Wild Card 21

If Sparhawk had been constrained to describe Lamorkand in a single word, he wouldn't be certain whether to describe it as bleak, barren, or wet. It was certainly bleak; Kalten's assessment that nobody in the country ever smiled was proving to be less hyperbole than simple description. Barren, in that it seemed that only the most robust of crops yielded anything of value from the earth, and only after significant, back breaking work by the serfs. Wet, in that Sparhawk was thoroughly sick of the ever-present drizzle that began in Pelosia and had only broken briefly for a few minutes at a time.

It only made the detour they were engaged in that much more irritating. Yes, the march to Alstrom's keep was a necessary one, but Sparhawk hated that even in being discovered and forced to retreat, Martel had still succeeded in slowing them down yet again.

The call for the column to move came out, but it felt off to Sparhawk. He frowned as he took a look at the thinning clouds on the horizon, and the rising sun was visible behind the murk. He urged Faran closer to the Count's horse. "We're not going north?"

"Baron Alstrom has numerous allies either lacking the knowledge of his perfidy or just as likely, uncaring of it. He's already ambushed two of my punitive forces in the last few weeks; this is in part the reason I've been in Kadach making known the depths of his depravity for several days. No, we will not be taking an overland route to his fortifications." The expression beneath his mustache was not something that could be called a smile, but there was a sort of satisfaction to the set of his lips. "I have purchased several river ships to transport my men and allies to lay siege to him. The keep itself rests upon a promontory; the river splits around it. I've received word that Baron Alkar, an old friend of mine, has positioned his forces to block the keep from upriver. Between us, we can see to it no food enters his walls, which should go a long way to encouraging him to parlay before his teeth fall out from scurvy."

"Lord Gerrich, I have mentioned that we were on urgent, time sensitive business," Sparhawk said firmly. "We can't afford to lay siege for weeks on end."

"Months, more like," the Count replied. "Do you so easily go back on your word, Sir Knight?"

Sparhawk grimaced. "Of course not. I had just taken your statement for us to move out this morning under a flag of truce to mean that this might be resolved with expediency."

"Expediency seems to have a different meaning here in Lamorkand than it does in Elenia, Sir Sparhawk," Count Gerrich remarked drolly. "Your squire's son would be shaving ere a normal siege ended. A single season in comparison is quite rapid."

"You can tell that Talen-"

"Is your squire's boy? They have the same smile, Sir Knight. I imagine no man with eyes could easily mistake the boy for the son of another." The Count sniffed. "I take it, then, that the boy is a bastard?"

Sparhawk nodded. "Kurik was indiscreet some years back; he has taken efforts to see to Talen's future but there is a measure of resentment from the boy. I trust, then, that this won't be a problem going forward?"

"It happens." The Count's lips tightened slightly. "Might well have been a seven month firstborn to my daughter had Alstrom's get been more honorable."

Sparhawk didn't know what to say to that.

The march to the river boats was a short one, barely an hour from Kadach- the landing to the river wasn't visible from the city but twenty large barges were tied at close intervals. From this angle, they were indeed clearly barges despite the masts in the finishing stages of being mounted in pairs on each, with low quality sail cloth. Sparhawk gave the vessels a critical eye, before looking back at the collumn behind them. "I don't wish to cast aspersions on your planning, but I don't think these will be enough ships."

"The use in them is not only their carrying capacity, but their width," Gerrich assured him. "We'll be marching upriver, but the barges will, when set side by side and lashed securely, form a moveable bridge between the shores that can be set up just outside the reach of siege engines. It will enable us to move forces as needed to secure the river and blockade the keep from river traffic in the night."

Sparhawk nodded. "Clever."

"I am an educated man, Sir Knight," Gerrich said. "And I have fought several wars in my life. I am well acquainted with its minimum requirements in both offense and defense." He gestured towards an enormous pile of sackcloth on the deck, next to a truly prodigious quantity of rope. "The masts are easily hoisted and removed. They'll serve as anchoring posts within a day or so. The decks will be guarded against sabateurs with burning arrows and oil by layers of the sails and sackcloth covered in packed mud. The mud will both stifle the flames and protect the barges beneath long enough for our forces to snuff them, and the cloth layers so embedded will give the mud reinforcement to prevent it from easily crumbling or cracking, like straw mixed into clay bricks. It will turn the advantage of the promontory against them, in that the river will hamper Alstrom's ability to redistribute his men, while not hindering us."

"And the rope?" Ulath grunted, startling Sparhawk. The last Sparhawk had seen of Ulath, he'd been back with Sephrenia and Berit, the latter of which had been giving Talen a brief history of one of the more enthusiastic Eshandist uprisings.

