Dragonheart (27 page)

“If we don’t all die first,” Trev added dourly.

“At least we’ll die like men,” growled the bear, and cracking the door, took a cautious peek outside, then motioned his men through. He had just started to slip out after them when Bowen stopped him. Hewe turned questioningly. Bowen just silently stared. He wanted to thank the man, to offer the encouragement such valor deserved and that a good commander should offer good men. But emotion made him mute. Yet Hewe understood—and it was enough encouragement for him. The bear smiled gruffly and slammed a paw on Bowen’s shoulder.

“Go save your dragon, Sir Knight,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

Bowen sighed and turned, examining the cistern. There were two passageways leading off the far-side wall.

“Which one?” he asked Kara.

She pointed to the left one. “It leads to Einon’s room. From there you can see the whole courtyard.”

They crossed the ledge along the wall that led to the other side. Through the passage portal, Bowen saw the stairway dimly lit by torches and started for it, but Kara held him back. Untying the leather headband around her throat, she gazed at it lovingly as she smoothed it between her palms.

“This . . . was my father’s,” she explained haltingly. “It’s no fancy bit of silk”—her brown eyes locked on his—“but if you would still carry my favor into battle . . .”

“I should be honored,” Bowen said, and offered his arm. She tied the bit of leather to it. Once more their eyes met.

“Carry this too,” said Kara, and she leaned up and kissed him. Bowen enfolded her in his arms.

Gilbert discreetly cleared his throat. “I can wait, but I’m not sure Draco can.”

Reminded of their purpose, the lovers broke their embrace and Bowen led them up the passage.

Brok found Einon with the dragon. He scratched his beard and waited for the king to finish giving orders to the brothers Tavis and Trahern.

“Protect every scale on his hide or yours will be flayed from your bones.”

The dragonslayers listened to the command with stoic calm, but Brok knew they were not pleased. Finished with them, Einon turned and sidled up to Brok before the knight could even bow.

“Yes?” the king softly inquired in his ear.

“Just as you said. The cistern passage.”

“Alone?”

“The girl is with him.” Einon perked up at the news. Brok scratched his beard and continued. “And one other. I couldn’t make out who. I came as soon as I saw him enter the entrance outside the wall. Shall I tend to it?”

“And deny me the pleasure?” Einon asked, looking at him askance. “Most certainly not . . .” He moved to the dragon and knelt beside him. “Fear not, dragon, your rescuer comes. I knew he would. You are a comrade-in-arms. And Bowen is a knight of the Old Code.”

The dragon struggled futilely in his chains. The dragonslayers laughed. Einon withdrew into the shadows. Brok scratched his beard.

Thirty-Six

THE FINAL LESSON

“You lost before you began.”

Bowen looked up at the stone slab as it slid into the ceiling and red light began to seep down the stairs from the room revealed above. As he ascended the remaining stairs he realized that the source of the light was the fireplace. The sliding stone had been the hearth. Kara slowly crept up behind him. Bowen suddenly spied the glint from the bed and immediately sprang into the room. The laughter that met his action also came from the bed. on which Einon was sprawled comfortably. The lambent flames caught the flash of his smile and the sheen of the blade he held in his hand.

“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise!” The king chuckled. “I expected you, Knight. But my bride-to-be as well . . . ?” Just then Gilbert popped his head up out of the secret opening and Einon laughed again. “And a priest to wed us.”

“To bury you, Einon!” Bowen charged, stabbing only bedclothes, as Einon spun off the bed, arrogantly grinning.

“Well, to bury one of us.” His blade met Bowen’s in midstroke. The knight felt the stinging power of the blow all the way down his forearm. But his only response was to offer his fighting smile, and to lunge again. Again, blade met blade and the two men whirled across the floor, dancing to the swift song of death sung by the steel.

The clanging swords brought two guards from outside the chamber. From the corner of his eye, Bowen saw Kara and Gilbert intercept their charge. Einon drove him back toward the fireplace. He had to leap over the corner of the opening in order not to fall into the empty hearth. Einon was good. Very good. Bowen had taught him well. Every thrust, every feint, Einon matched him.

“We know each other’s every move.” Einon laughed, as though he had been reading Bowen’s mind. “But I am younger and faster.”

As if to demonstrate, he executed a flashy spin and dipped his sword into the fireplace, flicking a burning branch at Bowen. The knight reeled back, dodging the flaming wood. He feared that Einon’s taunt was true, and was already sore and weary from the battle. He didn’t want a prolonged fight.

