and fell into the flank of the mounted melee where fully armoured Occitan hacked uselessly at fully armoured Galle. The Jacks-those that survived dragon’s breath and behemoth’s tusk and irk’s spear-found themselves in the flank of the Gallish knights and poured arrows into their horses… wet arrows from damp strings.
The Galles began to die.
The Faery Knight rode-almost alone, a vision of scarlet and white-across the back of the fight-he rode hundreds of paces, almost at arm’s length from his foes, along the back of their hordes, and his own household knights flitted at his side, faster than a breeze in the woods. The rain masked them, but Sauce thought she’d never seen anything so fine, and the Red Knight thought the same, and Ser Gavin, intent on his own fight, and Morgon Mortirmir, were awed even after everything they’d seen.
The Faery Knight’s handful seemed to skim the ground-along the wide, shallow trough of the fight, and then suddenly, turning like a shoal of bright minnows, up and to the left-up, and into the rear of the cave trolls where they fought Flint’s people for the highest projection of the ridge. Up, and there was a flare of sorcery-and eldritch fire that played on the hills like holly in yule, white and red and green, as he sprung his last surprise, Tamsin’s fire stored against need.
And Morgon Mortirmir made one last effort, running clear of the back of the company line, raising his hand, and loosing two workings…
The cave trolls broke. Some fell broken to pieces, others ran, the earth collapsing under them, only to mire in the wet ground at the bottom of the valley and trap them to die there.
Flint’s bears, and Mogon, still tall in her cloak of feathers, gathered their survivors. The Faery Knight and his remaining riders placed themselves between them, and together they crashed down into the valley, destroying the last hope Thorn’s Wild levies might have had.
Everything else ran.
Leaving only Hartmut.
The brigans fought on, unshaken, and it seemed to Toby that they all must die-of broken hearts, burst lungs, and rain.
He was no longer fighting with skill. He hit men with the haft of the spear, or simply poked at them, and they at him.
The captain was still making parries and throwing blows. But even he was slowing, and his blows became more feeble. Finally Toby caught a glimpse when the captain’s sword went into an aventail-and came back, having done no damage.
But the horns, and the roars, were different. Toby had the spear locked under another man’s arm, and he couldn’t reach his dagger, and his life was in peril-and there was cheering. The other man pushed him down, wrenching his arm-dislocating his shoulder-and Toby went down, face-first, into the mud. But the cheering went on and Toby was determined not to die, and in a paroxysm of exhausted muscles he rolled over, dagger in hand.
The captain had put his sword in the other man’s eye. He pushed the corpse to the ground.
And then, the Black Knight was there, mounted on a tall black horse.
A space cleared. The brigans wanted no more fight, and yet were too proud to yield. But something had changed-the cheers were everywhere.
“I am Ser Hartmut Li Orguelleus,” he said. “I challenge you-face me, or be thought craven.”
Toby could only just see him-a huge figure in black armour. With a sword that burned like a torch, and made a faint sound, like running water.
Ser Gabriel coughed. But then he sighed and raised his visor. “Ser Hartmut,” he said.
“No!” roared Ser Gavin, and Ser Gabriel was thrown roughly to the ground. Gabriel looked up, somewhat surprised.
Ser Gavin towered over them on a sweat-besmothered war horse. His small axe dripped blood.
“My fucking brother has defrauded me of every worthwhile fight I should have had this spring,” he said. “I’m Ser Gavin Muriens, Ser Hartmut, and I insist on being the one to kill you.”
Ser Hartmut growled. Behind him, his men were flinching away down the hill.
Hartmut didn’t speak further. He reached up and pulled his heavy great helm off his back and over his head. Then, as his horse fretted, he took a heavy lance from his squire and sheathed his fiery sword.
He charged.
Ser Gavin had no lance.
He charged anyway.
Hartmut’s lance tip swooped down, and Gavin caught it on the haft of his little axe-his hand went out under the lance as the two horses crossed noses, and he caught the outside of his opponent’s bridle in his left hand.
The black horse twisted, attempting to right its head.
The reins snapped.
Gavin’s axe shot out-and struck Hartmut in the helmet. The blow did not damage him, but the Black Knight fell straight off his horse.
Gavin brought his mount around. Hartmut got to his feet-favouring his right leg-and drew his sword, which burst, again, into fire.
“An attack on my horse?” he said. “What a cowardly act!”
Ser Gavin laughed. “It is always comforting to take cover behind the rules, isn’t it?” he asked. “Especially if the rules always benefit you.”
“Dismount and face me!” Hartmut called. “Or be branded a coward.”
Gavin showed no sign of dismounting. “You mean, get off my war horse and face your magic sword?” he asked.
The brigans were throwing down their weapons.
“You make a mockery of knighthood!” Ser Hartmut said.
Ser Gavin laughed. “I think, Ser Hartmut, that you killed my parents. I think that you have hidden behind a shield of pretence for your whole life. And now, I think you’re going to die, and no one is going to call me base, or coward, or knave-no one at all. In fact, I suspect only my version of this fight will ever be heard.”
Gavin’s smile was terrible.
Then, he dismounted.
“I hold you in contempt-as a knight, and a man.” Ser Gavin tossed his reins to Jean, Bertran’s squire.
The Black Knight raised his sword, and attacked.
He struck air.
Gavin was fresh, and he simply evaded the other man’s blows. Hartmut had fought for hours. Gavin let him swing. He ran-he skipped. He mocked.
At some point, Gabriel turned his head away.
Hartmut cursed, and cursed in Gallish, and swung, and swung, and stumbled. Behind him, De La Marche’s sailors surrendered, the last force still fighting in the whole of Thorn’s host.
Someone-later, men said it was Cully-tripped the Black Knight. He fell heavily, and for a moment, he lost his sword.
His great helm had tilted across his eyes. He roared his frustration, pulled the lace with armoured fingers and threw his helmet at Ser Gavin, who casually struck it to the ground with his little steel axe. Then he stood-a big man in black armour, wearing a steel cap over an aventail.
“I thought of this fight a long time,” Ser Gavin said, conversationally. “It wasn’t you I wanted to fight. But you’ll do to make my point.”
“Shut up and fight!” Ser Hartmut barked.
“You want rules to protect you when you are weak, and no rules to slow you when you are strong.” Ser Gavin took a gliding, sideways step-
Gabriel’s heart was in his mouth.
The long sword licked out-a heavy feint, the false blow of a man who fears no riposte.