All of this took less than an instant to see, and in the same instant his berserker's mind made its decision. With a wordless cry he hurled the arrow-studded corpse at the group of attackers and leaped after it.
The very suddenness of the attack saved his life. Yet it was impossible to be in that melee of knives and swords without being cut. Blood ran from a score of wounds that he didn't feel. The Tyrant's men suffered far greater losses. Grant's whirling sword hacked through flesh and armour. When the soldiers came close enough his dagger ripped at their entrails.
Some of the nearest men quailed back before his fury, tangling the men behind. This only made their deaths more certain. Grant clutched the blood-wet pommel of his sword and chopped away at them. A few fell inside the wall; one managed to turn and run away. The rest were dead or dying at Grant's feet.
For that instant the section of the wall was cleared. Grant held the sword up, ready for the next attack. It never came. Slowly the red mist faded from before his eyes and he became aware of the aching soreness of his body. It was with a degree of surprise that he noted the blood soaking into his tunic and the gaping red mouth of a long slice across his right thigh. A clean cut, inches deep, slowly oozing blood from both ends.
Then he glanced up from the wound and saw that he was standing just above the mechanism that operated the drawbridge. Automatically his architect's eye took in the details of the crude windlass and pulleys.
The ramp of the drawbridge wasn't vertical, which meant it dropped of its own weight. Two giant supporting chains were attached to the outer end, they wrapped around an immense rotating log. This was in turn connected by a series of pulleys to the windlass. The pulleys added some mechanical advantage, but still exerted a good deal of pull on the windlass mechanism. A great cog wheel was bolted to the windlass drum, this cog was held in place by a metal pawl. A loop of rope kept the pawl from slipping.
It was absurdly simple. A piece of rope, no thicker than Grant's middle finger, was all that held up the drawbridge. Cut that and the bridge would drop.
Well — why not?
While his civilized mind was still pondering it, his newfound reflexes sent him off the wall. It was just as well he had jumped because an arrow went through the spot where he had stood an instant before. His wounded leg collapsed when he hit the platform below and he ground his teeth together with the pain. But all he had to do was stand up and stagger a few feet. A single stroke of his sword severed the pawl-rope.
Nothing happened. Friction and rust in the ancient mechanism were enough to keep it from moving.
A shout went up from someone who had seen Grant jump and a squad rushed his way. He kicked the cog wheel with his good leg and it began to revolve slowly. As inertia overcame friction it turned faster and faster.
With a great squealing of pulleys and rattling of chains the drawbridge slammed down into position. A tremendous cheer rose from the Duke's army massed outside. They rushed forward and all of the men inside the courtyard turned to face them. Grant was completely forgotten for the moment, an interested spectator to the battle.
The Good Duke's army thundered across the drawbridge and crashed into the portcullis, a sturdy looking gate of thick iron bars. They thrust their swords through the grill and howled at the defenders inside. A shower of arrows was their answer and a rush by the gate guards.
A confined and wicked battle developed around the portcullis. The Tyrant's men had no way of beating off the attack, while the Good Duke's men couldn't get through. There was much jabbing of swords through the grill and still moaning bodies were trampled underfoot. It was the Good Duke himself who ended the impasse.
Surrounded by his household troops he pushed up to the front of the attackers. His guards carried eight foot lances and used them to clear the other side of the portcullis. Under the protection of their shields, the Good Duke crouched against the steel bars. From his raised viewpoint Grant could see the Duke clearly.
It must have been magic of some sort. The warm sunshine in midwinter proved that the Good Duke Darikus was a powerful worker of the arcane arts. Probably counter-spells had stopped him during the attack from outside. But now that he had penetrated the walls he met with more success. He sprinkled something on the bard of the portcullis, and passed his hand over them. His mouth worked as he mumbled a spell.
The results were gratifying. The bars shimmered in a sudden haze and turned a mottled red. They looked as if they had been rusting for a thousand years. When the soldiers cheered and charged, the bars fell into rusty shards.
By force of arms and magic the Good Duke Darikus had captured the castle. And he was aware of the part Grant had played. He saw Grant standing by the windlass and saluted him with his sword pommel before leading the final charge. Only the memory of Aker's death kept a glow of grim pride from Grant at that moment.
X
It was just at that instant that the scene before him froze. That was the only way he could think of it. Men seemed stopped in mid-stride and the sounds of battle died away like the ringing of bells in still air. Even the sunlight was frozen and solid.
The voices rumbled like thunder in the distance and Grant could almost understand their words.
"Gressel, now look where you put that thread!"
"Where I put it. . we all know where the blame lies. Give me the eye… I thought so. It goes over here. Your stupidity has almost ruined the pattern."
There was no feeling of transition. The scene before Grain was swept away and instantly replaced by another. It took a time for his befuddled senses to make out what it was.
Leaning stones. Gravestones. And a church. The memory they dredged up seemed incredibly ancient, but he recognised it. The sword slipped from his limp fingers and fell to the ground. He was home in his own world. Back in the same churchyard he had vanished from.
His rising elation was abruptly cut off as this vanished in turn, to be replaced by the formless time he remembered only too well.
"You can't just push him back like that — repercussions will alter the design in every direction."
"Simply done, you old hag. I'll just take a knot in time. Then nothing will be remembered. . nothing. .
"What has happened. . what he has done. . will be as never was."
Eternity-wide laughter cackled and rolled.
Grant leaned against the stone wall, trying to hold onto a precious memory that kept slipping away from him. Something had happened during his attack; he couldn't remember quite what. The formal coat hugged him tightly across the shoulders, yet his thin wrists stuck well out of the sleeves. When he looked at his wrists they seemed wrong. For some incomprehensible reason he kept thinking they ought to be stronger, browner — dirtier. Yet he couldn't grasp why.
That should have been the end of it. The memories would die and he would go back into the church just as he had left it.
Except for an oversight. One raveled, loose end of his thread that hadn't been clipped off.
Looking past his skinny wrists he saw the sword on the ground, still wet with undried blood. Unbelievingly he bent and picked it up. Heavy and crude, the blade was nicked and dirty as well. Yet it was the most precious thing in the world to him.
It was the key to what had happened. As long as he looked at it he could remember the snow, the Good Duke, the Berl-Cats, the war — and Aker Amen. Bloody, frightening memories of a barbarian world now impossibly distant. But they were precious memories too.