“After I’ve slowed you down, you won’t get any older.” Bowen ducked a wicked slash of Einon’s blade and, bracing himself against the mantel, shot a foot out and caught Einon with a boot that sent him careening down the stairwell of the secret passage.

Bowen checked on his companions just in time to see Kara’s ax rip into a guard’s belly.

“A pudding!” he cried, and leapt down after Einon.

Einon was slumped lifelessly on the stones steps. Bowen rushed down to the limp form, and nearly got decapitated for his trouble as Einon’s eyes flicked open, glowing pale death, and he flipped backward to his feet and lunged, all in one motion.

Angered, Bowen attacked with a wild sally. Einon coolly deflected the blade and forced Bowen back into the cistern. As the pair fought along the perimeter of the cistern pool, Bowen realized he was fighting recklessly and unintelligently, but the boy was tiring him, and besides, he seemed to emanate an eerie confidence, as though he truly thought himself invincible.

“Practice what you preach, mentor,” Einon asserted as he drove Bowen back. “Purpose not passion, remember?”

The gibe only intensified the knight’s wild attack. This was, in part, because he knew the king spoke true. Pupil had become teacher and now he felt like the stumbling boy in the old Roman ruins.

“Nerve cold blue . . .” Einon continued to taunt him. Bowen thrust viciously at his head. Einon nimbly ducked and his blade slashed across Bowen’s calf. “Blade blood-red.”

Bowen buckled and teetered on the cistern ledge. Einon savagely swiped at him and Bowen leapt . . . over the water onto the opposite ledge. He felt a twinge in his leg, but still managed to land standing, bracing himself in the portal of the other cistern tunnel. Even Einon was impressed.

“Still have lessons to teach me, eh, mentor?” Einon barked a laugh.

Bowen smiled back. The wound had renewed his cool vigor. “Just one more.”

“And what, pray, is that?”

“The last one your father learned.”

Einon’s lip curled, and with a yell, he rounded the pool and set upon Bowen. Blue sparks flashed across their blades as they moved into the dark tunnel.

As the guard sagged to the chamber floor and Bowen leapt down the cistern stairs, Kara rushed to follow him. Then she heard Gilbert.

“Parry, parry, thrust . . .” The thrust was followed by a groan. It sounded like Gilbert’s, and Kara spun around. The priest’s opponent had backed him to the wall, and Gilbert, flushed and sweaty, held him at bay, awkwardly counting out his beats. It wasn’t so much Gilbert’s skill, which was minimal, that kept him alive, but his persistent precision that utterly disoriented the guard.

“Parry, parry, thrust . . . Parry, parry . . .”

Frustration finally got the better of bewildered fear, and with a growl, the guard slashed out and slapped the sword from Gilbert’s fist.

“Thrust!” Kara lunged between them with her ax and the guard hit the floor only moments after Gilbert’s clattering sword.

“God forgive me . . .” Gilbert crossed himself.

“Don’t you mean me?” Kara grinned. Gilbert only groaned again and slid down the wall, leaving a bloody streak against it in his wake.

“Gilbert!” Kara knelt beside him, noticing for the first time that the right side of his cassock was ripped and soaked with blood. “He’s cut you!”

Gilbert shrugged and winced. “The sword is not my weapon. Leave it! Leave it!” He slapped her fussing fingers away and was immediately contrite. “Forgive me. It’s more messy that lethal. I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, and knew he had caught her anxious glance toward the cistern passage. He grimaced a smile.

“Go to Bowen, my child, I just need to rest for a moment,” he gasped. “Go! Go! Bowen needs you more than I. And Draco. I’ll be along.”

Kara raced to the hidden stairway then hesitated, looking back at the priest. He unslung his bow from his back and held it up, wincing again. “Don’t worry. Anyone comes in, they won’t get very far.
This
I know how to use. I’ll be along. Get you gone!”

Kara tore down the steps. Gilbert was right. The wound was messy. But it didn’t look too deep. And Bowen did need her help more than the priest. He was fighting a man he could not defeat.

The stairway was frighteningly quiet. All she heard was the scuffling of her boots upon the stone. Nothing from below. If the duel was over, there could be only one outcome. She flew down the stairs, lurching wildly into the cistern. It was empty!

