The battle-rage was on Alain now, for these foes had come in secrecy, even decoyed him to their ambush with a false damsel in distress. They deserved no mercy, especially since they would probably give none. He bent low to stab at the swordsman who had wounded him, feinting, slashing high, then suddenly circling his blade to stab through the other's defenses as he caught a second man's sword on his buckler. Even then, the first attacker was almost too fast; he managed to parry, but Alain's blade sank into his shoulder, and the man dropped his sword with a shout of pain. He fell back to let two mates take his place.
His charger set his feet back on the earth, and Geoffrey backed him away. The assassins came after with a shout. Geoffrey reversed course and charged then, swinging his sword in an arc right in front of them, bending low to slash. The swordsmen leaped back with shouts of alarm—and collided with the spearmen. All stumbled, and Geoffrey turned his horse back to ride over them. They saw the beast coming and scattered, shouting warnings to one another. Geoffrey turned to cut down the one nearest him.
An invisible hand imprisoned his sword; it slowed, straining against a telekinetic bond. Geoffrey shouted with exasperation and kicked the swordsman in the jaw. Then he sent his mind arrowing after his telepathic foe. He felt the mind thrust coming from a tumbledown cottage off to his left, so he sent a thought bolt that excited the atoms of its thatch, and its roof burst into flames. The bind on his sword ceased abruptly as alarm filled his head, along with an assortment of curses. Geoffrey ignored them and spurred his charger toward the nearest spearman.
Alain had disabled four of his attackers, but the other two ranged themselves on either side of him. If he turned to strike one, the other would run at his back.
Then the spearman pulled a strange sort of short-handled hammer from beneath his tunic and pointed it at Alain.
Alain knew a weapon when he saw one. He kicked out of the stirrup and threw himself off on the far side of his mount. As he landed, he heard the creature scream, smelled the sickening stench of charred horsehair, and his battle-lust turned to white rage. He knew without looking that his horse was dead, a good and faithful beast who had always protected his master and fought far more bravely than this mob of cravens. But Alain wasted no time in turning on the man with the exotic weapon—he charged the fellow's mate, thinking the man would not dare shoot at his own.
He met the swordsman sword to buckler, each one's blade clanging on the other's shield. Alain circled around him quickly, putting him between himself and the wielder of the strange weapon. A trail of blue-white light sizzled where Alain had just been His skin crawled, but he mastered the dread and blocked his foe's sword, feinting low with his own blade. The other man dropped his buckler to meet the blow— and Alain reversed his stroke, swinging high and stepping in to slam his hilt into the other man's chin.
The swordsman hadn't been expecting a fist. He slumped, his eyes rolling up, and Alain caught him in a one-armed hug, holding him tight as he sidestepped and zigzagged in a grotesque parody of a dance, calling, "He still lives! Would you slay your comrade?"
The weapon wielder hesitated. Alain took a huge chance and threw his sword with more hope than skill. Startled, the man swung his weapon up to fire at it, and Alain dropped his living shield to charge the man.
The exotic weapon swung down, but Alain threw his buckler at the man. It struck the arm that held the hammer; the man shouted with pain and spun away, dropping the fell thing. He spun back in time to see Alain's fist just before it smashed into his face.
Alain stood panting, gazing around the wreck of the village, still quivering with battle-lust. All their attackers were down, but Geoffrey was riding toward a hut whose roof burned. The peasant girl who had brought them came running out, and Geoffrey turned his horse to chase. She whirled about to face him, and stones shot from the very ground toward his head.
That told Alain all he needed. He ran quickly and threw his arms about the girl. She struggled, screaming curses that almost made him let go. He held on grimly, though, until she suddenly slumped in his arms, eyes closing.
Alain stared at the limp bundle he was holding, horrified. "Geoffrey . . . you have not..."
"No. She only sleeps." Geoffrey dismounted, pulled rope from his saddlebag, and strode over, his face hard. "Many thanks for distracting her, for she is so powerful a witch that I doubt I could have sent her into unconsciousness without your aid." He whipped the rope about the young woman, tying her hand and foot. "This was an ambush skillfully planned, Alain."
"It was indeed," the prince agreed, "though I must needs ask me what has become of Baron Gripardin."
"Perhaps he is alive and well, and only a deserted village on his estate has any guilt." Geoffrey stood, hefting the unconscious woman over his shoulder. "Let us bind their wounds and pile them in the cart. It was a good thought of yours to bring it."
The Spell-Bound Scholar
He turned away, but Alain caught his arm. "Geoffrey— that weapon ... it shoots lightning. ..."
"So I see." Geoffrey scowled at the ugly thing lying there on the ground. "Ask me not, Alain. I am forbidden to speak of such things."
"Forbidden?" Alain's hand tightened on his arm. "I shall be King of this land someday, and you are forbidden to tell me what endangers it?"
Geoffrey glanced at his face, but could not meet his eyes and looked away.
Chapter 6
Alain lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, looking very much the king he would one day be. "Who could command you to withhold knowledge from the heir apparent? Only the Crown has such authority! Did my mother or father forbid you to speak with me of this?"
"No—my own father, and the monks of St. Vidicon."
"The monks?" Alain exploded. "What right have they to say what the prince shall or shall not know?"
Geoffrey looked away. "There is reason ..."
"Then you had better tell it me." Alain lightened his hold and took on the persuasive tone Geoffrey had told him worked well with women. "Come, my friend—no one can now accuse you of having revealed the thing's existence. The cat is out of the bag, so surely you may tell me its markings and how many kits it has."
Geoffrey stood, irresolute.
Alain pushed a little harder. "You are the friend of my childhood and my youth, and I shall someday be your king. Should I not know all things that imperil this land?"
Geoffrey caved in. "You should. My father shall have to live with the exposure. I shall tell you all I can, Alain—but first, let us load these villains into our cart."
The windows of Rod's study were tilted open to let in the fragrant spring air. He sat at the desk, brow furrowed as he set down his latest guesses about the origin and development of the Gramarye espers—a major book that he only thought of as a working agent's notes on his mission. He scowled as he wrote down the latest rumors he'd heard about Father Marco Ricci's appearances after his death; they had to be there as part of the record, but Rod disliked recording gossip. To appease his own conscience, he wrote very clearly that these were only rumors.
It never occurred to him to be on his guard. After all, his study was on the second floor of the keep, above the great hall with its twenty-foot ceiling—and the keep was well away from the curtain wall and its battlements. Besides, he had a dozen guards on duty—so he never expected the burly young man who climbed in through the window and crept silently up behind him, pulling a garrote from his sleeve.