"To build a surplus of siege engines," Count Gerrich said plainly. "Should Alstrom choose to take the churlish, craven path forward, I will choose to bring his castle down upon his head."

Sparhawk nodded again. "Hopefully, Alstrom will recognize his disadvantage quickly and be compelled to answer your challenge."

"The time truly presses you so, Sir Sparhawk?"

"My queen is in danger, and her throne at risk of usurpation," Sparhawk answered simply. "It motivates me to act quickly and do so with whatever violence seems fitting."

With the use of the barges, transporting about half of Gerrich's forces to the other side of the river was a quick affair. From there, the marching orders went out, and the bulk of the Count's mustered army marched near each bank, while the barges were traversing in a single file near the center of the river with visible numbers of soldiers on their decks.

Sparhawk's companions remained on the eastern side, in his hopes to avoid having to cross the river on the dwindling chance that they could move on with their mission soon enough for it to matter. At one point, when Gerrich was further off to attend to his men, Kalten urged his horse closer to Faran. "Clever fellow," he said to Sparhawk. "Between the sails and keeping them in the middle of the river, it makes it look like the barges have a deeper draft and carry more cargo - or men - than they actually do."

Sparhawk nodded. "He does seem to have a knack for this sort of thing." He glanced back towards the middle of the column, where Sephrenia, Berit, Talen, Flute, and Kurik were accompanying the train. "How are the others?"

Kalten shrugged. "Well guarded. How likely do you think it is that this show of force will get Alstrom to negotiate?"

"Well guarded or not, I dislike the idea of Sephrenia stuck in the midst of a column of armed men as we march into range of unfriendly archers. And aren't you the one who spent all that time here in Lamorkand? I'd think you'd know Alstrom's reaction better than I would."

"Never met the man," Kalten answered with a shrug. "But we ARE in Lamorkand, so I'd say it's probably a coin toss. Could go either way."

"I don't like the notion of Ehlana's life hanging on the balance of a coin."

"I'm not the one who pledged the honor of the Order on this whole thing," Kalten pointed out. "Why'd you do that, anyway?"

"You didn't seem upset with the idea at the time." Sparhawk aimed an annoyed look in his direction.

"I couldn't think of anything better," Kalten admitted. "Besides, remaining aloof after Gerrich gave us his hospitality seems rather gauche. Not to mention, Alstrom DID do some rather horrendous things, even by the standards of Lamork grudge carrying."

"The hospitality was more to assuage his embarrassment for the involvement of his underlings, however unwilling. And I'm guessing Martel had a hand in the escalation of atrocities. Probably playing both sides." Sparhawk frowned, squinting at the distance where the looming shape of their destination was starting to be visible through the thin, late-morning fog. "That isn't just a keep. That's a full castle."

Kalten snorted. "They take their fortifications seriously here."

Bevier sniffed. "Not seriously enough; I could reduce those walls to rubble inside two years."

"That's because there's little in Arcium beyond rocks, grapes, and time, my friend," Tynian said with a jovial smirk. "Most of us have more things to occupy our efforts."

"Wine and walls are best made with care and devotion," Bevier replied defensively. "No half efforts in either are worthy of them."

Sparhawk felt a sinking sensation. "This siege isn't going to be resolved quickly, is it?"

Kalten shrugged. "Probably not. But we can always hope."

The reactions from the men patrolling the castle walls were prompt and appropriate. As the castle became more clear through the fading morning fog, Sparhawk could already see the miniscule figures preparing for attack. A bell was being rung frantically, while patrolling crossbowmen were taking position behind crenelations, and more were joining them.

"Now our part comes into play," announced Count Gerrich, making a brief pass with one riding glove to straighten his mustache. "Jorvan! Ventor! Hoist the flags of truce."

Two of Gerrich's men rode forward on their mounts, pulling free white cloth from their saddlebags, tying the corner to poles and carrying them forward to either side of Count Gerrich. The Count raised an eyebrow at Sparhawk. "Will you join me, Sir Knights? The four Champions of the Church Knights, riding side by side with me?"

Sparhawk nodded. "We will so join you momentarily." He looked back at the others. "Can someone get Kurik? If there was ever a time for our pennons, now is it."

Kurik, Berit, and Talen assisted the four champions with their lances and pennons, despite muted protests from Talen that never got above a mutter. Sparhawk took the time to look over the boy thoughtfully; despite his youth, he could immediately tell that Talen was, as Gerrich had said, his father's son. Kurik himself did have a certain occasional wildness to him, but was nonetheless the finest squire a knight could hope to have. Talen, however, was easily as strong-willed as his father, and was as clever a boy as Sparhawk had ever met. He glanced back towards the column's train where Sephrenia was likely having a cup of tea while waiting tolerantly, if a little impatiently, for Sparhawk and company to get all this 'silly Elenian nonsense' out of the way. The thought brought a faint smile to the corner of his mouth, one that Sparhawk deliberately suppressed. Today was not a mirthful one; the next few minutes might well decide the lives of thousands over the next few months.

