That gave him all the time he needed to recover his balance.
Behind the Castellan, six guards and as many captains led by Norge rushed from the stairwell one at a time to engage the Monomach’s Apts.
Gart had only four men with him: they were badly outnumbered. But the balcony was too narrow for any two men to stand and fight abreast. Gart blocked Lebbick on one side; on the other, an Apt battled the first pikeman to come at him. The rest of the defenders were caught in the middle, helpless.
Gart struck furiously, trying to jam his opponents against each other; he almost succeeded at driving the Castellan backward. Lebbick slipped one blow, blocked a second which hit hard enough to jar his joints and leave a notch on his blade. But he was happy at last, nearly ecstatic at the chance to fight without restraint. Savage joy lit his face as he held Gart’s attack.
“Bastard!” he panted. “I’ll teach you to think you can do what you want in my castle!”
Behind him, unfortunately, the first pikeman didn’t fare as well. The guard probably hadn’t had a fraction of the training given to Gart’s Apts. He stumbled; and his black-armored opponent gutted him almost without effort, then used the moment of surprise while he fell to cut halfway through the nearest captain’s chest.
Norge stooped, snatched up one of the bows. So placidly that he didn’t seem to be hurrying, he flipped a shaft into the Apt’s throat.
Across the hall, one of Gart’s men recklessly flung a dagger. It should have missed from that distance: its target should have seen it coming. Unluckily, he didn’t. The guard went down with the blade buried in his left eye.
Norge shot the Apt cleanly in the chest.
Gart’s gaze swept the balcony. He took in the positions of the people below him. Instead of ripping Castellan Lebbick’s parries aside, the High King’s Monomach began to give ground.
Artagel watched what was happening above him for one more moment, then turned his attention to Master Gilbur.
Plainly, Gilbur intended to kill the Alend Contender.
It was also plain that he wasn’t going to succeed. Artagel’s side was sore and tight; in some sense, he was a cripple. Nevertheless he could have handled a lone Imager armed with only a dagger in his sleep.
“Guard the Prince!” shouted the Tor for no discernible reason. He was on his feet, his legs splayed, swaying under the influence of too much wine.
Smiling pleasantly, Artagel aimed Prince Kragen’s sword – and barely saved himself when Master Gilbur turned suddenly, picked up one of the benches, and hurled it at his head.
A corner of the bench punched his shoulder, and he went down; he hit the floor heavily, lost his direction. The Master’s strength was prodigious. How was it possible to fight somebody who could throw benches around with one hand? Shock numbed Artagel’s shoulder, but he ignored it. He ignored his side. Suppressing any kind of pain, he surged upright again as smoothly as he could—
Facing in the wrong direction.
He wheeled back to the Prince’s sprawling body just in time to block Master Gilbur’s dagger.
Roaring, Gilbur hit Artagel’s blade so hard that Artagel nearly dropped it.
Nearly: not quite.
Mustering his balance, his poise, his old skill, Artagel pointed his sword at the base of Master Gilbur’s throat and dared the Imager to move again.
The struggle over Prince Kragen apparently held no interest for Master Eremis. He approached Geraden and Terisa and the knot of Masters as if he were on the verge of an epiphany. His smile was so keen it seemed to cut the air. When Geraden cried in frustration, “Doesn’t anyone have a mirror?” Eremis began to laugh.
He tightened his fingers, murmured something Terisa couldn’t hear.
Instantly, a creature the size and shape of a fruit-bat swept out of the glass, flapped forward, and fastened itself to the nearest Imager’s cheek.
The man toppled backward, screaming.
“Eremis!” Geraden yelled as if that were the worst obscenity he knew. From under his jerkin, he produced a knife – an eating utensil he must have appropriated at breakfast – and threw it with all his strength.
For once in his life, he did something right. He had never trained with a knife; but by chance his blade shattered the glass in Eremis’ hand as neatly as if that was what he had intended all along. Splinters sprayed out of Eremis’ grasp, glittering like jewels in the light.
The Master’s laugh turned to a snarl.
While he ripped out his sword, the doors of the hall slammed open and twenty guards charged inward.
Norge’s reinforcements.
The guards were too late to save Geraden or Terisa. Their backs were to the wallscreens: they had no escape from the easy action of Eremis’ blade. He plainly knew what to do with a sword. It seemed to flex like a live thing in his hands.
In contrast, Artagel didn’t need any help. This was the work he had been born to do. First he slapped the dagger out of Master Gilbur’s fist. Then he began to make small, delicate cuts in the Imager’s thick neck, as if he were marking the spot at which Gilbur’s head would be hacked away. All his movements were taut and precise.
Up on the balcony, Gart lost another Apt. Gart himself hadn’t killed anyone: Lebbick kept him back. Lebbick’s fury appeared almost equal to Gart’s skill. The Apts had accounted for five of the defenders. Surveying the situation, Gart judged that one more pikeman would die before his last student fell. He prepared himself to dispatch Lebbick, perhaps eviscerate him; then he glanced downward, saw the arrival of the reinforcements, and changed his mind.
Before anyone could grasp his intent, he sprang away from Castellan Lebbick and vaulted over the railing.
A drop like that could have killed him; it should have snapped his legs. But he had been jumping from high places ever since he began his training under the previous Monomach: he knew how to do it.
When he hit the rug, he collapsed into himself and rolled to absorb the impact. Then, despite the fact that his feet and legs had gone numb as if his spine were broken, he launched himself at Artagel’s back
The only warning Artagel got was the thump when Gart landed. He turned just in time to keep the Monomach’s sword out of his ribs.
Swiftly, he launched a second parry, a counterstroke. He knew he couldn’t beat Gart, but in the rush of action, the heady flow of battle, he didn’t care.
Unfortunately, he never finished his riposte. Gilbur’s quickness was like his strength: prodigious. In an instant, he sprang after Artagel and clubbed him to the floor with both fists.
Prince Kragen was still unconscious. He could have been killed almost without effort.
Now, however, Master Gilbur and the High King’s Monomach had other priorities. The charging guards had already covered half the distance from the doors: Master Eremis’ allies only had a few seconds left.
Behind them, Castellan Lebbick came down on the rug with a smashing impact. He had tried Gart’s jump, had landed badly. Pain ripped a gasp out of him; it muffled the sound of splintered bones.
Together, Gilbur and Gart raced to help Eremis.
He was fighting for his life.
No one had opposed his advance on the Masters, on Terisa and Geraden. The Masters were as useless and cowardly as he had always believed them to be; they wouldn’t be worth the trouble of killing. Even Master Barsonage wasn’t worth killing.
Geraden, on the other hand—
But at the last moment, Master Eremis had paused. He saw something in Geraden’s eyes – an unexpected threat; some kind of fatal promise.
It caused the Master to check his swing.
Terisa didn’t look dangerous. She didn’t even look desirable. She had turned inward with her back against the wall as if she were trying to faint.
Eremis raised his sword to fend Geraden away while he grabbed at her.
Suddenly, a mountain of flesh slapped against him with such force that he nearly went sprawling.