Master of Dragons (35 page)

“Mother of God!
His hands!” a knight near Troeven gasped at almost the same moment. “Look at
his hands!”

One of the enemy
warriors stood near the fallen knight, but did not touch him. A soft warm glow
spread from the tips of the warrior’s fingers up his arms.

“God save us!
Demons!” gasped one of the younger knights.

Another stirred in
his saddle. “We should go to his aid—”

“No!” said
Troeven. He could see the eyes of the enemy watching them closely. “Every man
hold your position.”

Shaken by his
fall, the knight lay for a moment on the ground before coming to himself and
the realization of his danger. Clumsy in his armor, he rolled about on his back
like an upturned turtle, fumbling for the sword that had been knocked from his
hand. The male warrior began to make motions with his red-glowing hands and
pointed toward the dismounted knight.

The knight could
not understand what was going on. Any other enemy would have leapt on him,
helpless as he was on the ground, and run him through. He managed to regain his
feet, sword in hand, and took a step forward, thinking, as he did so, how the
heat of the day had markedly increased. He was baking inside his armor.

The knight started
to sweat profusely. His armor—plate and chain—was growing hot to the touch. So
hot that it began to burn his skin.

The metal began to
glow red. The knight yelped in pain and flung down his sword and tried,
frantically, to rip off pieces of the armor. He could smell his own seared
flesh. Screaming in agony, he flung himself to the ground and thrashed about in
a frenzy, shrieking for someone to help him, as his skin bubbled and blistered.

“He’s being
roasted!” his comrade cried in horror. “Roasted alive!”

They could all see
and hear and smell that for themselves. Waves of heat, radiating off the armor,
rippled the air. There were sizzling and popping sounds, as of meat being
grilled in a skillet. The stench of burning flesh and hair caused more than one
knight to cover his mouth with his hand or lean over his horse’s flank,
retching.

The second knight
could stand it no longer. Sliding from his horse, he tried to break through the
lines of warriors to reach his dying comrade. Another warrior held up
red-glowing hands. The knight clutched at his own armor and fell to his knees,
gasping as the metal began to grow hot to the touch. He tried desperately to
undo the lacings and the fastenings that held the armor in place, though he
knew quite well it was hopeless. He cast one silent, pleading glance toward his
fellows.

“God is mercy! I’m
not going to sit still and watch this!” cried a knight, and spurred his horse
forward.

One of the enemy
reached down to his belt and drew from a leather pouch what appeared to be a
small, feathered dart.

An ordinary-looking
dart,
Prince Marcus had told them.
Such as you might see in any tavern
game. The dart pierced a woman’s throat. It was thrown from a distance of five,
maybe six hundred paces.

Troeven drew in a
breath to shout a warning.

The warrior threw
the dart.

The knight gave a
cry, and his head jerked. He stiffened in the saddle, hung there a moment, and
then toppled off the horse. He landed on his back not far from where Troeven
was standing. The man’s eyes stared at the heavens, where, presumably, his soul
had sped. Between his eyes was a bloody, gaping hole. The dart had pierced the
back of his helm, gouged its way through his brain, and exited out the front of
his head.

Troeven let go his
breath in a whistling sigh.

A veteran of many
battles, Troeven had seen arms hacked off shoulders, hands sliced off wrists.
He’d seen skulls cleaved in two—whole men cleaved in two, entrails spilling
over the ground. Over the years, he’d become hardened, inured to the sights and
the sounds and the smell of death. Or so he had thought.

This was
different. This affected not only the mind, but the heart and the soul, turning
them all inside out and wringing them.

The young knight
who had spoken of demons slid off his horse and dropped to his knees. He began
to pray fervently, his voice broken and anguished. No others followed his
example, but several blessed themselves. All of them edged closer together.