Felton could not sleep. If he lay on his back, his arse hurt. If he lay on his stomach, his jaw hurt. They both hurt when he lay on his side. They both hurt anyway. He limped along the battlements and rubbed his swollen face. Of course, he really wasn’t all that tired. He had gotten plenty of sleep on the battlefield, thanks to his minx. He supposed he should be grateful to her. After all, it was she who had gotten him out of the fight.

Hello? What was this?

He saw the red-haired wench run across the courtyard below, recognized her, and wondered how she had managed to get in. She was coming up the stairs. He ducked behind the wall, drew his sword, and waited.
Clack
,
clack
,
clack.
Her boots scuffed along the stairs.
Clack
,
clack clack
Frantic and fast. He wished they were faster. It hurt his arse, squatting like this.

Kara ascended the steps and stopped, gripping her ax, debating which way to go. Suddenly a sword was at her throat, then the man was sweeping out of the shadows behind her like an oily spider. An oily, mangled spider. One whole side of his face was a swollen purple welt. She recognized him anyway. It was the fop, Felton.

“This will put me in good with His Majesty,” he announced, leering triumphantly over his shoulder, then his puffy-lipped face shuddered. His snakelike eyes popped wide in stark surprise and the sword slid harmlessly from her throat. Kara spun, ax to the ready, but Felton was already reeling and slurring through his bruised lips, “Then again, maybe not . . .”

The lamps went out in his eyes and he collapsed on the stones with a loud crack. If he survived, his whole face was going to be purple. But Kara had her doubts about his chance for survival. Hewe the Bear stood behind the fallen man, his sword dripping blood. He motioned his men from the shadows and down the stairs.

“I’m in your debt,” Kara said.

Hewe shook his head. “I’m in yours. Your father would be proud.” He saluted her with his blade and dashed after his men.

Gruff old bear. Her father would be proud of him too. Twirling her ax up, she stepped over Felton and took off along the battlements.

The guards on the gate had gone to hell as quietly as the sentries along the battlements, never knowing what hit them. Trev and the others dragged the bodies from the path. The army outside the walls had seen the signal to move up the road and would be waiting for the gates to open. Hewe was drawing up the crossbar and flinging the doors wide . . . when he was shocked to find an outer gate beyond it! It too was guarded. The alarm was sounded before Hewe and his men could cut them down.

Kara heard the blaring of the ram’s horn as she scrambled through the wreckage of the dragonslayers’ catapults. The sound surely meant Hewe and his men had been discovered. She had to find Bowen! She turned to get her bearings when there, on the wall in front of her, suddenly loomed a huge shadow hoisting a huge mace!

Kara wheeled to confront the shadow’s flesh-and-blood counterpart. She thrust out her ax, but it was no match for Brok’s whirling ball and chain. The impact of the brute’s weapon tore the ax from her hand and sent her colliding against the brawny chest of another warrior. She screamed and lurched back, and Brok’s ball and chain smashed into his comrade. There was a crack of ribs, but the man didn’t budge. He couldn’t.

He was already dead, impaled to the wall on a giant lance. A wild Celt. One of the dragonslayers. Kara saw now that the man’s feet did not touch the ground, making him appear taller than he was. She also saw the giant broad-bladed ax in his hand. Her mind had barely taken this in when Brok’s mace spun down at her again and she rolled to the far side of the dragonslayer’s body, to retrieve the corpse’s ax. The mace smashed into the corpse’s thigh. The body bounced at the blow and the ax jerked forward in the flopping arm.

Kara sprang out and grabbed the ax pole, trying to wrench it from the dead man’s grip, but he wouldn’t relinquish it. Just then Brok’s mace came slamming down again. With both hands Kara hoisted up the heavy shaft, still attached to the dragonslayer’s hand, to ward off the blow. The spiked ball cracked right through the shaft, breaking it in two. Kara was jerked to safety, swinging back with the dead arm and the ax, which finally gave in the corpse’s hand. It clanked to the stone and Kara leapt to retrieve it as Brok’s mace whizzed by her. He wheeled and she came up with the ax. The spiked sphere lashed out and Kara caught it on the broken ax shaft. She snapped it forward and the entangled ball whipped forward too, bashing in Brok’s face. His scream mingled with the crunch of bone and a squish of blood as he sank to the stones, dead. Not as neat as a pudding, thought Kara, but effective nonetheless.