Mountain of Black Glass (108 page)

He drew his knees under him and saw blood on his side, but although he felt like he had been struck by a car, a moment's inspection suggested the wound was more painful than it was mortal. His shield lay a short distance away, completely pierced, a full meter of Hector's spear sticking through it.

He climbed awkwardly to his feet. A larger crowd was beginning to form now as men hurried across the battlefield toward the showdown. Hector stood watching him, shield dangling at his side. Short of breath, Orlando did not waste any more energy on taunts. He didn't feel much like it, anyway. He found his own spear, which he had dropped, measured the distance with his eye, then ran forward and flung it as hard and straight as he could.

It flew fast and far enough, which was some relief—his virtual muscles were still strong and under his control—but it had been a long time since Thargor had fought with a spear: Orlando's skills were rusty. Hector did not even need the shield he had raised, but instead ducked to one side and let it buzz harmlessly past. He, too, seemed to think the time for shouting insults was over. He drew his bronze sword and sprinted toward Orlando.

I didn't even take out his shield,
Orlando thought bitterly.
He's as big as I am, if not bigger, and he's got a big old scorching shield.
He drew his own sword, which came awkwardly to his hand, the balance strange and unfamiliar. Orland fought a feverish desire simply to drop it and lie down.
My sword—Thargor's sword—it's come through each simworld with me. It must be the one Fredericks took. It's probably still in the chariot.
He pulled a long dagger from his other sheath and stepped out to meet the charge of Priam's godlike son.

From the first moments, when he ducked Hector's brutal swipe, then retaliated with a chopping stroke of his own which sent a searing pain up his side but only bounced harmlessly off the rim of the other man's shield, Orlando knew he was in trouble. Whatever advantage he might have from Thargor's years of brawling in the taverns of Madrikhor was made useless by the curved shell of wood and metal which Hector had and he didn't. This was not the free-swinging combat Thargor knew—the Trojan fought as though he still held a spear, staying behind the shield and jabbing at Orlando's relatively unprotected limbs whenever he tried to carry the attack to Hector.

Within the first minute Orlando had already used the hilt of the long dagger to catch two different sword thrusts, and its crosspiece was nearly bent backward. Hector was incredibly strong—even if the other man had been without a shield, Orlando did not think he could survive trading blows with him for very long. Much of his own recovered strength, taxed by the long ride across the plain, had melted away in the first violent moments of the struggle, and every time he had to use his sword to push Hector's shield away he felt himself grow weaker. Nobody who had not practiced combat understood how fast strength could evaporate when the heart was beating fast and hard blows were being traded.

But if Hector was also feeling the effects of a long day on the battlefield, he was not showing it. He moved like a jungle cat, stalking, slashing. When the sun's rays caught them, his eyes glittered in the slot in his helmet, the brows drawn down into a permanent scowl.

By turning in a slow circle and giving ground in a calculated fashion—ground he would have been giving up anyway, since he could not hold against Hector's hammering assaults—Orlando managed to back some distance toward the spot where Fredericks stood watching in fright.

“Just run, Orlando!” she shouted miserably. “It's not worth it!”

He gritted his teeth. Fredericks seemed to think that this fight was like yesterday's battle, where both sides would back away from each other at sunset. But Orlando understood the look in Hector's eyes, knew the man's hatred would keep him in pursuit even if Orlando ran into the ocean and drowned himself. “Get my sword!” he shouted back at Fredericks. “The one you took—get it and throw it where I can reach it!”

“If Hephaestus himself forged your blade,” Hector snarled, “it will not save your life, Achilles.” He shoved his shield into Orlando's face and hacked at his legs. Orlando stumbled back, panting. He could feel his knees growing weak and wondered if he would be able to avoid the next such strike. Both men were breathing loudly, but it was Orlando's lungs that did not seem to be filling all the way.

Got to get that shield away,
he told himself.
Got to . . .

