Borniya grabbed my hand, slamming it into the ground until I could no longer hold the blade. I had been stupid to go in close with him. Bit by bit his greater strength and weight started to tell. He rolled me away from my blade and, grunting like pigs in the mud, we continued to struggle and roll until we were stopped by the warm corpse of his mount.
My left arm was trapped against the dead animal. I tried landing punches with my right but only bruised my knuckles on his armour, while Borniya’s punches left me gasping. He tried to get his hand round my throat I broke his grip, once, twice, three times. He delivered three quick rabbit punches into my side with a gauntleted hand, stealing the wind from me. His strength was too much. His hands locked around my throat and this time I could not loosen them.
“This,” he hissed, thumbs pushing down on my windpipe, “is much more satisfying…” The edges of my vision began to darken. I stretched my right arm out, searching for a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon. “… way to…” My fingers hit wood, closed around it. “… kill you.” With the last vestige of my strength I swung the piece of wood, seeing a flash of metal in the moment before I shoved the spiked end of the broken pike into the vulnerable area of his armour under the arm. His eyes widened. I pushed harder. His grip loosened. “No,” he said. He leaned forward, drool spilling from his mouth onto my face. “No,” he said again. Then he went limp, falling dead onto the stomach of his mount.
Gasping, and with every muscle aching, I pulled the pike loose and used it to to help me stand. Further out in the mist Hallin, armed with sword and shield, was advancing on my master as she stumbled away from him, doubled over in pain.
“Hallin.” The word came out of my mouth as barely more than a whisper and I had to gather my strength before shouting again. “Hallin!” He turned. “Borniya is dead. I killed him. Now face me. Unless you are only brave enough to kill my servant?” He stopped, turned in my direction. It was drilled into squires not to leave a live enemy behind you, but I had to distract him from my master. “Are you a coward, Hallin?” I felt my legs begin to buckle and clasped the pike staff harder. “I think you are a coward.”
Hallin took a step towards me.
“I am not a coward.”
“Prove it.”
He came towards me at a jog, his shield up. He slowed and came to a stop when he saw the body of Borniya, and for a moment I thought I stood a chance. You really are a coward, I thought. You are afraid. Then my world spun, faded, and when it came back into focus I was on one knee, only the broken pike keeping me upright. Hallin smiled.
We both knew I was done.
“Aydor will reward me well for your head, cripple.” He walked forward, swinging his blade.
I had nothing left.
Nothing.
“You!”
The shout filled the mist. Hallin’s sword stopped mid-swing.
“You! Face me! Face me now!” Out of the mist strode a warrior in a blessed’s armour, all silvered and sleek. His visor was down and he held a blade in each hand. I did not know the armour, or the device of the golden flying lizard emblazoned across it, but there was no mistaking the voice.
Rufra.
Rufra had come. He had come alone, but he had come.
“So—” Hallin spat on the ground “—the filthy ap Vthyr has come to die with his mage-bent friend.” Rufra didn’t answer, only lifted his longsword and pointed it at Hallin as he marched forward. “I’ll kill you, ap Vthyr,” said Hallin, “and then I’ll kill your pet cripple.”
“No,” shouted Rufra.
“Oh, I think so. I’ll kill the cripple slowly. Slice him up. You know all about that, eh? You begged me to stop when I cut you; you think your friend will beg as well, eh? Think he’ll cry like a child when the knife bites?”
Rufra threw himself into an attack, roaring as he brought his blade down in a heavy overhead swing. Hallin brought up his shield and Rufra rained blows on it. He punctuated each blow with a word. “No!” The first blow staggered Hallin. “You!” The second forced him back. “Will!” The third pushed him to his knees. “Not!” He landed the fourth blow so hard his blade broke in two.
Hallin reacted immediately, pushing Rufra back with his splintered shield and swinging with his longsword. Rufra dodged the blade and attacked again. I knew Rufra was a skilled swordsman but he showed none of his skill here. His attack was all fury, a withering hail of blows with his stabsword and broken longsword. He made no attempt to defend himself; he only attacked, forcing Hallin to react to him and giving him no room to counter. Pace by pace he pushed Hallin back until, with a vicious swipe of his stabsword, he broke Hallin’s guard. Rufra followed up with a blow of such strength his broken longsword punched through the chest piece of Hallin’s armour. Then he pulled the dying Hallin close to him, shoving the broken sword further up into the squire’s body. He gave the blade a final twist and I heard Rufra’s voice, a harsh whisper:
“I will not let you hurt my friend.”
Rufra stepped back, pulling the blade from Hallin’s corpse and letting the body fall. He lifted the broken and blood-covered blade that was meant to secure his death, stared at it, then threw it to one side in disgust before hurrying towards me, lifting his visor as he approached.
“Rufra,” I said. There was so much more I wanted to say but the words would not come.
“Let me help you.” He put my arm over his shoulder, taking my weight and helping me stand.
“My master,” I said, pointing to where she had fallen. He nodded and helped me limp over to where she lay face down. As we approached she pushed herself over with a painful grunt.
“Master, are you—”
“The beast’s blow broke a few ribs, wrenched my arm.” She winced. “I’ve had worse.” I helped her to sit up and she looked at Rufra. “You are alone?”
“I am with my friend,” he said, glancing at me. Then he pointed into the mist, “And we are not alone any more.” The shades of Riders were slowly solidifying. At their head they carried a bonemount, the skull of a mount which carried the authority of a Tired Lands king. I recognised the skull amid the fluttering streamers tied to it: one antler was shorter than the other, which meant it was Imbalance, Rufra’s mount killed in Barnew’s Wood. I do not know whether it was exhaustion or something other, but as they appeared these Riders seemed something more than human: taller, thinner, their mounts barely making a sound as though they trod on air, not filthy mud. Both mounts and Riders appeared to glow. If you had told me at that moment that the gods had returned to life, I would have believed you.
“The stables are ours now,” said Nywulf, and the moment was gone. Before me were twenty Riders in scratched armour. Some still bore the remnants of Festival colours; others wore the armour they had used in the squireyard. Every one of them had a golden flying lizard painted on their armour, some done crudely, some beautifully but the insignia left no question of their allegiance. These were Rufra’s Riders.
Nywulf had brought Rufra’s pure white mount, Balance. He let go of the mount’s reins.
“We’ll take the castle next if you’d be good enough not to run off again.”
Rufra smiled and gave me a shrug.