Роджер Мур - The Reign of Istar

“You weakling! I’m not asking you to fight with it!”

Nikol thrust the knife into his limp hand. Lifting the heavy braid of long, golden hair, she twitched it around, held it out to him.

“Cut it. Cut it to match the length of my brothers hair.”

Michael understood suddenly what she intended. He stared at her, aghast. “Nikol, you can’t be serious! You’re not thinking—”

“No, it’s you who’s not thinking!” She turned, faced him. “This is my only chance to save Nicholas. Don’t you understand? They’ve taken him away. Now they’re launching an assault to cover their escape. We must drive them back, then I can lead a party to go rescue my brother.”

“But you’re a woman. The men won’t follow you.”

“They won’t know they’re following me,” Nikol said calmly, turning around again. “They’ll think they’re following my brother. We look enough alike that I can fool them, beneath the armor. And don’t worry, Brother,” she added bitterly. “You can stay here in safety and pray for me. Now, cut”

Her sarcasm was sharper than the blade. He realized now how wide was the gulf that separated them. He had sometimes dared to hope that she was fond of him. He had sometimes fancied that she had responded warmly to his touch.

If I were noble or if she were common, might we not love?

But now he knew the truth, he saw it in her eyes. She despised him, despised his weakness.

Michael grasped the knife awkwardly. Lifting the heavy braid of hair in his hand, he felt its silk beneath his fingers.

How many times have I dreamed of this moment, he thought to himself bitterly. The grace, the privilege of touching her beautiful hair.

He heard frantic shouting outside. A spent arrow whistled in through the window. Gritting his teeth, Michael hacked away at the shining, twisted strands.

“My lord!” A grizzled sergeant caught hold of the knight’s arm. Blood streamed from a cut on the sergeant’s head. He limped from either a new wound or an old. “My lord I It’s hopeless. There are far too many of the fiends! Sound the retreat!”

“No!” The knight shook him off furiously. “They’re falling back. Rally the men for another charge!”

“My lord, they’re regrouping, making ready for the killing blow, that’s all,” said the sergeant gently.

Michael realized then that the sergeant knew the truth. He knew he wasn’t following his lord, but his lady.

The cleric edged closer, to listen to the conversation. The battle had been brief and brutal. He had done what he could to ease the pain of the dying, but that hadn’t been much. The situation bad been too dire, too confused, for anyone to notice that their cleric had tucked his medallion of faith inside his robes, that no prayers passed his lips. Merciful death came to most swiftly. Michael’s one panicstricken thought was that Nikol would fall, wounded. And then what could he do for her?

“What are your orders, my lord?” the sergeant asked, respectfully.

Nikol did not immediately answer. Exhaustion had taken its toll. The ragged blond hair that fell to the metal-armored shoulders was wet with sweat. Any other knight would have removed the heavy helm, wiped his face. This knight kept her helm on.

Michael joined them, stared out over the battlements into the woods beyond. Day had dawned. The vast numbers of the enemy could be counted easily; they made no secret of their strength. The knight glanced around at the pitiful number of men who remained.

“Release the men from duty,” said Nikol, in a low, toneless voice. “If they leave now, they can make good their escape. The goblins will be too busy looting and burning to chase them.”

“Very good, my lord,” said the sergeant, bowing.

“Give them my thanks. They fought well.”

“Yes, my lord.” The old sergeant’s voice was choked. “My lord will be coming with us?”

Nikol made no response. Michael stepped forward, prepared to argue, prepared to tell everyone the truth, if necessary. Anything to save her. He caught the flash of blue eyes from behind the helm. Nikol’s gaze held his a moment, warned him to keep silent.

“No, not immediately,” she replied. “And don’t wait for me. I will try to save what little of value remains.”

“My lord—”

“Go, Jeoffrey. Take my thanks and my blessing.”

The knight held out a gauntleted hand. The old man caught hold of it, pressed it to his lips.

“Never did a noble knight fight with such courage as you have fought this day, my lord I May Paladine walk always at your side.”

The sergeant bowed his head. Tears streamed down the weathered cheeks. Then he was gone, running through the smoke, shouting orders.

Michael stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You should go with them, my lady.”

Nikol did not even glance at him. She stood staring out into the woods, crawling with evil creatures. “Your prayers did little good, Brother.”

Michael’s face burned with shame. Did she know the truth? Suspect? He turned away in unhappy silence.

“Don’t go, Michael,” she said softly, remorsefully. “Forgive me … and ask the gods to forgive me. It’s just … so hopeless!”

She leaned against him, thankful for his support. He couldn’t very well take an armored knight in his arms. He made do by squeezing her hand tightly. “We must get away, my lady.”

“Yes,” Nikol murmured. She talked as if she were in a daze. “There is a cave, not far from the castle. Nicholas and I used to play there, when we were little. It is well hidden. We will be safe.”

“Is there anything you want to take with you?” Michael asked, feeling helpless. He looked at the castle walls. Even now, they appeared stalwart, impregnable. It was difficult to imagine that they could no longer offer the shelter they promised. “What about the servants?” he asked.

“I sent them away long ago,” said Nikol. They were alone now. The men had fled. She removed her helm. Her face was ashen, grimy with dirt and blood and sweat. “Most of them have family in these parts. They’ll warn them, hopefully in time to get away safely. As for the jewels, we sold them years ago. I have with me what matters to me most.”

Her gaze went fondly, sadly to the sword in her hand—her brother’s sword, which once had been her father’s and his father’s before him.

“But we’ll need food, water skins …”

A hideous yell went up from the goblins in the woods. A black wave started to roll across the torn and trampled grasslands in front of the castle. The gate was shut. It would take them some time to storm the walls, even though they were no longer defended.

Nikol’s lips tightened. She replaced the helm over her head, gripped the sword. “Stay behind me and keep clear of my sword arm. I may need to fight our way out.”

“Yes, my lady.”

They hastened to stairs, leading downward. Nikol paused, turned to him, grasped his hand.

“We’ll find Nicholas, and you will heal him,” she said.

“Yes, my lady,” Michael replied. What could he say?

She nodded abruptly and disappeared into the darkness of the spiral staircase. Michael followed after her, his heart aching, heavy.

“It’s hopeless!” he wanted to shout. “Hopeless! Even if we did find him, I can’t heal him! Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

Grasping the blue holy symbol of Mishakal, he drew it forth from beneath his robes. Once it would have lit the darkness. Once it would have glowed brightly, radiantly. Now he could barely see it for the thick shadows surrounding him.

He let the medallion fall heavily to his chest. “You will see, soon enough. Now you despise me. Then you will hate me.”

He stumbled after her through the darkness.