most shallow cuts. Light as they were Bloodquaffer’s strokes always sheared flesh down to the bone. Blood hung in the air all around Orne like a red fog as veins burst open and arteries pumped blood out onto the grass.
The berserkers didn’t stop coming, though. They seemed wholly ignorant of the numbers of their dead that piled up before the gate under the constant attacks of Rory and Orne. The berserkers ran pell-mell right into the teeth of the fight and they struck with an inhuman savagery, driven by their trance to strength and speed no normal man could match. The heavy armor that Orne and Rory wore turned away most of their axe blows, but one cleaved right through Rory’s left pauldron and bit deep into the flesh below. His arm went limp and he dropped his shield—even as Orne stepped in to cover his friend’s left with his own shield, and took a barbarian’s head off with a backhanded slash from Bloodquaffer.
“Get the king through—get him inside,” Sir Hew shouted into Croy’s ear. Croy looked down and saw the portcullis had lifted a hand’s breadth from the ground. “Shove him in there, if you must.”
Croy grabbed Ulfram’s robes of state and pulled the king to him. The man was unconscious. It looked like an arrow had struck him a glancing blow on the temple. His crown was gone, lost somewhere out on the field. Croy had no time to find it. As the portcullis lifted another jerking inch, Croy picked up the king and stuffed him through the opening. The points of the bars tore at Ulfram’s silks, but Croy could only hope they hadn’t snagged his royal skin as well.
Once the king was past the bars, soldiers on the other side grabbed him and pulled him through the rest of the way, then lifted him off the ground and carried him off.
“Now, you,” Hew told Croy. Hew started to draw Chillbrand.
“No,” Croy told him, putting a hand on Hew’s wrist. “He’s in no state to give orders. You’re in command now—you go through next.”
Hew didn’t waste time arguing. He dropped to his belly and crawled through the gap, the points of the portcullis shrieking against the steel on his back.
Croy rushed to Rory’s side just as the old knight began to droop. He propped Rory up while Orne defended him from axe blows, and shouted into Rory’s great helm, “You go next, brother.”
Rory nodded gratefully and hurried to clamber under the bars.
Bloodquaffer came down in a wild slashing stroke that cut a berserker’s face in half. Another barbarian replaced the dead man, and it was all Croy could do to bring Ghostcutter up and parry a whistling axe blade. The berserker lunged forward and Croy was suddenly face to face with his foe. He saw the wildness in the red eyes, the exultant rage in the red-painted face. Spinning around, Ghostcutter an extension of his arm as he whipped it up and in, he gutted the man, but even that wasn’t enough. The axe came up again like the berserker was chopping wood.
Before it could cut down into Croy’s neck, Bloodquaffer took off the berserker’s arm. Orne bashed out with his shield and broke another barbarian’s nose.
“Orne! Is this what the sorcerer foretold? Is this your time?” Croy demanded.
Orne twisted at the waist and Bloodquaffer slid across the ribcage of a berserker. Blood jetted from the wound and bathed both knights.
“Not yet,” Orne said.
“Then get inside—until we’re both through, they can’t lower the portcullis again,” Croy insisted. He brought his shield around and pushed Orne back, toward the gate. He did not look to see if Orne obeyed his command or not—a dozen berserkers were right there in front of Croy, and he had to duck and weave to avoid being cut to pieces.
One of the barbarians threw his shield at Croy. It bounced pointlessly off Croy’s legs. Croy kicked it upwards with one foot so it tripped up two of the berserkers, then he lunged outward with Ghostcutter and stabbed a barbarian in the throat. Yanking his blade free, he swept it through the crowd, cutting ears and eyes and noses. Normal men, men who could feel pain, would have danced backwards from such an attack, terrified of being maimed. The berserkers didn’t even flinch.
A man could be the ultimate warrior—he could be a consummate knight—and still that wave of unwashed barbarian flesh would crash down on him eventually. Croy knew he must retreat or be slaughtered where he stood.
An axe came down where Croy had been a moment before. He bashed out with his shield, not caring if he connected or not, then threw himself backwards and rolled under the bars of the portcullis.
On the far side he jumped to his feet just as three berserkers came crawling after him, their heads and arms already through the gap.
“Now,” Croy shouted, “drop it now!”
A block was knocked free from where it held a windlass, and a chain rattled as the portcullis came crashing down. Its points impaled all three berserkers, but still they tried to drag themselves forward, still they tried to fight.
Croy left them to die, and went running to find Hew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Berserkers crashed up against the gate, straining and howling as they tried to bend the bars of the portcullis with their bare hands. Croy was afraid they just might do it, even though those bars were solid iron two inches thick.
High above his head he heard the ballistae twanging and jumping. They were too slow—barely able to get four shots off in a minute. “Archers!” he shouted. “Get longbowmen up there—drive the host back.” He glanced at the berserkers at the gate. “And men with pikestaffs. Clear the gate!”
Sir Hew was a dozen yards away, bellowing his own orders at a huddle of serjeants in leather jack. When Croy came running toward him, the knight dismissed the serjeants and shook his head. “Most of the men are still in their billets, and will be until someone comes to collect them. We weren’t ready—didn’t expect the attack until tomorrow’s dawning.”
“No time for cursing fate now,” Croy said. “We need to—”
An arrow came down from straight above and knocked Chillbrand out of Hew’s hand. Croy looked up—it was as if the arrow had been dropped from the clouds.
A hundred more of them appeared as he watched.
“They’re lobbing arrows over the wall, in the hopes of hitting anyone defending the gate,” Croy said, as the shafts twisted down toward him. He ducked down and threw his shield over his head. The arrows struck him like wooden raindrops, with about as much effect. He started to laugh, thinking the barbarians had wasted their ammunition. Then he looked up and saw a soldier in canvas jack standing before him. The man looked deeply confused by the three arrows that had transfixed his chest. The soldier took a step toward Croy and started screaming.
Croy grabbed the man and laid him down on the side of the road, out of the way of trampling feet. Not that it mattered. The soldier was dead before Croy set him down. All around, other soldiers were screaming or running willy-nilly, trying to get out of the barrage.
Up on the wall one of the ballistae slumped over on its side. Its master fell from the battlements, an arrow through one of his eyes. Balint watched him fall, then screamed for a replacement. “One that can fucking aim properly!” she added.
“Archers!” Croy shouted again. “Where are our archers?”
He heard a great crash and a noise like a bell falling from its tower. He looked up and saw the barbarians had a battering ram in the shape of a giant iron skull and they were slamming it again and again against the portcullis.
“Hew,” Croy shouted.
“I know it, brother. Back! Everyone get back—retreat to the inner bailey. We can’t hold the gate. Retreat! Sound the retreat!”
Sir Orne was suddenly at Croy’s elbow. “The king? What of him?”
Croy could only shake his head. He didn’t know where the king had been taken.
“He