Trobar's eyes were open, and he looked at Horace, uncomprehending. Horace forced a smile onto his face.
"You'll be fine," he said. Trobar's lips moved, and Horace shus hed him.
"Don't try to talk. Rest. Malcolm will fix you up," he said. He hoped the doubt that he felt didn't show in his eyes. The wound was a serious one, and even Malcolm's skill would be tested by it.
Trobar tried again. This time, he managed a vague croak. Horace saw the fear in the giant's eyes. And as he saw it, he realized that Trobar wasn't looking at him. He was looking behind him.
He swung around. Buttle, his face swollen and distorted, blood running down from his mouth, stood above him, his sword raised in a double-handed grip high over his head. There was hatred in his eyes. Hatred and triumph. In another second, Horace would be dead.
But there wasn't another second. Gundar Hardstriker's ax came spinning out of the night, rotating end over end with a peculiar haoomp haoomp haoomp sound.
Eight kilograms of solid wood and heavy iron, it struck Buttle in the back. He grunted in pain, his eyes glazed in surprise and shock. The sword fell to the ground behind him as he staggered under the impact. He tried feebly to reach behind him to pluck the massive weapon free, but he lacked the strength and the purpose. He took a pace to the left, lurched, reeled. And fell into the dark courtyard below them with a resounding thud.
Horace came wearily to his feet as Gundar joined them. "Nice throw," he said.
The Skandian nodded."All I could do," he said."I knew I couldn't reach you in time."
He peered anxiously over the edge of the walkway, down at the crumpled figure on the flagstones below. Horace moved beside him and dropped a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry about him. He's finished," he said.
Gundar looked at him dismissively."To hell with him. I hope my ax is all right."
35
By now, the defenders at either end of the west rampart had retreated into the two corner towers. Horace inspected the solid oak door of the southwest tower and frowned. It would take a small battering ram to break through. And he assumed the northwest tower door would be no easier. Below, he heard shouting voices and the sound of running feet. Peering over the edge of the walkway, he saw members of the garrison streaming out of the towers into the courtyard. They were heading for the main gateway, where the fortified gatehouse would give them shelter from the attackers.
The way down through the two towers was blocked. But Buttle himself had shown them another route to the courtyard. Horace gathered the Skandians around him. Several had been wounded during the fighting, and he left two of them to look after Trobar. The others were still fit for battle. He led them down the narrow steps beneath the trapdoor that Buttle had used. As they reached the courtyard, he knew their tendency would be to stream after the retreating garrison in an undisciplined throng.
He restrained them by sheer force of will until all of them were down the stairs. Then, forming them into an arrowhead formation, with himself at the tip and Gundar and Nils to his left and right, he led them at a steady, disciplined jog toward the fleeing defenders, currently jostling each other to get through the narrow entrance to the gatehouse.
Hearing the battle chant of the Skandians as they approached, those inside the gatehouse slammed the ironbound oak door shut, leaving nearly twenty of their comrades locked out, backs to the wall, facing their attackers. When there was less than ten meters between the two groups, Horace raised his right hand and called the order to halt. He had the natural gift of command, and it never occurred to the Skandians to ignore him.
"Form a line," he told them, and the arrowhead formation spread out into one line, facing the terrified enemy.
"I'll give you one opportunity to surrender," he told the members of the garrison. "That opportunity is now."
Keren's men eyed the Skandians fearfully. In normal circumstances, they would have surrendered readily enough, but this battle was far from normal. They knew these savage sea wolves were in league with supernatural forces. They had all seen the terrifying apparitions that had risen from the mist in the south. If they surrendered, they had no idea what would become of them. Perhaps they would be sacrificed to the huge warrior they had seen, or the red-faced demons who had soared into the night sky. This was more than a normal battle. They were pitted against the forces of the underworld, the black evil of sorcery, and no sane man would willingly surrender himself to such an enemy.
A long silence greeted Horace's challenge. None of the garrison would take the responsibility. None wanted to single himself out. Finally, Horace shrugged.
"I gave them a chance," he said softly. Then he turned to the wolf-ship skirl. "Gundar, can you take care of this?"
Gundar, who had recovered his ax and was anxious to use it again, snorted in derision. "This ragtag bunch?" he said. "Nils and I could do it on our own. You go and help the Ranger, General."
Horace nodded. He slid his sword back into its scabbard and stepped out of the line.
Gundar waited until one of the other Skandians moved into the space Horace had vacated, then he raised his battleax and roared out the time-honored Skandian battle command.
"Follow me, boys!"
There was a roar from twenty-three throats, and the battle line surged forward. They hit the defenders with a crash of steel, driving the terrified castle garrison back against the stone walls of the gatehouse. Horace watched for a second or two, then turned to run toward the keep tower.
36
In the tower, high above the courtyard, Alyss had heard the first shouts from the sentries on the south wall and moved to the window in time to see the enormous images Malcolm was projecting into the night sky. She recognized the giant, shadowy warrior as the apparition that Will had described to her. Then the other images appeared, followed by the amazing sight of the demon's head rockets soaring into the sky and exploding. She quickly realized that such an elaborate display must have a definite purpose behind it, other than being designed to simply terrify the castle's garrison. The attack on the castle was under way.
Alyss had a shrewd idea as to how the images were generated, and she knew that they were harmless. The cries and shouts that drifted up to the tower window told her that the men on the ramparts were well and truly alarmed by the mysterious sights they were seeing.
Alarmed and distracted.
The tower window faced to the south, and she looked down to the south wall below her, quelling the misgivings she felt as she peered down from such a great height. She could see the two end towers on the wall, and as she watched, she saw men moving from the west wall to the south wall, where Malcolm's light show seemed to pose a visible threat. But she realized that all this light and sound was a diversion. The real attack would come on the west or north or east wall.
And it would come soon.
She looked around the room, wondering what she could do to prepare for the attack. Will would come for her, she knew that much. But which way? The tower stairs would be easily defended by a few men. That left the outside. He had come that way once before, scaling the wall in an unsuccessful rescue attempt when she had first been imprisoned in the tower. Then, her fear of heights had triggered her refusal to climb back down with him, and her stomach tightened at the thought that this time, it might be the only way out of the tower. Then she set her jaw firmly. If Will asked her, she would do it – fear of heights or no fear of heights.
She examined the two center bars on the window, tugging at them gently. They were held by the barest thread of metal now. The acid she had been pouring onto the bars each night had corroded the iron so that now it was nearly eaten away. The acid flask, hidden on the deep lintel above the window, was still a quarter full – more than enough to finish the job.