John Flanagan: The Burning Bridge

Erak looked around him with some satisfaction, wiping his ax blade clean on a cloth he'd taken from one of the dead Wargals.

"That's better," he said heartily. "I've been wanting to do that for days."

But the Wargals hadn't left their group unscathed. As he spoke, Nordal staggered and sank slowly to one knee. Bright blood stained the corner of his mouth and he looked hopelessly at his leader. Erak moved to his side and dropped to his knees.

"Nordal!" he cried. "Where are you wounded?"

But Nordal could barely talk. He was grasping his right side, where the sheepskin vest was already heavily stained with his blood. The heavy sword he favored as a weapon had fallen from his grip. His eyes wide with fear, he tried to reach it, but it was beyond his grasp. Quickly, Horak scooped up the weapon and put it in his hand. Nordal nodded his thanks, and slowly let himself drop to a sitting position. The fear was gone from his eyes now. Will knew that Skandians believed a man must die with his weapon in hand if his soul were not to wander in torment for eternity. Now that he had his sword firmly in his grasp, Nordal was not afraid to die. Weakly, he waved them away.

"Go!" he said, finally finding his voice. "I'm:finished:get to the ships."

Erak nodded quickly. "He's right," he said, straightening up from beside his friend. "There's nothing we can do for him." The others nodded and Erak grabbed first Will and then Evanlyn and shoved them along in front of him.

"Come on, you two," he said roughly. "Unless you want to stay here till Morgarath gets back."

And, moving together in a tight little group, the five of them shoved their way through the milling crowd of Wargals, all trying to move in the opposite direction.

Morgarath was stung by the impact of the heavy leather glove on his face. Furious, he turned to stare at the challenger who had ruined his plan. Then he allowed that thin smile to spread over his face once more.

His challenger was no more than a boy, he realized. Big, certainly, and muscular. But the fresh face under the simple conical helmet couldn't have been more than sixteen years old.

Before the startled members of the King's council could react, he replied swiftly.

"I accept the challenge!"

He was a second ahead of Duncan's furious cry: "No! I forbid it!" Realizing he was too late, he sought desperately for a way to prevent this one-sided contest. He forced himself to laugh scornfully at the black-clad figure.

"Really, Morgarath, is this your knightly challenge? You want to fight an apprentice? A mere boy? I've always known you as a treacherous swine, but at least I never doubted your courage. Now I see you've turned coward as well as traitor."

Morgarath smiled sardonically at the King before he answered.

"Is that the best you can do, Duncan?" he asked. "Do you really think I'll fall for such a transparent ploy? Do you believe I care what you or your toadies think of me? I'll fight the boy, and I'll do it gladly. As you know, once a challenge is given and accepted, there can be no withdrawal."

He was right, of course. The strict rules of chivalry and knighthood, by which they had all sworn solemn oaths to be bound, did decree just that. Morgarath smiled now at the boy beside him. He would make short work of him. And the boy's quick death would serve to infuriate Halt even more.

Halt, meanwhile, watched the Lord of Rain and Night through slitted eyes.

"Morgarath, you're already a dead man," he muttered.

Halt felt a firm hand on his arm and he turned to look into Sir David's grim eyes. The Battlemaster had his sword drawn and resting over his right shoulder.

"The boy will have to take his chances, Halt," he said.

"What chances? He has no chance!" Halt replied.

Sir David acknowledged the fact sadly. "Be that as it may. You can't interfere in this combat. I'll stop you if I even think you're going to try. Don't make me do that. We've been friends far too long."

He held Halt's angry gaze for a few seconds, then the Ranger agreed bitterly. He knew the knight wasn't bluffing. The codes of chivalry meant everything to him.

The byplay hadn't been lost on Morgarath. He was confident that the moment the boy fell, Halt would accept his original challenge, King's orders or no King's orders. And then, at least, Morgarath would know the satisfaction of killing his old, hated enemy before his own world came crashing down around him.

He turned now to Horace.

"What weapons, boy?" he said in an insulting tone. "How do you choose to fight?"

Horace's face was white and strained with fear. For a moment, his voice was trapped inside his throat. He wasn't sure what had come over him when he'd galloped forward and issued his challenge. It certainly wasn't something he'd planned. A red rage had overtaken him and he had found himself out here in front of the entire army, throwing his gauntlet into Morgarath's startled face. Then he thought of Morgarath's threat to Will, and how he'd been forced to leave his friend at the bridge and he managed, at last, to speak.

"As we are," he said. Both of them carried swords. In addition, Morgarath's long, kite-shaped shield hung at his saddle and Horace carried his round buckler slung on his back. But Morgarath's sword was a two-handed broadsword, nearly a foot longer than the standard cavalry sword Horace carried. Morgarath turned now to call once more to Duncan.

"The whelp chooses to fight as we are. You'll stand by the rules of conduct, I assume, Duncan?" he said.

"You'll fight unmolested," Duncan agreed in a bitter tone. Those were the rules of single combat.

Morgarath nodded and made a mocking bow in the King's direction.

"Just be sure that murderous Ranger Halt understands that," he said, continuing his plan of driving Halt to a cold fury. "I know he has little knowledge of the rules of knighthood and chivalry."

"Morgarath," said Duncan coldly, "don't try to pretend that what you're doing has any connection with real chivalry. I ask you one more time, spare the boy's life."

Morgarath feigned a surprised expression. "Spare him, Your Majesty? He's a lump of a boy, big for his age. Who knows, you might be better served asking him to spare me."

"If you must persist with murder, that's your choice, Morgarath. But save us your sarcasm," said Duncan. Again Morgarath made that mocking bow. Then he said casually, over his shoulder, to Horace:

"Are you ready, boy?"

Horace swallowed once, then nodded.

"Yes," he said.

It was Gilan who saw what was coming and managed to shout a warning, just in time. The huge broadsword had snaked out of its scabbard with incredible speed and Morgarath swung it backhanded at the boy beside him. Warned by the shout, Horace rolled to one side, the blade hissing inches above his head.

In the same movement, Morgarath had set spurs to his dead-white horse and was galloping away, reaching for his shield and settling it on his left arm. His mocking laughter carried back to Horace as the boy recovered.

"Then let's get started!" He laughed, and Horace felt his throat go dry as he realized he was now fighting for his life.

M ORGARATH WAS WHEELING HIS HORSE IN A WIDE CIRCLE TO gain room. Horace knew that he'd swing around soon and charge down on him, using the momentum of his charge as much as the force of his sword to try to strike him from the saddle.

Guiding his horse with his knees, he swung away in the opposite direction, shrugging his buckler around from where it hung on his back and slipping his left arm through the straps. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Morgarath, eighty meters away, spurring his horse forward in a charge. Horace clapped his heels into his own horse's ribs and swung him back to face the black-clad figure.