Something landed in the dirt behind him. Orlando barely had time to step over it without snagging his heels and tripping. He ducked a wicked stab that flicked out from behind Hector's shield like a serpent's tongue; then, forced into complete trust that Fredericks had done what he asked, he dropped his sword and reached down.

It was indeed his own blade—he knew it as it filled his hand, and did not waste time on the morbid thought of what he would have done if it had been something else, a rock thrown by a spectator, perhaps. Hector tried to take advantage of the changeover, and Orlando barely avoided another blow at his face. As he staggered back and lifted the sword, reveling in its familiar balance, he felt a moment of hope.

That hope did not last long. Even with the more familiar weapon, he was still outmanned. Hector kept coming, banging Orlando's arm and shoulder numb with his shield, hammering on Orlando's blade until his hand stung so badly he could hardly grip the hilt. Orlando kept giving ground, aware that he was being driven slowly toward the walls of Troy but helpless to do anything about it. The winds that scoured the plain turned the sweat chill on his skin. His strength seemed to be lifting away from him, rising like mist.

“The Greeks!” Fredericks shouted excitedly. “The Greeks are coming!”

Between dodged blows, Orlando could see a little of it from the corner of his eye, saw many of the Trojans who had been watching the duel turn to aid those of their countrymen who were being driven back by the Greek forces, but he knew it meant little as far as his own fate was concerned: even were the Greeks ultimately to win, it would be long after Hector had beaten him into bloody jelly.

The sun slid down into the arms of the sea, and for a moment fire spread across the waves. The sky was beginning to lose its color, but Orlando could still see Hector's bright eyes boring into his own. His arms were aching, and the curious sense of detachment had returned, as though his mind were about to abandon his doomed body. Orlando got his sword up in time to redirect a powerful backhand stroke by Hector, but his own dagger lunge failed to score before Hector swung his shield back. The blade struck hard against the shield's brass boss and the impact traveled up Orlando's arm like electricity; his dagger dropped from numbed fingers.

While Orlando was still trying to bring his sword up, Hector swung his shield and struck Orlando on the side of the helmet so hard that it flew off and Orlando was knocked off his feet. He dropped and rolled, correctly guessing that Hector would follow up with his sword, but although the attack did not find the crease in his body armor, he still felt the blade score the unprotected back of his leg, just missing slicing his hamstring. He tried to drag himself upright but he could not get his feet beneath him.

Orlando turned, still on his knees, and lifted his sword to protect his head. The hilt was slippery with blood and hard to grasp. Hector stood over him, staring down, then extended his blade until the point hovered just an inch from Orlando's face, all but blocking his view.

“Your body will not be ransomed,” Hector said. “After the harm you have done to my father's people, you will feed the dogs. You will howl in the arid halls of Hades to see it.”

Orlando tried again to get his legs set for one last spring, but they would not obey him. He crouched, trembling.

People were shouting all around now, cheering for the kill. Orlando took a ragged breath and felt it burn down his throat and into his lungs.
Nobody ever thinks much about breathing,
he told himself.
As long as they can do it . . .

A deafening, grinding screech rose above the cries of men like the fingernails of God being drawn across a mile-wide blackboard. Startled, Hector turned and looked over his shoulder.

“The gates . . . ?” His voice was slow, devastated, as though he had been struck by lightning. “But what fool . . . ?”

Orlando knew he could not muster the strength to reach Hector's throat, so he grabbed the sword hilt with both hands and shoved it with his fading strength into the place where the man's legs met. When Hector dropped to his knees, gasping in helpless shock and fountaining blood from his groin, Orlando tugged the sword free and rammed it into the slit in his enemy's helmet.

Orlando did not realize that he had also fallen until the darkening sky was directly before his face, the first stars peering out of the dusk like shy children.

I lost. He beat me.
Orlando struggled to keep the sky in front of him, but it was turning black. Somewhere, Fredericks was calling his name, but it was fading in a great roar of men's voices and the thunder of hooves.
He's dead now—but he beat me.

