Derigen staggered to his feet. “I do not yield,” he gasped, drawing his sword.
“Splendid,” Mandorallen replied. “I feared that I might have done thee harm.” He slid out of his saddle, drew his sword and swung directly at Derigen’s head. The blow glanced off the baron’s hastily raised shield, and Mandorallen swung again without pause. Derigen managed one or two feeble swings before Mandorallen’s broadsword caught him full on the side of the helmet. He spun once and collapsed facedown on the earth.
“My Lord?” Mandorallen inquired solicitously. He reached down, rolled over his fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron’s helmet. “Art thou unwell, my Lord?” he asked. “Dost thou wish to continue?”
Derigen did not reply. Blood ran freely from his nose, and his eyes were rolled back in his head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body quivered spasmodically.
“Since this brave knight is unable to speak for himself,” Mandorallen announced, “I declare him vanquished.” He looked around, his broadsword still in his hand. “Would any here gainsay my words?”
There was a vast silence.
“Will some few then remove him from the field?” Mandorallen suggested. “His injuries do not appear grave. A few months in bed should make him whole again.” He turned to Baron Oltorain, whose face had grown visibly pale. “Well, my Lord,” he said cheerfully, “shall we proceed? My companions and I are impatient to continue our journey.”
Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg as he fell.
“Ill luck, my Lord,” Mandorallen observed, approaching on foot with drawn sword. “Dost thou yield?”
“I cannot stand,” Oltorain said from between clenched teeth. “I have no choice but to yield.”
“And I and my companions may continue our journey?”
“Ye may freely depart,” the man on the ground replied painfully.
“Not just yet,” a harsh voice interrupted. The armored Murgo pushed his horse through the crowd of other mounted knights until he was directly in front of Mandorallen.
“I thought he might decide to interfere,” Aunt Pol said quietly. She dismounted and stepped out onto the hoof churned course. “Move out of the way, Mandorallen,” she told the knight.
“Nay, my Lady,” Mandorallen protested.
Wolf barked sharply. “Move, Mandorallen!”
Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside.
“Well, Grolim?” Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood.
The mounted man’s eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair, and then he raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under his breath.
Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his mind.
For an instant Aunt Pol’s figure seemed surrounded by a kind of greenish light. She waved her hand indifferently, and the light disappeared. “You must be out of practice,” she told him. “Would you like to try again?”
The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim’s helmet.
“Durnikl” Aunt Pol shouted. “Get away!”
But the smith, his face set grimly, swung again, and the Grolim slid senseless from his saddle with a crash.
“You fool!” Aunt Pol raged. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He was attacking you, Mistress Pol,” Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.
“Get down off that horse.”
He slid down.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” she demanded. “He could have killed you.”
“I will protect you, Mistress Pol,” Durnik replied stubbornly. “I’m not a warrior or a magician, but I won’t let anybody try to hurt you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened. Garion, who had known her from childhood, recognized her rapid changes of emotion. Without warning she suddenly embraced the startled Durnik. “You great, clumsy, dear fool,” she said. “Never do that again—never! You almost made my heart stop.”
Garion looked away with a strange lump in his throat and saw the brief, sly smile that flickered across Mister Wolf’s face.
A peculiar change had come over the knights lining the sides of the course. Several of them were looking around with the amazed expressions of men who had just been roused from some terrible dream. Others seemed suddenly lost in thought. Sir Oltorain struggled to rise.
“Nay, my Lord,” Mandorallen told him, pressing him gently back down. “Thou wilt do thyself injury.”
“What have we done?” the baron groaned, his face anguished.
Mister Wolf dismounted and knelt beside the injured man.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he informed the baron. “Your war was the Murgo’s doing. He twisted your minds and set you on each other.”
“Sorcery?” Oltorain gasped, his face growing pale.
Wolf nodded. “He’s not really a Murgo, but a Grolim priest.”
“And the spell is now broken?”
Wolf nodded again, glancing at the unconscious Grolim.
“Chain the Murgo,” the baron ordered the assembled knights. He looked back at Wolf. “We have ways of dealing with sorcerers,” he said grimly. “We will use the occasion to celebrate the end of our unnatural war. This Grolim sorcerer hath cast his last enchantment.”
“Good,” Wolf replied with a bleak smile.
“Sir Mandorallen,” Baron Oltorain said, wincing as he shifted his broken leg, “in what way may we repay thee and thy companions for bringing us to our senses?”
“That peace hath been restored is reward enough,” Mandorallen replied somewhat pompously, “for, as all the world knows, I am the most peace-loving man in the kingdom.” He glanced once at Lelldorin lying nearby on the ground in his litter, and a thought seemed to occur to him. “I would, however, ask a boon of thee. We have in our company a brave Asturian youth of noble family who hath suffered grievous injury. We would leave him, if we might, in thy care.”
“His presence shall honor me, Sir Mandorallen,” Oltorain assented immediately. “The women of my household will care for him most tenderly.” He spoke briefly to one of his retainers, and the man mounted and rode quickly toward one of the nearby castles.
“You’re not going to leave me behind,” Lelldorin protested weakly. “I’ll be able to ride in a day or so.” He began to cough rackingly.
“I think not,” Mandorallen disagreed with a cool expression. “The results of thy wounding have not yet run their natural course.”
“I won’t stay with Mimbrates,” Lelldorin insisted. “I’d rather take my chances on the road.”
“Young Lelldorin,” Mandorallen replied bluntly, even harshly, “I know thy distaste for the men of Mimbre. Thy wound, however, will soon begin to abscess and then suppurate, and raging fever and delirium will aflict thee, making thy presence a burden upon us. We have not the time to care for thee, and thy sore need would delay us in our quest.”
Garion gasped at the brutal directness of the knight’s words. He glared at Mandorallen with something very close to hatred.
Lelldorin’s face meanwhile had gone white. “Thank you for pointing that out to me, Sir Mandorallen,” he said stiffly. “I should have considered it myself. If you’ll help me to my horse, I’ll leave immediately.”
“You’ll stay right where you are,” Aunt Pol told him flatly.
Baron Oltorain’s retainer returned with a group of household servants and a blonde girl of about seventeen wearing a rose-colored gown of stiff brocade and a velvet cloak of teal.
“My younger sister, Lady Ariana,” Oltorain introduced her. “She’s a spirited girl, and though she is young she is already well-versed in the care of the sick.”
“I won’t trouble her for long, my Lord,” Lelldorin declared. “I’ll be returning to Asturia within a week.”