“But, Your Majesty – ”
Fidel did not hear what else the knight might have said, for in that moment he heard a scream, a voice that he recognized. He whirled and continued down the stairs into the hall below and threw himself at the first man in Shippening garb that he saw. His sword came away red with blood. He turned and blocked another attack, then drove his blade home. He looked through the haze of the torchlit hall, his mind numbed by the din of battle, and his face went suddenly pale.
General Argus lay against the wall, blood soaking his front, a young aide fighting desperately to defend him. With a roar, Fidel lunged across the hall to the general’s side. “Argus!” he cried, dropping to his knees.
The general raised his eyes and tried to speak, but no voice came. Fidel gazed down at him for what seemed a small eternity, but the press of battle forced him to his feet again. He stood back-to-back with the young aide near the door leading into the yard. A crush of men poured through – men of Shippening. Around him were some of his own people, but they were far outnumbered.
Fidel raised his sword and shouted, “To me, Parumvir!”
Men gathered at each side and rushed forward with him into the onslaught. But there was too little room in the hall. They were crowded together and could hardly raise their swords without cutting each other. The men of Shippening pushed them back, and when Fidel, panting, leaned against the far wall, the number of those who stood with him was greatly reduced. Blood oozed down his right hand, and he felt his face to find more blood and a long, stinging cut on his cheek.
Sir Oeric appeared beside him. “Sire,” he growled through sharp fangs, “with all due respect, I insist that you stay back with your men.”
Even as he spoke, more Shippening soldiers spilled into the hall. Breathing hard, Fidel could only watch them coming, but Sir Oeric brandished his sword. “Stay back,” he repeated, then charged forward alone into the attack.
For a moment he seemed to be swallowed up by the enemy. Then, bit by bit, Fidel watched in amazement as the men of Shippening fell away, fleeing the hall, spilling back out into the yard in the face of one man’s defense. Soon only the fallen soldiers of Shippening remained in the hall, their blood mingling with that of Parumvir’s men. Fidel, sword in hand, ran to the door and looked out into the yard.
Men of Shippening flooded through the gates and over the walls. Alone in their midst stood the three Knights of Farthestshore. And as they fought side by side, the enemy could not draw nearer to the fortress keep. For the first time since the alarm was sounded, Fidel found his heart lifting. They would survive the night after all. He shouted in defiance of the Duke of Shippening and charged forward with his faithful men at his heels. Emboldened, they threw themselves with renewed vigor at their attackers, driving them back across the yard, back over the walls.
Fidel stood beside the knights, his face full of triumph as he turned to them.
But they stood pale as three ghosts. Sir Oeric said in a low voice, “He has come.”
The next moment, like two great suns in the night, the eyes of the Dragon appeared in the darkness between the walls at the great gate.
The green-eyed knight cried out in dismay, but even as he did so he charged into the Dragon’s very face. “Rogan!” Sir Imoo shouted and ran after him. A great burst of fire, roaring like a hurricane, burned the night, and the second knight only just fell away in time to avoid the fate of his brother.
Then the Dragon passed through the gates, and with one sweep of his claw he sent Imoo flying across the yard, where he struck the wall and fell like a crumpled reed doll upon the stones.
Sir Oeric placed himself before King Fidel, but though he was great and tall as a giant, he seemed but a tiny child before the black majesty of the Dragon.
And the Dragon, as it looked down upon him, laughed.
“Well met, sir knight!” His voice was full of fire, and Fidel felt the poison of his breath wafting over him. “It’s been a while since last I set eyes upon you. Found yourself a name yet, goblin?”
Sir Oeric did not reply but stood protectively over the king, his sword arm upraised.
The Dragon laughed again, a thunderous sound. Fidel dropped his own sword and fell to his knees, and even the knight stepped back and cringed away as sparks flew and burned his skin. “I owe you too much to crisp you to cinders,” the Dragon said. “I do not forget a service rendered, however unwillingly. If not for you, little knight, I might yet be bound to the Gold Stone! So no, I’ll not kill you now. But you will have to stand aside and let me take the little king.”
“Go to the hell prepared for you, Death-in-Life!” the knight spat, his deep voice strangely thin before the monster’s might.