Michael Sullivan: The Crown Tower

Hadrian slipped the shield over his left arm. “Pull the brace and let me out first. Stay close behind. When we meet resistance, I’ll push left, you move right. Don’t fight the footmen unless you have to. Go for the horse. If you can, cut the stirrup and pull. The knight’s own weight will drop him. Then grab the horse, stay low, and let me do the rest.”

“That will leave you to kill five men, not including the archers.”

“You’re in no condition to fight. Besides, if you get that knight off his horse, you won’t need to worry about the others. Once I clear the field, we’ll hop on the horse and run for it. I just hope the archers can’t hit a moving target. Ready?”

Royce stared at Hadrian, at his eyes. It was high summer on Herald Street, and the windows in that home were wide open.

“You realize we’re about to die,” Royce said, then sighed. “It’s a real shame. I’m just starting to like you.”

The door to the farmhouse flew open and they pushed out into the rain. The chickens were gone, but the puddles were still there, and so was the drumming roar of falling water. It was like jumping in the river again.

Hadrian rushed forward and got the first swing before any of them reacted, before the first arrow flew. They had caught the patrol by surprise. And even when the men in the barnyard reacted, they failed to see the threat. Soldiers spread out as if Royce and Hadrian were pigs bolting from a sty. One didn’t even draw his sword but held his hands out as if to tackle them. This left an open path to the one destination none of them could have expected a small wounded man with only a dagger would take.

The moment Hadrian swung, Royce clenched his teeth and sprinted for the knight.

Stabs of pain jolted through his body and brought back a wave of nausea and dizziness, but fear kept him running. He splashed through the puddles that threw brown water up to defy the gray water coming down. Something whizzed by Royce’s head, sounding like a bee with a purpose. He really could dodge arrows, if there was only one and he saw it coming, but in the rain he had only luck. Maybe the downpour caused just as much havoc with their aim as with his sight.

He didn’t have far to travel. The whole barnyard was only a few yards across and the knight was in the middle sitting majestically on his white horse. He loomed above everything, all metal down to his shoes. Water rang off his plates and his horse puffed clouds, adding to the haze-a beast of the gray. He sat well above the muck, safe and aloof. Royce wondered if this was why he was the last to react.

Whatever Hadrian was doing caught his attention. The knight’s visor was up, shielding his eyes from the rain-eyes that were not focused on Royce until he was only a few steps away. When he moved to draw his sword and spur his horse, the knight was still not looking at Royce.

Royce had to time it right. He needed to shift his momentum, catch the knight’s leg, while avoiding being chopped in half or slipping in the mud. As it turned out, falling was unavoidable.

The pain ripping through him was so intense he could have been hit by several arrows and not notice the difference. The dizziness was gaining strength. He could hear a ringing that was beginning to overtake the roar of the rain and that darkness was closing in again. He caught the knight’s foot. The move was inelegant-less an action of assault as one of trying to keep from falling. With his other hand he sliced the stirrup’s strap. He caught some of the horse in the effort and it jumped. Royce was amazed that a three-quarter-ton animal could jump so nimbly. That’s when he slipped. Royce was holding on to Sir Holvin’s foot as the horse jerked, and the mud was no help. He was still hanging on even as he fell, intent on pulling the knight to the ground, but he was too low. He didn’t have the angle. Using Alverstone the way he used his hand-claws, Royce gouged his way up the knight’s side, punching holes in the metal-by Mar, how he loved that dagger. Sir Holvin had no trouble noticing him then. Too close for the knight to swing, he hammered at Royce with the pommel of his sword. Holvin struck Royce in the head, and again in the face, but Royce refused to let go. He knew all he need do was hold on. The knight was right-handed and Royce was on his left. Sir Holvin was trusting to his stirrup for support-but it wasn’t there. All that metal, that vast tower of iron defense, lost its foundation and toppled. They were all falling. Not just the knight, not just Royce, but the horse as well. It had jerked twice more after Royce thought he heard more bees, and soon he had fifteen hundred pounds of horse and a metal giant crashing down on him.

He pushed off, shoving away as best he could, and the forward momentum of the horse did help it move a step and a half forward before it landed. This left him clear of the knight, but the horse was big. The rear flank crushed Royce’s left leg into the mud and wrenched his hips. Royce cried out as his leg broke. The pounding in his head and ringing in his ears reached a maddening pitch as if all the bells of the world were ringing alarms and his head was the clapper. The horse rolled and kicked, trying to right itself, driving Royce deeper into the mud.

“Royce!” He heard Hadrian and saw his figure moving toward him out of the gloom.

He still held the kite shield, only now it had five arrows decorating it. He planted the shield in the mud and struggled to pull Royce free.

“The knight!” Royce shouted.

“He’s dead,” Hadrian said, digging in the mud to gain enough clearance.

At the doorway he spotted Tom with his longbow, exchanging fire with bowmen near the barn.

“Why isn’t the horse getting up?”

“It’s dead too. The archers are lousy shots.”

Royce let his head fall back into the muck where the rain pelted him in the face. “We needed that horse.”

Hadrian slipped his arms under Royce and pulled. As his body slipped out from underneath the horse, as he felt the pressure subside, he heard another bee and Hadrian stiffened. Tom cursed and let another arrow fly and across the barnyard Royce heard a grunt.

Hadrian, who was already down on one knee, fell forward. Royce caught him as best he could, his hands brushing the arrow shaft in his back.

“That’s nine!” Tom shouted.

Hadrian lay with his head across Royce’s chest, wheezing and coughing up blood. “Did you hear that … we won?”

The rain poured.

What had been a shower became a flood. The skies opened and an ocean came down. Royce couldn’t see. He couldn’t stand up. His leg was broken and buried in the muck. He and Hadrian were wallowing in a pool of brown water that had mixed with their blood, making it the color of tea.

Hadrian collapsed on him like a wet rag. He’d stopped coughing, maybe breathing too. He had no way to tell.

“Hadrian?” Royce gasped for air and got mostly water. He struggled to prop his head above the water. It wobbled like a broken wrist.

Loud splashes and both Tom and Arthur were beside them.

“Leave us,” Royce growled. He tried to stand on his own but couldn’t even sit up. The stitches were ripped. He could feel the skin on his side open. “More will be coming. Leave us or they’ll know you helped.”

The world was swimming. Hadrian’s head lay still on his chest. Except for the mud and the blood, he might have been sleeping.

“He’s alive,” Tom the Feather shouted over the crash of rain, maybe to his son, maybe to Royce. “Lucky the cheap bastards used bodkins instead of broadheads.” He pulled the arrow out. Hadrian didn’t even flinch.

Tom had a cloth he stuffed under Hadrian’s shirt.

Amidst the violence of the downpour came another sound-the clopping of horse hooves. It wasn’t the knight’s. His mount was still on its side in the mud. Sir Holvin looked to have drowned in a huge puddle after the horse crushed him. It was also possible he was dead before then. Royce had opened parts of his armor with Alverstone and his puddle was just as tea-like.