It was only a few minutes later that Sparhawk, Tynian, Bevier, and Ulath were riding along behind Count Gerrich and his two knights, the emblems of the four Orders all prominently displayed. Sparhawk wasn't certain whether it was the presence of the Church Knights or the flags of truce which prevented any arrows from flying, but they remained unassailed as they approached the massive drawbridge.

Count Gerrich wasted no time. "Alstrom!" he roared, his voice carrying across the river to the drawbridge and the crenellations of the barbican over the gatehouse. "I am here to demand satisfaction! Come forth and parley if you have the courage and honor for it! Or send a second if your courage falters."

There was a brief pause, the only sounds the movement of horse, the rustle-scrape of shifting men and their mail, and the gentle, tinny patter of the rain on Sparhawk's armor. Then, from above, a return yell. "The Baron will not open his gate for parley with an army laying in wait to storm the drawbridge. Withdraw your forces but for your personal guard and he will meet with you on equal terms."

"I am familiar with how the Baron and his men deal with men in lesser numbers, as would be any of the members of my sister's house if they were still alive. He can come out and come forth as we have, exposed to his crossbowmen as much as he would be to ours, or he can cower in this hovel until my mangonels have battered it into rubble." Mangonels? Sparhawk wondered briefly, as the Count continued, "I offer formal truce and parley for a day while we meet to discuss terms, and then safe passage as he sees fit back within his walls. I offer these terms under the watchful eyes of God and His knights who have come to bear witness both to this parley and whatever pact is born of it. What say you, Alstrom? I know you are listening. Prove to me that your house retains honor enough to face your accuser like a man."

The delay wasn't long; Gerrich only had time to repeat his challenge halfway before a new figure joined the guards on the battlements. He was a grim faced, melancholy looking man, his black beard and hair shot through with gray. Barely visible over the battlements was a black tabard embroidered in red, set over mail. He stared at Gerrich, waiting for him to finish his challenge before speaking. "Gerrich, I present myself to speak to you. I must admit to a measure of surprise that you were so civil as to offer words before raining boulders on my walls. Then again, I imagine you're still building your engines. What do you want?"

"I want, I DEMAND, satisfaction, Alstrom!" Gerrich snarled. "Blood for blood! Injury for insult! Repayment for wrongs!"

"Repayment for wrongs?" Alstrom replied in a voice that even in its volume sounded almost thoughtful. "Enough wrongs have been had on all sides, I think."

"All sides?!" Gerrich roared in an apopletic fury. "You attempt to steal my lands by bonds of bastardry, murder my nephews, and violate my sister-"

"My son was WRONG in his doings!" Alstrom yelled out, cutting Gerrich off. "Had you but killed him, grieve though I did and still do, I would have considered the matter settled. But you then emasculate my son and violate his mouth with himself before depositing him on my gate and expect no reprisal from me?!"

"Your men violated my sister!"

"The men who so acted have been punished, and their families shamed," Alstrom announced. "They were inflamed by men who I had taken to be allies but since learned to be agitators, but this does not excuse their actions. Their crow picked bones hang in my courtyard even now. The death of your brother in law, this I own. Even the deaths of your nephews, I bear responsibility for as I did not instruct against it. What was done to your sister has been punished in full."

"I have only your word for this."

"Do you wish me to toss their remains over my walls for inspection?" Alstrom turned his head to one of the guards atop the wall, giving him a nod. "So be it. My men fetch them forthwith."

Gerrich's temple pulsed as the Count gritted his clenched teeth. "Yet I still demand blood for blood. I will not slaughter your forces to the last; I only demand yours."

"I will not merely give it to you," Alstrom warned.

"Nor do I ask you to. Face me!" Gerrich yelled. "You and I, steel to steel! Under the watchful eyes of the Knights of the Church, may NO man interfere between us! Let God himself decide which of us has committed the irredeemable sin against the other!"

The challenge faded into silence that stretched for several long seconds. Sparhawk took the time to look at his companions; Bevier in particular was glaring intently at Gerrich. Sparhawk was fairly certain he knew what had Bevier so incensed. Either Gerrich had not been forthcoming with the extent of his treatment of Alstrom's son, or else Martel had been quite busy on both sides. Possibly a bit of each.

