Part 25 (1/2)

however it end, I would talk more with thee . . .”

Dewar was speechless still. He stared at Prospero, unable to organize his thoughts and emotions into anything coherent.

”. . . an thou hast no objection,” Prospero concluded low-voiced.

Dewar made a small sound and shook his head.

”Good. Until later, then. Truce 'tween us.” He mounted the horse, turned him with his legs as his hands adjusted his cloak, sword, and helm, and trotted away over the crest of the hill and down its back.

Dewar sat suddenly down on a boulder, his face slack with shock. He swallowed and his eyes watched the battle's waves of attacks and his mind stumbled through other matters, while the cold bright sun reached noon.

He rose slowly and broke his Bounds. The tide of the battle had moved away; Prospero's western line had fallen back. Dewar walked down the hill to a temporarily lulled place on the field, took a sword and s.h.i.+eld and helm from an arrow-throated corpse and dragged a s.h.i.+rt of mail from another, and donned them. He was trembling uncontrollably, and he could not understand why nor stop.

Ottaviano was with Golias to the northeast. Dewar went to join them, commandeering a dead man's horse on his way, and became Otto's shadow, protecting and moving with him. Otto shouted something at Dewar when he saw him, but Dewar ignored it and set, cold-faced, to the loathsome butcher's work at hand.

Herne brought Prospero down with a length of chain on a handle which had been a morgenstern, but which had lost its head. He wrapped the thing, flail-like, around his brother's sword arm and dragged him from the saddle.

”Yield thee, pretender!” Herne bellowed.

”Wh.o.r.eson b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” Prospero shouted, truthfully, and he and Herne engaged on foot.

Prince Gaston saw. He was not far off; Ottaviano and Golias were pressing a disordered clump of Prospero's spike-helmeted troops down a slope, having cut them off 224 --^.

from retreat to their camp, and they saw it too. Dewar saw, riding behind Otto, and he threw the blood-clotted sword in his hand away.

”Yaaaah!” hooted Ottaviano in pure blood-l.u.s.t.

”Kill him!” screamed Golias.

”Herne, hold!” shouted the Marshal, his voice carrying over the din of battle, and Herne whacked Prospero on his helmed head with the chain he still had in his left hand. Prospero staggered; Herne went over his counterswing easily and hit him again with the fiat of his sword, then whirled the chain again and disarmed him.

Gaston was charging, on his blood-spattered warhorse, over corpses and around knots where combatants were still engaged; the standard-bearer couldn't keep up with him.

”Yield!”

”Herne! Hold!”

Prospero lay on the trampled ground before Gaston, Herne having knocked him to his side with the disarming blow. His left arm had folded beneath him. He was not moving. Herne lifted his sword two-handed to strike again, a sure-fatal stroke, and Gaston's long blade whipped around, singing in the air, to ring against his brother's blade and prevent the blow, knocking Herne's sword to one side and Herne off-balance, so that he stumbled a step away from the fallen Prince. Gaston's sword returned and whizzed toward Herne's neck, too fast for Herne to parry, so that if Gaston had not pulled the blow, half a hands-breadth short of striking, Herne had been a dead man.

The Marshal took a deep breath, commanding himself. ”I said, hold, ” Gaston said, and his voice was soft. The sword was quite still and quite close to his brother's gorget.

Herne glared up at Gaston through the visor of his helm and then stepped back.

Ottaviano, with Dewar behind him, joined them.

”He's stunned. There's no common bond I'd trust to hold him,” Gaston said, jumping down lightly, as if he were not plate-armored from head to heel. ”Dewar, do thou confine him with thy sorcery.”

Dewar's ears roared. He looked wildly at Gaston and Sorcerer and a Qentteman 225.

then blankly, despairingly, at Prospero, who suddenly shook his head, recovering, and rolled onto his back with an audible pained hiss.

”Confine him!” Gaston repeated, watching and knowing that Prospero was strengthening himself for another fight.

”Wake up, man!” Ottaviano reached over and shook Dewar's elbow.

Herne lifted his sword and held the chain ready.

”Dewar!” Gaston snapped, and glared at the younger man, who was breathing heavily and seemed entranced.

”d.a.m.n you, Dewar! /'// do it,” Ottaviano said, stabbing his sword into the ground. He moved his hands, gathering power as he walked around Prospero, addressing the forces of the Well and forging them.

Gaston suppressed his startlement at this. .h.i.therto-undemonstrated ability of the new-made Baron of Ascolet and waited.

Dewar closed his eyes to close out the sight of the world s.h.i.+fting jerkily from side to side before him. He feared he would fall from his saddle. Before Ottaviano finished the invocation of Binding, he spurred and wheeled his horse and raced the tired animal away across the field of carnage, forcing him through the dead and dying men and animals.

”What the f.u.c.k!” Herne cried. ”Treachery-”

”Let be!” Gaston shouted him down angrily.

Prospero, as the sinews of Ottaviano's spell constricted around him, had shaken his head again and sat up, pus.h.i.+ng up his visor in time to see Dewar turning and fleeing. There was blood on his face, but no obvious wound.

”Aha,” he said, in a strained voice, looking at Ottaviano. ”Neyphile's boy.”

Otto blinked, reddened. ”I know you not, sir.”

”Of course not,” Prospero said, with the ghost of a chuckle, and leaned on his opalescent black-bladed sword to rise, holding his left arm close against him.

He and Gaston regarded one another for a minute, a minute and a half.

”So, Gaston.”

”Prospero.”

226.

'ECiz.aBetfi ”Avril hath not the stomach to fight his own fight, and you champion him.”

”I fight for Landuc.”

”So did Panurgus.”

Gaston reddened. ”I will not argue this with you.”

”Nay. Your best argument is there in your hand, Marshal.”

Another tense half-minute of silence pa.s.sed.

”I am your prisoner,” Prospero said quietly, in a stronger voice, and after perhaps three heartbeats, he unfastened his helm and dropped it on the ground. It bounced at Gaston's feet and bounced back to Prospero's. ”If yon journeyman will be so good as to break these Bounds, I'll yield my sword.” He wiped the blade on his cloak.

”Do it,” Gaston said without looking at Ottaviano.