These warriors
were armed with the most powerful weapon known to mankind—fear. They could have
attacked en masse and probably slaughtered Troeven’s small force in less time
than it would take to speak of it. Such an attack would gain them nothing,
however. Mere death. Whereas now, his knights were shaken and demoralized.
White-faced beneath their visors, they cast terrified glances at the enemy and
each other, wondering who was going to fall next. And, to make matters worse,
the king’s army was watching with all their eyes and listening with all their
ears. Some of the footsoldiers—good, stout yeomen, but illiterate and
superstitious—could hear the screams and the cry of “demons.” They would see
their knights, their commanders, their liege lords, being picked off one by one
at the enemy’s leisure. Dying on their knees. Unable to fight back. King Edward
would see his son captured, or, worse, roasted in his own armor like a plucked
goose at Yuletide.

“No, by my soul,”
Troeven swore to himself. “Damn your eyes, shut up!” he cried viciously to the
knight, who was praying. “And get off your knees! God Himself would be ashamed
of you. There’ll be no miracles here unless we make them!”

His voice snapped
whiplike, and the knight fell silent.

“We swore an oath
to protect our prince,” Troeven said, looking around the assembled knights,
looking each man straight in the eyes. “And, by God, I intend to keep that
oath. Are you with me?”

There were
hesitant nods from some, curt nods from others. Here and there was a firm, “I
am with you, my lord.”

“Good,” said
Troeven grimly. “Now we must all make up our minds to one thing—none of us will
leave this battlefield alive.” He glanced out at the enemy, watching, waiting. “Give
yourself to Death and you take away Death’s hold over you.”

He went on
swiftly, not giving them time to think, “I need the lightest man among you.”

Everyone looked to
Sir Reynard, a knight who had just won his spurs in the last tourney, a young
man of such slender build that one of his fellows had joked only this morning
that he rattled around in his new armor like a dried bean in a kettle.

“I am the
lightest, my lord,” said Reynard. His courage was holding firm, even under this
onslaught. “What is your need of me?

“You will be
responsible for the prince. Toss away your sword and shield. You won’t have use
for weapons. Your task is to ride for our lines. No matter what happens around
you, you pay no attention. You ride. Do you understand?”

“I do, my lord,”
said the young man.

“Is your horse
fast? If not, take mine.”

“My horse is as
swift as the stooping hawk, my lord,” boasted Reynard proudly. “And he can bear
the weight of two of us.” He gave his sword, a family heirloom, into the
keeping of a friend and rode his horse near Sir Troeven.

“Summerson, help
me lift His Highness.”

The two men lifted
the prince by his shoulders and legs and heaved him onto the horse, slinging
his body over the front of the saddle. The young knight took a firm grip on the
prince with one hand and grasped hold of the reins with the other.

“The rest of you,
fall in around His Highness,” ordered Troeven, remounting his horse. “We will
form a shield wall with our bodies. If one man falls, another rides up to take
his place.”

He had kept sight
of the enemy out of the corner of his eye, seeing them taking in all of this.
He wondered if they spoke the language, if they understood the commands he was
giving. Not that it mattered. They would know soon enough what was at hand. The
knights took their places, forming a solid wall of armored men riding in front
of the prince, men riding behind, and flanking the prince on either side.

“God save our
prince,” Sir Troeven said in reverent tones, and every man repeated the prayer.

“God save our
immortal souls,” Troeven said.

Every man repeated
that prayer. Every man’s voice was firm.

Troeven raised up
in the saddle and lifted his sword. He touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks.
The animal plunged ahead, and the knights rode after him.

The Prince’s Own
began their race against death.

STANDING ATOP THE
RIDGELINE, KING EDWARD WATCHED THE nightmare scenario he himself had predicted
(but in which he’d never in his heart believed). Edward had watched in grief
and (God forgive him) shame as his poor mad son had gone haring off down the
hillside, riding wildly through the army encampment, and galloping out into an
empty field, waving his sword at the grasshoppers. The king had turned away
from the heart-wrenching sight and from the looks of pity and well-meaning
banalities of his commanders, when suddenly he heard Wilhelm gasp.

Edward whipped
around to see warriors springing up out of the tall grass. Again, God help him,
Edward’s first thought was triumphant vindication.

“My son was right!”
he cried grimly. “He was right, by heaven!”

