Simon Hawke - Ivanhoe Gambit

In their first rush together, not a few knights were unhorsed and some lay still upon the field of battle, whether dead, wounded or merely stunned no one would know until their squires rescued them. It would have taken a brave squire, indeed, to rush out into such a press. Most of them waited until the dust had settled somewhat and the numbers thinned. Other knights struggled to their feet and took to bashing at each other, able to tell for which side they fought by the battle cries they voiced. Those on the side of de la Croix shouted out "Tiens a ta foy!" or "Hold to your faith!", the motto on the red knight's shield, while the white knight's men, to Prince John's great consternation, were instructed by their captain to cry out "De par le roy!” or "In the king's name!"

Lucas had less difficulty in the melee than did all the other knights. His nysteel armor allowed him to move far more freely than the others could and his helmet, though damaged from his joust with de la Croix, was still capable of filtering out much of the dust. While all around him knights sweated in their suits of armor, breathing in dust while risking heat exhaustion, Lucas felt relatively cool and unencumbered. As he lay about him with his sword, he found himself thinking that the melee was a good metaphor for the U.S. Temporal Corps. Soldiers on both sides battling it out while observers or, as in this case, marshals kept score. And even scorekeeping was a chancy proposition in this instance, as one marshal discovered who saw Philip de Malvoisin pressed against the palisade by his antagonist. The marshal pronounced Malvoisin vanquished and the attacker turned away to find another to defeat, whereupon Malvoisin promptly took advantage of the interposition of another mounted knight between himself and the stands to smite both marshal and victor with his mace.

As the spectators strained to follow their favorites, the air became choked with dust and bits of plumage shorn from the helmets of the knights. The deafening sound of metal upon metal was falling off somewhat as arms grew tired and the number of antagonists grew smaller. Many knights had now been pronounced "dead" by the marshals and they had withdrawn. The field was liberally littered with dead, dying and wounded men and even a horse or two and there were but a few combatants left. Now the squires began to risk running out upon the field to drag away their fallen masters.

Bois-Guilbert, de la Croix and Malvoisin were the last remaining knights on their side, while on the other there were the white knight, Athelstane of Coningsburgh and an unknown knight dressed all in black upon a jet black stallion. His shield was black as well, bearing no device. He was not well liked by the spectators, who had observed him to hang back from the fray, fighting only when pressed by another knight and, even so, doing nothing more than making a defense. He was booed by the spectators as he simply sat astride his horse and watched while Malvoisin and de la Croix pounded Athelstane into the ground and then turned to join Bois-Guilbert in doing battle with the "nameless oak." Many of those watching called to John, shouting at him to throw down his truncheon and end the contest, since it was obvious that the white knight would be overwhelmed and the crowd was sympathetic toward him. They did not want to see their favorite beaten to a bloody pulp by superior odds, but John held off, watching and smiling.

"Mark Bois-Guilbert," he said to Fitzurse. "The Templar has a score to settle and I'll wager our white knight will not live out the day."

Indeed, the Templar was pressing his attack with a fury, hammering away at the white knight for all he was worth with his battle axe while both de la Croix, on horseback, and Malvoisin, on foot, stood by to finish him off.

Lucas was doing his best to parry as many of the blows with his sword as possible. They could smash away at the nysteel until doomsday and make only the most superficial dents in it, but he was anxious to keep up appearances. He had seen de la Croix and Malvoisin team up on Athelstane, with the red knight attacking him on horseback and Malvoisin standing by to complete the job the moment Athelstane was unhorsed. The Saxon now lay senseless, possibly dead, some few yards way. Now Malvoisin stood ready, waiting until Bois-Guilbert and de la Croix managed to unhorse him so that he could take his shot. John showed no intention of stopping the contest until he was stretched out full length upon the field.

It was at that point that the black knight chose to make his move. He spurred his horse and rode up alongside de la Croix, smashing the red knight in the side with his mace. The red knight tumbled to the ground, stunned by both the fall and the blow. The black knight then dismounted and advanced on Malvoisin. They met mace to mace and it took but a moment for the black knight to bludgeon Malvoisin into oblivion, using his advantage of size and strength to slam away at his adversary until Malvoisin dropped like a stone. That done, the black knight turned to de la Croix, but seeing Marcel dragging the red knight away, he took his own horse by the reins and led it from the field of battle to the cheers of the Saxons, who seemed to have forgotten his failure to help Athelstane.

Lucas was left to battle Bois-Guilbert. "Die, Saxon pig!" screamed the Templar, hacking away at Lucas with all his might. He was becoming increasingly frustrated. The white knight had parried most of his blows, but some had gotten through and Bois-Guilbert simply couldn't understand why he had failed to draw blood. Whereas all around them lay knights who had been smashed and dented, leaving the impression that they had been dropped from some great height, the white knight's armor showed not a single mark of serious damage. It was infuriating.

Lucas, meanwhile, was beginning to grow tired. As the previous day's champion, he had had his work cut out for him, becoming the mark for every knight on the opposing side. While others had been able to pace themselves to some extent, he was constantly beset and not given even one moment's pause. His superior armor enabled him to survive unscathed, but he was still susceptible to the effects of all the pounding and he was exhausted. The timely intervention of the black knight had given him an opportunity to end it and he had every intention of taking advantage of it. He had only one shot, but one shot was all he needed. The Templar was obviously in a fine sweat from his exertions and that would serve very nicely. He waited for an opening and when Bois-Guilbert left him one, he gave him a casual swat with his sword. At the same time, he triggered the capacitor that discharged 25,000 volts at half an ampere through the blade and into the Templar's body.

The Templar spasmed and his horse broke wind prodigiously. Lucas took advantage of the moment to bash him once again, although it was more for the sake of appearances than anything else. Bois-Guilbert never even felt it. He tumbled from his horse, unconscious. Prince John threw down his truncheon in disgust.

Lucas, like the fused capacitor he ejected from his sword hilt, was completely drained. He wished he could have given Bois-Guilbert a lethal dose of electricity, but he was glad to settle for a TKO. He still had a part to play. Frying Bois-Guilbert would never do. What had happened had to appear to be the result of a sword strike, not a lightning strike. Just the same, he was thankful for the equipment designed to increase the odds of his survival. It was easy for a soldier from 2613 to succumb to the temptation to feel superior to a fighting man of the Middle Ages, since even the smallest modern man would be on a par at least with the largest knights. However, that did not take into account the fact that these were men who were accustomed to a harsher way of life, to more primitive conditions and, needless to say, to moving about in heavy suits of armor. These men were far from being weaklings. Lucas had taken quite a beating during the melee and much of it had come from Bois-Guilbert.