The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (42 page)

20

The Onyx Guards were the last to pass through the fortress’s gates. Dwain and Yeras helping Lorn, and Liam supporting a straggler wounded in the thigh. The double doors slammed shut. A portcullis dropped just in front of them. And two bars as thick and solid as master beams slid into their lodgings. The next troops to come through this gate would be led by a dragon-prince.

Lorn was taken into a guardroom where he could lie down on a cot. His ears stopped ringing and he managed to gather his wits while Liam firmly inspected him to verify that he wasn’t injured. Yssaris, seated close by, seemed to be keeping an eye on the proceedings.

Lorn finally pushed Liam away and sat up.

‘I’m fine. But I’m dying of thirst.’

Dwain was handing him a glass of wine when Alan and Enzio arrived. Logan, who was guarding the entrance, glanced in to make sure everything was all right and closed the door behind them. They had watched the battle from the ramparts, and then they had seen Lorn come running out of the fortified gate just before it exploded. They’d been aware of Lorn’s plan. Realising that the gate would not hold for long, they had decided to destroy it rather than abandon it to Laedras and allow him to install cannons there. The risks entailed were nevertheless enormous and Alan and Enzio had anxiously witnessed their friend being engulfed by the thick cloud thrown up by the explosion.

‘You gave us quite a scare!’ exclaimed the prince of the High Kingdom. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’

‘Truly?’

‘Well, a fiddle with a terrible headache.’

‘But nothing broken?’

‘Ask him,’ said Lorn, jerking his thumb at Liam.

The veteran shook his head, which finally convinced Alan.

‘Did you really need to wait so long?’ asked Enzio in a tone of reproach.

‘Well …’ said Lorn, shrugging his shoulders. ‘At the time, it seemed like a good idea. How many men did we lose?’

‘Seven. Dead or seriously wounded.’

Lorn’s face darkened and he nodded sadly. The terrible toll had started and it would continue to mount until the last among them fell, unless some providential rescue arrrived from the heavens.

Or by way of the sea.

‘It wasn’t in vain,’ announced Lorn. ‘The war lizards were under the archway when the whole place blew up.’

‘All four of them?’ asked Enzio.

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent news,’ said Alan. ‘Those filthy monsters can climb walls.’

‘And it’s a blow for Laedras,’ added Enzio. ‘He lost at least twenty men in this assault. If you include his lizards …’

‘But we can’t afford to lose seven men for only twenty of his.’

Lorn immediately understood what the prince was driving at. During the night, they’d had a long discussion about the wisdom of defending Saarsgard’s ramparts, without reaching an agreement.

‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked, rising to his feet.

As far as he was concerned, the question was entirely rhetorical. But Alan was of a different mind.

‘This fortress is immense, Lorn. And at present, we have barely more than forty men to defend it. It’s impossible! Untenable!’

‘It’s simply a question of resisting. If we fall back to the Castel straight away, we lose the chance to slow Laedras down and inflict more losses on him.’

‘But we end up retreating into the Castel all the same. Only there will be fewer of us to defend it.’

‘Each hour gained is a victory, Alan.’

‘I was there when you gave your speech, thank you.’

Lorn put on his belt, which his men had removed before they laid him out upon the cot.

‘You’re misguided if you’re hoping for a triumph,’ he said.

Annoyed, Alan turned to Enzio.

‘What do you think?’

The Sarmian gentleman did not reply right away. His mind was made up, but the exchange between Alan and Lorn had been sharp and he wanted to smooth matters over.

‘I say that a stronghold under siege can only have one general, and Lorn is ours.’

Alan sighed.

Calmly, he addressed Lorn:

‘You really insist on defending every stone of this fortress?’

‘Yes.’

‘At whatever cost?’

When Lorn didn’t reply, the prince resigned himself.

‘So be it.’

‘Our walls are too high for their ladders and solid enough to resist their cannons for a long while. Without his lizards, Laedras can no longer take them by assault. The battle will be concentrated at this great gate. And thirty men would be enough to defend it. We have forty. That’s ten too many.’

Alan smiled at his cockiness and, only half convinced, called on Enzio as his witness:

‘What can anyone possibly say in response to that?’

Lorn approached the prince, placed his hands upon his friend’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

‘You father’s banner flies above our heads, Alan. It can only be seen here, and over the Citadel. Each hour gained …’

‘… is a victory, I know.’