“C
ODE Delphi.
Start here.

“I do not know how long I have to record these thoughts, or even if they will be recoverable. I only know this might be my last chance. There is screaming all around me and the fires are everywhere. Just moments ago a spark caught Emily's hair, and if Florimel had not been right beside her, I think Emily might have been fatally burned.

“We are hiding in one of the deserted houses near the gate, but they are pulling women out into the street on all sides, raping and murdering them. The Greeks are almost insane with vengeance—they are slaughtering children, too, killing them even in the arms of their mothers. In only an hour great Troy has become Hell. I can hardly bear to think what I have done.

“T4b and !Xabbu made their way back into the city, claiming to have an important message for King Priam. They found us in the women's quarters of the palace and breathlessly told us what happened since they left us. Florimel and I were astonished to learn that Orlando and Fredericks were still alive, but frightened to hear that Orlando had charged out into the battle. I could think of nothing to do about it—I was furious that we had not learned better how to manipulate the access device, which dangled in a pouch at my belt, useless as a stone—but we roused Emily and the five of us hurried across the city toward the walls. . . .

“My God. The roof of the house next door has just collapsed, and there is fire already in the window frame of this house where we are hiding. I do not know how much longer we can stay here, but there are too many Greek soldiers in the street—if we step outside, they will . . .

“No. Order, there must be order. I will record—I will save what I can.

“With !Xabbu and T4b, we ran to the city walls. T4b used his spear and shield to clear a space for our passage through the throng. All around us people were hurrying in fear and excitement, shouting bits of rumor—the Greeks were being destroyed, their ships burned . . . no, another screamed, great Hector had been killed and the Trojan forces were routed. People atop the walls tried to make sense of what they saw, and called down conflicting stories.

“We clambered up the steps onto one of the watchtowers. The action below was too distant for me to make out except as patterns of motion and heat, fractal swirls. The noise from those watching on the walls was louder to us than the sounds of battle, but the fighting was clearly moving closer. !Xabbu told me that the Greeks seemed to be pushing the Trojans back on the city, then he made a clicking sound of surprise. Orlando had charged out in front of all the others, he said, the gleaming bronze armor of Achilles impossible to miss. He was rushing toward the walls of Troy as though he intended to throw them down himself, stone by stone. Then his chariot turned, caught a wheel, and rolled over. Beside me, Florimel let out a muffled cry of anguish.

“The descriptions from the others were more confusing than my own strange senses—first that Orlando seemed to have been speared by Hector and had fallen, then that someone else in T4b's discarded armor had come to challenge Hector instead. I began to get an inkling of what might have happened—somehow the system is playing cruel tricks on us, forcing us to relive parts of the ancient poem, or else such things are just inevitabilities of the simulation. In any case, whichever was Orlando and whichever Fredericks, neither of them had the strength to stand for long against the powerful Hector.

“Beyond this combat the Greeks were pressing closer, pushing back the brave but outnumbered Trojans. It seemed only the death of the Greek champion Achilles might discourage them and save Troy—but that would mean the death of one of our friends. I curled my hands into fists so hard that my nails cut the skin of my palms.

“A desperate idea came to me. I led Florimel and the others down from the watchtower, to the half-dozen Trojan soldiers who stood just inside the massive Skaian Gate. As we had done, they were struggling to make sense of the conflicting information coming down from the wall.

“I shouted at the one who seemed to be their leader, ‘King Priam orders you to open the gate!' I could not see his face, but I could guess his expression.

“ ‘Are you mad?' he demanded, his voice angry but tight with fear—I think he recognized me.

“I shouted at him, ‘I am the king's daughter—why do you think he sent me? So that you would know my face and trust my word. And here is the hero Glaucus of Lycia, too. Hector is driven back against the gate by Achilles. Priam wishes you to open the gate and let him in, or in moments the king's godlike son will be dead!'