without a fight,” he told the king. “She is your flesh and blood. Too many times she has risked herself to save others. I cannot let her die without a fight.”
“You cannot die needlessly. They know that we are near, that we are listening,” the king said. “We must plan.”
The knight looked at the king. “There is a way.” He pointed out the river, which was but a rill upstream, the jagged cliffs opposite their position. The cairns to the northwest, where they could escape through labyrinths, the enemy could not know.
The king listened gravely. Other nobles and knights came closer. The plan was decided.
“Pay heed,” Father Gregore demanded suddenly.
The king looked up, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He gave the orders to his men to circle to their positions, then rode to the edge of the cliff again.
The knight followed him. His stomach quickened.
Below, they were playing a taunting game with the king’s daughter, tossing her from man to man. She didn’t cry out. Her life had taught her stoicism.
A man grabbed her, pulled her close, then let out a scream as she bit his lip and kneed his groin. “My God, I’ll kill her!” he shrieked, drawing his sword.
The enemy king laughed. “So quickly? You are no match for her. But we ride this night with one who is.”
“The Devil’s own appears,” Gregore muttered. “But you must hold,” he warned the knight.
The enemy king lifted a hand as, from the throng of cavalry and foot soldiers, strode a man. He was taller than others, a black cloak around his shoulders and a painted black helm upon his head. He walked with confidence, approaching the girl.
The knight’s blood quickened; he gritted his teeth, fighting desperately for control.
This man had long been a servant of the enemy. The knight had met him in battle before, knew that at least once, he had inflicted grave damage upon him.
He remembered when they had last met. They had fought savagely, so savagely that he had believed he had killed his opponent, for he had managed a thrust to the throat. He had seen the blood gush and spill, the man fall, his life choking from him, his final words a curse and a vow that revenge would be his.
But rumor said that his foe had refused to die. That he had called upon Satan himself for succor.
Some whispered that Satan had sent one of his concubines to the earl. That she had given him a kiss, and therein sealed his pact with the Devil. He had not died, and the word that went across the country—terrifying his friends, it was said, as well as his foes—was that he had become invincible.
He was referred to now, in tones of awe and fear, as the Master.
And now that loathsome being had the king’s daughter in his power.
She would fight. The knight knew this in his heart. A feeling like death itself stole his breath. She would fight, and she would die. He had no prayer of reaching her, of perishing in her defense.
But she did not fight; she made no move. She merely stared at the damned warrior as he approached.
The man lifted his helm, his face shaded by the growing red moon. He seized the girl, drew her close beneath his cloak.
Suddenly she came to life. She screamed and raged, fought hard and somehow drew away, clasping her neck. With stunning speed, she stole the sword from the noble at the king’s left side. She swung it high and strong, despite its staggering weight. The cloaked man moved back; the warrior at his side was not so quick, and he died in agony.
Before she could strike again, a dozen men were upon her. She was instantly captured and bound, dragged to a tree, where faggots were quickly set. All the while, she swore in defiance. She cursed those who would murder her. “You will die,” she promised the enemy king. “You, too, will die in an agony of fire. Your insides will burn, as your soul races toward the fires of an eternal hell!” she shouted.
The black-cloaked figure turned, staring at the surrounding countryside. “See, Ioin? My power is greater now than any you will ever know. She is mine. Come, save her now, if you dare.”
The fire was lit.
Father Gregore crossed himself, muttered a prayer and drew his sword.
The knight knew he could wait no longer. He would defy the king.
But atop the tor, the king gave the signal to his haggard army.
And from the heights, they rode down upon the enemy. Battle cries split the air, and they rode like the berserkers, those maddened Viking raiders whose blood ran in the veins of so many there. The enemy outnumbered them, but they were part of the land beneath their feet, and many of those who rode with the enemy were paid for their services and had no heart for the battle.
The knight could smell the fire.
And in his mind, he heard her cry his name. It wasn’t a cry for help, but one of loss, of sadness beyond life, beyond the grave. In reply, he called out her name, and his fury created a sound like thunder and seemed to shake the earth. He strode through death, defying it, ignoring it. He reached the tree and burst through the flames, ignoring the scorching of his own flesh. He slashed through the ties that bound her, and she fell, still, silent…lifeless…into his arms.
A roar of pure rage escaped him. He looked for the cloaked man, but did not see him.
The enemy rushed him, and he was forced to lay her down. He sensed the death at his back, and he turned, raised his sword, parried and slashed without stopping.
He felt the darkness, deep, overwhelming. Crimson. He spun once more, ready to swing with wearied arms, fighting the burning in his muscles.
But there was no one. Nothing. And she…
She was gone.
The enemy swept closer again, and, stunned, he was nearly taken. Only instinct saved him. He turned in time to smite his opponent, and the battle grew ever more frenzied. He fought on, heedless, his mind numbed.
Swords clashed again and again. Battle-axes split skulls. Soon the footing was treacherous, blood mingling with the dirt. Then came the blast of a horn, and the battle paused. The man before the knight smiled—just before he died. Then, keening on the breeze, came the eerie sound of unholy laughter.
It had been a trap. A trap from the beginning. They had seen only a fraction of the troops riding with the enemy. More were arriving, storming through the pass.
The knight turned in time to slash the throat of the infantryman behind him, who had meant to stab him through the back. He saw the king, and rational thought took over once again. He strode over blood, bodies, limbs, and reached the place where the king fought. Savagely, he battled by his ruler’s side, willing to fight unto death, until he was overwhelmed.
Because death would be welcome. She was dead, his soul cried. Dead and gone. All that was left was to find her remains.
“Go!” the knight roared above the clash of steel. A cohort was there with a horse. The king’s followers thrust him behind themselves, forcing him to the horse. A pipe played, and the defenders began to slip away, heading for the caves and tunnels they knew so well. The battle continued to rage. They could not all escape; someone had to remain so the others might survive to fight another day.
The knight looked up briefly. The moon was full in the sky, as red as the bloody field around him. The mist that had fallen was the same crimson shade. It was as if he stood in a fog of blood. And in his heart and mind, he was dead already.
His time had come. He did not damn God or fate. She was lost, and he could only pray that there was indeed a heaven, that he would find her there. He had killed, true, but his cause had been a righteous one.
He closed his eyes for a split second, then opened them, roared out a warning and strode into the melee.
They