The door opened to reveal Dorsian, who, from the threshold, asked:

‘How’s our heroic arsonist?’

‘As you can see,’ replied Lorn.

‘Perfect. Then you should come with me.’

The soldiers who were not standing watch upon the ramparts had assembled in a vast guard hall whose thick columns supported cross-arched vaults. They were eating there, relaxing, or taking care of their equipment. Some were praying, and the wounded were resting.

It was there that Dorsian led Lorn, standing aside before the door to let the knight pass through first.

Lorn entered.

And despite the dead and the wounded, despite those who had fallen and those who would fall soon, he was cheered loudly by all present.

21

The bombardment resumed and lasted all day.

The cannonballs struck Saarsgard’s ramparts or passed over them to fall upon the rooftops, into the courtyards, or against the buildings’ façades – one of them, breaking a window, traversed an entire floor, which was fortunately deserted. They caused damage but did not threaten to create a breach in the defences. On the other hand, they did wear on the defenders’ nerves. There was the noise of the cannons. There was that of the impacts. And there was the constant risk of a ball mowing down a man or taking off his head. The sentries had to remain under cover. Any movement required creeping from one shelter to another.

The Yrgaardians, however, did not try anything else and, when the cannons suddenly fell silent, calm settled over Saarsgard along with the dusk.

‘Laedras is licking his wounds,’ Logan said in a sinister tone as he patiently sharpened his twin blades.

Everyone knew the dragon-prince had not given up.

At nightfall, beneath a black sky haunted by the distant pallor of an almost absent Nebula, a long and massive silhouette, its long tail snaking behind it, approached Saarsgard’s ramparts. Slow but sinuous, the war lizard threaded a silent path between the big boulders which, at this particular spot, cluttered the steep slope. It opened the way for a group of equally silent men. Most of them proceeding on foot, they wore supple leather and were armed with cutlasses and short swords. Sailors. And agile and formidable fighters.

The lizard reached the bottom of the wall and waited, its forked tongue lashing the air. It was hurt. One eye had been punctured and there were gleaming wounds on its flanks. Its breathing was laboured and wheezing. Blood ran from its maw, a sign that it was dying from internal injuries and would not long outlive its fellows, buried beneath the rubble of the fortified gate.

It was no longer fit for battle, but Laedras had realised it could still serve and perhaps even bring victory. Not possessing the numbers to maintain an adequate watch, the besieged were obliged to rely on the ramparts’ height to protect them.

An error.

The men accompanying the lizard attached a long rope to its harness. Then the giant reptile began to climb the rampart. Its powerful claws had no difficulty finding holds in the stone. Its belly brushing against the wall and its body slithering quickly, it took only an instant for the beast to climb up to the deserted rampart walk.

Unable to sleep, Lorn went out onto the ramparts. He took a spiral staircase that led to the embrasures on top of the main gate and, from there, observed the Yrgaardian ships in the port, aboard which several lights were burning.

Dwain was on duty here.

Having turned to see his captain arrive, he gave Lorn a nod and resumed his watch. Lorn placed himself on Dwain’s right, one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other hooking a thumb to the buckle of his belt.

The two men kept silent for a moment.

‘You never asked me why I was sentenced to the galleys,’ Dwain said suddenly, without ceasing to look off into the distance.

Lorn gave him a sideways glance.

‘No,’ he said, after a brief pause. ‘Is it important?’

‘It was because of the fellow I killed.’

Lorn greeted this news without blinking.

‘Did he deserve to die?’

‘No,’ said the red-headed colossus. But then he added: ‘Not for what he did to me, at any rate.’

Lorn nodded and gave the matter a little further thought.

‘If you were sentenced to the galleys for murder in Ansgarn, then you would have been condemned for life.’

‘I wasn’t sent to the galleys for murder. But I know, deep inside, that it was the reason why the Dragon of Destiny wanted me sentenced to the galleys.’

Lorn told himself this explanation was as good as another.

‘Did the Dragon of Destiny also want the Onyx Guard to recruit you?

‘No doubt about it.’

‘Why?’

‘I have no idea. But it’s not necessary to understand it in order to accept one’s destiny.’

Lorn had no reply, and Dwain broke the silence again after a moment.

‘We fought well today.’

‘Yes.’

‘Thanks to you.’

