Crash! Crash!
The barbarians howled, a single shuddering wail of stark terror, and fell away. Nicky and Owl laughed, closing in on the suddenly deserted Lenard. The northern prince cursed and retreated.
Crash!
The last bomb exploded amidst the enemy, scattering its terrible jagged fragments, and the host became a mob, screaming, fighting itself, clawing and trampling as it fled.
Carl gasped for breath. His head reeled and rang, and he began to tremble uncontrollably. He sat down where he was and stared into the courtyard.
His men had suffered cruelly. Not one but bled from a dozen wounds, and five lay dead and six could not stand. The arrows were exhausted, the swords nicked and blunted, the armor bashed and the shields splintered. But the fallen Lann were thick, and the Dalesmen managed a weary cheer.
“If they come at us again,” said Ezzef grimly, “we’re done for. This time they can’t help carrying the day.”
“We’ll just have to hope they don’t,” answered Carl dully.
He sat listening to the howl of the mob. It seemed very far away. He must have dozed off, for he woke with a start as Owl touched his arm.
“Lenard’s coming,” said the fanner’s son.
Carl got to his feet. The Lann prince was a gory and terrible sight where he stood in the avenue. His face was turned to his men, who were out of sight behind the looming walls but who had quieted down, and his voice lifted angrily.
“All right, I’ll prove it! He’s no more a witch than we are. I’ll show you his magic won’t help him. Then maybe you’ll have heart enough to kill the rest of those pig-headed southlanders.”
He turned to Carl and flashed a wolf’s grin. “Truce!” he called. “I want a truce of battle while you and I fight it out alone!”
The boy stood stock-still. It was the custom among many tribes, he knew—single combat among the leaders before the real battle was resumed. He could not refuse this fight. Quite apart from custom, it would prove that he had no real magical powers to give him confidence; the Lann would take heart again and overrun the little defending force. But if he, Carl, failed in the duel, that too would inspire the Lann to a fresh and final attack.
“I’ll go for you,” whispered Ezzef.
“No, you can’t,” answered Carl. “I’m the one who’s been challenged. Also, I’m the one they think is the witch—Ronwy and I, and Ronwy surely can’t go. If I failed to meet this, it’d be the end for all of us.”
“Come out, Carl, come out!” jeered Lenard. “Or are you afraid?”
“I’m coming,” said the boy. He cast his battered shield to earth and took a better one from Ezzef. His sword was dulled with use, but so was everyone else’s; it might still be sharp enough.
He felt no dread, he was past that now. But the weight of destiny was heavy on him as he walked out into the street.
Chapter 19
THE LAST BATTLE
The sun was sliding down the last quarter of its journey toward darkness, and the mellowed, ivy-covered walls glowed with a golden light. Trees rustled here and there in the faint breeze. Through the hot reek of blood and sweat, Carl smelled a cool, damp breath of green earth and summer blowing from the great forest. He flexed his aching muscles, taking glory in their very throb and weariness. His heart beat steadily and strongly, air filled his breast and tingled in his veins. Every ridge on the sword haft under his fingers sent a message to him, telling of a real world, one to be grasped in the hands and known by the living body—a world of life and mystery, a world of splendor and striving and wistful beauty. Yes, it was good to live, and even if he was now to join the sun in an endless night, he was glad of what he had been given.
Lenard smiled at him and lifted his blade in salute. There was a strange warmth in his greeting: “I could almost wish you luck, Carl. You’ve been a gallant foe, and I would we had been friends.”
The Lann stood waiting on either side of the cleared space, row on row of tensed and breathless men, still shaken by the thunder of the bombs. The defenders went outside their own barricade to watch.
“Go get him, Carl!” shouted Owl.
Carl crossed blades with Lenard. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the northerner. “Let’s go!”
His saber slithered free and lifted for a downward sweep. Carl struck first, holding his shield up as he battered against Lenard’s. The prince’s blade rasped across that shield and slewed about toward Carl’s thigh. The boy smote downward, beating the enemy weapon aside, and skipped back. Lenard rushed at him, blade howling. It crashed mightily against Carl’s shield. The boy planted himself firm, and his lighter, straight weapon clashed against the saber.
Then they were at it, ducking and dodging, weaving around, and steel banging on steel. Carl’s flickering blade sprang past Lenard’s guard to slash the man’s cheek. Lenard’s saber answered, ringing on the Dalesman’s helmet, bouncing from his shield. It struck the rim of that bullhide defense with a fury that dragged Carl’s arm down. The Lann warrior grunted, thrusting forward, but his curved edge slid off the armored shoulder beyond. Carl hacked at the calf of his enemy’s leg and felt his weapon bite through leather and flesh. The Dalesmen whooped.
Lenard growled and bored in, a sudden whirring, clamoring blur of attack. The blows hailed and thundered, shivering in Carl’s muscles and bones. He tried to parry, and his sword was hammered aside. Lenard drove forward relentlessly. Carl stepped back, panting.
Whooo—bang! Carl’s head reeled with the shock. Stars danced before his eyes. Lenard hewed at his ankles, drawing blood. Carl slashed at the barbarian’s arm. The cut was deep, but the blunted edge would not bite well. Lenard grinned in fury and his snake’s-tongue saber blazed against the boy’s defense. A ragged hole opened in the Dale shield, carved away by shrieking steel. Carl met the saber in mid-sweep, sparks and rattling. He ran backward as Lenard parried. The saber howled by his ear and raked down his sword arm.
He was fighting desperately now, against an older, heavier, more experienced warrior. The shock and thunder of blows was loud in his ears. He crossed blades and his own was hurled aside—almost wrenched from his hand. The frame of his shield gave away, a splinter stabbing his left arm. He threw the thing off, hurling it under Lenard’s feet. The northerner tripped over it and crashed to the ground. Carl hacked at him, but the enemy shield turned his blow and Lenard scrambled up again.
“Well done!” he cried.
His saber whistled against Carl’s now unshielded left. The boy retreated, weaving a barrier of flying metal to guard himself. The Lann army tightened and cheered, seeing him outclassed. He couldn’t go any farther. The wall of a building opposite the vault was suddenly against his back. Carl planted his legs firm and struck two-handed at Lenard, letting the northerner’s blade smash at his own armored side. The straight sword whined against Lenard’s incautiously exposed head. Blood ran free and Lenard’s helmet rolled off. Carl had cut its chin strap but done little other harm. Lenard shook his head, bull-like, briefly dazed, and gave Carl a chance to slip back into the open.
Yelling, Lenard rushed him. Carl twisted his body sideways, holding his left arm out of danger. He thrust against the attacking barbarian, reaching for the eyes. Lenard nearly spitted himself, but he danced aside in time. Carl drilled in, pulling his dagger out with his left hand. Sword caught on sword, and Carl stabbed with the knife.