His joy at knowing
his son was not insane was quickly quenched by the knowledge that if Marcus was
right about everything, the king and his army were now facing a terrible foe.
In the next instant, he saw Marcus’s horse lurch sideways and fall to the
ground, carrying Marcus down with him. Edward lost sight of his son in the tall
grass.

The Prince’s Own
were there, however, shocked at the sight of the enemy springing up under their
noses, yet keeping their heads, keeping their oaths to guard their prince.

Wilhelm began
shouting commands. Men rode off with their orders and horns blared and drums
rolled. Knights who had been asleep in their tents shouted for their squires
and their servants. Groomsmen flung saddles and barding onto the horses, as
squires sought to lace up armor with hands that shook, while the knights cursed
them for being clumsy and slow and did more harm than good by trying to help.
The camp was thrown into confusion, as the soldiers ran to try to see for
themselves what was going on. No one paid heed to orders, and there was chaos
as the officers charged in among the soldiers, using blows and curses to
restore discipline.

Edward did not
move. He kept his gaze focused on the Prince’s Own, and he was cheered by the
sight of the initial charge crashing up against the front ranks of the dragon
warriors. He could not see clearly, but he could guess at the carnage caused by
the war horses plowing into their ranks. One knight won through to where he’d
seen Marcus’s horse go down.

“Who is that?”
Edward demanded. His eyes had lost some of their sharpness over the years and
he could not make out the knight’s device.

“Sir Troeven
Hammersmith,” said one of his knights.

“Ah, a good man,”
said Edward.

Sir Troeven
dismounted and was lost to sight amid the tall grass. The Prince’s Own closed
ranks around the fallen, all except for two, who had been riding behind and
found themselves cut off, surrounded by an enemy that had recovered from the
shock of that initial charge with astonishing swiftness.

Edward could not
see what was happening with Marcus, but he could picture the knight
ascertaining if the prince was dead or alive and, if alive, making a hurried
determination on how best to remove him from the field.

Edward expected
swift action—either his own knights attacking the enemy or the enemy attacking
them—and he was surprised and uneasy over what looked to be a stalemate. The
knights sat their horses. The enemy held their position. Neither made a move.
Wilhelm took out his spyglass—a gift from his father, and his pride and joy.
The prince trained it on the enemy.

“What do you see?”
Edward demanded impatiently. “What the devil’s going on?”

“It is as Marcus
told us, Father,” said Wilhelm, and his voice held a note of wonder. “These
strange warriors are not armed, and there are women fighting among their ranks.”

At that moment,
one of the two knights who had been cut off from the main body began his
ill-fated charge into the enemy. They watched him fall from his horse.

Unfortunately, at
about this time, order was restored in the camp. The foot soldiers were taking
up their positions, with the officers’ shouting for silence in the ranks. When
the knight began to roast alive, his screams could be heard quite clearly. And
so could the cry of “demons.”

“God save us!”
Wilhelm breathed, shaken, and he handed the glass to his father.

Edward put it to
his eye. His vision was not as clear as his son’s, and he had some trouble focusing.
The eerie red glow emanating from the hands of one of the warriors was easy to
spot, however. And then the next knight fell.

“But how are they
killing them?” Wilhelm cried angrily. “They are not armed! Father, you don’t
believe they are demons—”

“No,” said Edward
grimly, handing back the glass. “They are men like us. Or rather, not like us.
They are like your brother. The blood of dragons runs in their veins.”

“You believe in
that and I believe in it,” Wilhelm said, though he didn’t sound quite as confident
as he pretended. “But no one else will.”

Edward looked at
the ranks of foot soldiers lined up, waiting the call to battle, and sighed
deeply.

“Those are brave
men down there, Father,” Wilhelm added, “stout and true. But how will they cope
with a foe who fights with fire and brimstone?”

Abruptly Edward
handed back the glass. “I can’t see a damn thing with that contraption. I’m
going down there—”

“Father, wait!”
Wilhelm clasped hold of Edward’s arm, as the king started to spur his horse. “Look!
The knights have Marcus. They’re bringing him out!”