Lorn directed his gaze towards the shimmering horizon.

‘Until tomorrow, Dwain,’ he said as he turned away.

‘Until tomorrow, knight.’

Lorn did not see the crossbow bolt.

He only saw, out of the corner of his eye, a gleaming line pass through Dwain’s throat, and then the guard shuddered as two other bolts struck him in the back. The blood gushing from the wound spattered Lorn, who stood dumbfounded for an instant. Choking, Dwain fell to his knees and was dead before he toppled forward.

Then everything sped up and Lorn’s reflexes took over.

Glimpsing a crossbowman taking aim at him, he drew his Skandish sword and, in the same movement, sliced through the bolt speeding towards his chest. He would have liked to bend over Dwain’s body for a moment, but Yrgaardians in leather armour were already charging at him. He deflected a cutlass, severed a wrist, removed a head, tripped a third opponent and, turning his sword, pinned him to the ground with a quick jab.

‘TO ARMS!’
he yelled, before rushing to the spiral stairs. ‘
TO ARMS
!’

The enemy was within the stronghold, but how? Since when? And in what strength? The questions jostled around in his head, but, caught up in the action, Lorn had trouble thinking. And besides, what did it matter now? He needed to react, take stock of the situation, and save whatever still could be.

‘TO ARMS! TO THE MAIN GATE! TO ARMS!’

On the stairs, Lorn came nose to nose with an Yrgaardian who was climbing to meet him. He propelled the man backwards with a kick to the chest and finished him off in passing with a backhanded sword stroke, before the man could recover.

‘
TO ARMS!’
the knight yelled again, once he reached a landing.

The sentry who had been posted here to keep watch through an arrow slit over the approaches to Saarsgard, was lying in a pool of blood at the end of the corridor. Lorn did not pause to see if he was still breathing: he had just heard a frightening sound, that of the chains and cogs controlling the portcullis.

The entrance to the fortress was defended by two sets of double doors closing off either end of a wide and long archway which passed through the main wall. The outer set of double doors was reinforced by a heavy portcullis …

… which was now being raised.

‘TO THE PORTCULLIS! TO THE PORTCULLIS!’

Lorn could only imagine the assailants massed at the foot of the ramparts, just waiting to enter the stronghold. For there was no doubt that the men who – one way or another – had managed to infiltrate Saarsgard only had one goal: opening the gate to the main body of their troops. This could still be prevented, Lorn hoped. But if the portcullis were raised, the enemies outside would need no further assistance. A few explosive mines would be enough to blow open the double doors that would be the last remaining obstacle blocking their path.

The tocsin finally sounded.

When he arrived beneath the archway, Lorn had to throw himself to one side in order to avoid two crossbow bolts. Then, brandishing his sword, he attacked.

Some Yrgaardians were toiling at the portcullis’s winch and had already succeeded in raising the barrier halfway. Others had already partially opened the inner set of double doors. And lastly, still more were standing ready to face Lorn. They were twenty in all, but he felt no fear. He had to prevent the portcullis from being raised at any cost. In any event, he had to prevent it long enough to allow his men time to arrive.

Even if he found himself alone.

One against twenty.

Lorn attacked, parried, riposted, sliced open a face, the torchlight casting twisted shadows which flickered across the archway’s rounded ceiling. A stroke from a short sword grazed him. A second scored a solid hit, but his leather and chain mail armour saved him. Varying cuts and thrusts, he slashed through a shoulder and pierced a chest. His heavy blade ravaged his enemies. In the heart of the melee, he wielded it with both hands and found the legendary fury of Skandish warriors boiling within his blood. Three more soldiers fell before his heels came up against a dead body. He staggered and almost fell, coming away with a long gash to the arm. Feinting, he killed one Yrgaardian and wounded another.

But there were too many of them.

The portcullis was still rising and Lorn realised he would not stop it. Raging, surrounded by enemies on all sides, he heard a clamour echoing beneath the archway.

Help was arriving.

With Alan and the Onyx Guards at their head, the besieged had forced their way through the inner doors and charged. The Yrgaardians retreated, offering Lorn an unexpected respite. Thinking he could catch his breath, he did not see a crossbowman aiming at him from the top of a flight of steps. The bolt whistled and struck Lorn in the shoulder.

The blow was dreadful.

‘
LORN!
’ cried Alan, throwing himself into the melee.

But Yeras was already dragging Lorn away from the fighting, with Liam and Logan covering them.

‘Is it serious?’ asked Yeras, seating Lorn upon a bollard.

Lorn shook his head. His spaulder had resisted the blow, absorbing most of the impact, and the bolt’s point had penetrated less than an inch into the flesh. Painful, but not dangerous. Lorn gritted his teeth and pulled the projectile from the wound himself.

At that moment, the portcullis came to a halt at the top of the archway.

‘
THE PORTCULLIS
!’ ordered Lorn. ‘
QUICKLY! LOWER IT BEFORE THEY OPEN THE DOORS!
’

And without waiting, he picked up his sword and leapt into action.

‘
WITH ME
!’

The Onyx Guards followed him. Together, they joined Alan, Enzio, Dorsian and the other defenders in the battle. They numbered about thirty in all, but against them the Yrgaardians, half that number, presented a savage resistance. Backed up against the outer set of doors, they would not give in, killing and wounding as many of their enemies as they could. Lorn and Alan fought side by side. The prince was exemplary. He received a wound but killed three men, even saving the life of a soldier whom he helped drag out of harm’s way. Dorsian and Enzio did their fair share of fighting and, little by little, the ranks of Saarsgard’s defenders advanced. Trapped, the Yrgaardians realised they were doomed but did not lay down their arms. They had to be killed one by one. The smell of blood filled the archway as sticky puddles spread across the flagstone pavement.

Without a qualm, Yeras finished off the last Yrgaardian with his dagger, while Logan pulled the lever that was supposed to release the portcullis.

To no avail.

Liam examined the mechanism.

‘It’s blocked,’ he said.

‘Nothing we can do,’ confirmed Logan, giving up. ‘Those bastards jammed up the works!’

Alan swore.

‘We can’t break the chains,’ said Enzio. ‘They’re as thick as my arm.’

An odour caught Yeras’s attention.

Lorn also caught scent of it, and cried:

‘OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!’

He had just seen the grey smoke seeping from beneath the double doors. The odour he and Yeras had detected was that of gunpowder.

‘IT’S GOING TO BLOW UP!’

Everyone raced towards the exit. A twenty-yard dash beneath the archway, which echoed with their shouts. Some of the soldiers, further away from the outer doors, remained unaware of the danger and were slow to react. Lorn and his companions yelled at the top of their lungs as they ran.

‘Get out!’

‘Quickly!’

‘Everybody out!’

Instinctively, Lorn realised that not all of them would escape the archway in time.

‘Down!’ he ordered, pulling Alan into the recess of a door. ‘Take cover!’

Those who did not obey quickly enough were flattened by the blast of a deafening deflagration which shook the whole rampart and made the half-opened inner doors fly wide apart. The other set of doors had exploded behind them, converting the archway into a corridor full of incandescent debris which whirred, hissed and crackled against the walls.

Lorn and Alan stumbled away from their shelter.

Their ears buzzing, they groped about for the others in the dust and the chaos, making themselves understood by gestures, helping the wounded stand, and renouncing the idea of taking away their dead. Lorn caught a glimpse of Yeras and Logan carrying Liam who looked badly hurt, but he did not have time to worry about it.

The Yrgaardians were entering Saarsgard. He could already see silhouettes cautiously advancing through the thick cloud thrown up by the detonation.

The defenders withdrew from the archway.

Lorn was the last to leave. Hoping they were not leaving anyone behind, he helped close the set of inner doors and spared a thought for Dwain lying in his own blood on the rampart walk. Only this death affected Lorn personally. It seemed cruel and unfair, and it was with the terrible feeling of abandoning a brother-in-arms on the field of battle that he watched the bars slide home across the twin door panels.

Those, however, would only keep the dragon-prince’s troops pent up long enough to allow the besieged to fall back and prepare to defend the Castel. Driving Dwain’s dead body from his thoughts, Lorn quickly gave the necessary orders. He ordered Dorsian to lead the retreat and his Onyx Guards to close up the rear. But he detained both Alan and Enzio, saying to the prince:

‘No, Alan. Not you.’

‘What?’

‘We have no choice. We must fall back into the Castel. And once we do that, we’ll be trapped. We will resist, but there’s no hope.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. And so do you.’

‘Lorn’s right,’ said Enzio, keeping an eye on the gate.