Finally, Alstrom sighed visibly. "So be it, Gerrich. I will meet you with steel. And as you say, let God decide which of us has truly wronged the other." Alstrom turned away from the battlements; Gerrich stared up at the stonework looking... well, Sparhawk couldn't quite decide exactly what that expression meant. Surprised, perhaps. Maybe pleased. Possibly, slightly crestfallen that his planned siege would be ending so anticlimacticly.

Ulath sidled his horse a bit closer. "How is this going to work?"

"I suppose we could lay out a circle with rope; retreating across that rope is forfeiture," Sparhawk offered.

"Rope?" Bevier said, frowning. "Not a circle of warriors walling them in with shields?"

"Not likely they'd agree whose warriors would form the shield wall," Sparhawk responded.

"Hm. A suggestion, maybe?" Tynian mused.

"You have a lot of those," Ulath observed.

Tynian continued on unbothered. "The four of us stand to mark the four corners of the battle. No warrior save the two of them may pass between us, and their actual battleground be the roped circle. This way, the both of them may be assured that neither can play at something sneaky like one of their soldiers slipping a sword in while they're distracted with each other."

"Every effort to ensure a fair fight, Sir Knight?" Gerrich observed as he approached. "I approve. Alstrom is... more reasonable than I had suspected."

Gerrich's features had taken on a brooding cast. Sparhawk commented, "May we assume that you gave no orders for the mutilation of Alstrom's son?"

"I ordered no such thing, merely that his body be delivered to his father with haste." Gerrich sniffed. "I am a civilized man, Sir Knight."

"Like as not, were we to question Alstrom's son, I expect his passions for your daughter were fanned by a by now familiar agitator," Bevier mused darkly. "Sparhawk, why hasn't he been hunted down again?"

"Aside from my being exiled for ten years?" Sparhawk replied acerbically.

"Before that."

"I was busy ensuring that Ehlanna would turn out better than her aunt or her father."

"... Fair enough."

Even with the cloth of truce up on both sides, there was still a measure of tension in the air among Gerrich's men and Alstrom's alike. There was definitely no love lost between the forces in their standoff, and mistrust was readily apparent in postures and faces. The drawbridge lowered loudly and the portcullis behind it rose, both with the sounds of cranking chains and metal screeching on metal, setting Sparhawk's teeth were on edge. Faron shifted beneath him, ears flicking as the roan conveyed his dissatisfaction.

As the drawbridge settled across the leveled gap of the promontory, a small array of mounted men slowly trotted forward, crossing the iron bound wooden bridge at a slow pace, seven men in all. Three men flanked each side of the Baron, who rode with open visor and bearing a shield whose crest matched that of his red-embroidered black tabard. The expression on his face was a mixture of determination and weariness, the sort of resignation of a man who marched to knowingly risk death, with little care as to the results. Sparhawk supposed that with the loss of his son, the Baron might well have a death wish - but as the man caught sight of Gerrich, the determination in his mien firmed up. If he did indeed have a death wish, he had no intention of dying alone this day.

Some twenty paces away, Alstrom halted, his warriors faithfully stopping with him. Alstrom dismounted, walking forward; his scabbarded sword hung at his left hip from a baldric at a comfortable angle to be drawn by either hand. "How shall we do this, then?" the Baron demanded, unlimbering his shield and setting it on edge next to himself, hand on the top rim. "Armor? Swords? Bare hands and teeth?" The last statement held traces of a grimly amused quirk of his lips.

"The Knights of the Church have assured me that they shall stand as observers and witnesses before God to ensure that what terms we agree upon will be met with no deceit or betrayal from either side. Are you satisfied with this?" Gerrich replied without directly answering Alstrom's question.

"I will gladly agree to these terms," Baron Alstrom declared. "And you are assured that these are indeed Church Knights, and not - as I have heard tell - bandits masquerading as such?"

Tynian sat taller in his saddle. "Assuming a bandit could so much as bear the weight of Alcione steel, I've never heard of one that would spend the required gold on it rather than carousing and luxury. And none who are trained in the secrets of Styricum as are the Knights of the Church." Tynian made a few short gestures alongside some whispered words, and from his hand, a small ball of flame floated upwards. "Does this suffice as proof to your eyes, Baron?"

"Aye, I am well convinced," the man breathed softly. "So be it. I repeat, then, in regards to our duel: what are the terms?"

Within minutes, an agreement was had, almost precisely what Tynian had suggested earlier, with the Knights serving as the four corners past which none but Alstrom and Gerrich would cross. They would wear their armor, be confined within the boundary of a circle of rope, and each bear a sword, shield, and dirk.

As they faced one another, the Count asked, "Any final words, Alstrom? I swear on my honor that I'll see them inscribed on your headstone."

"I will not die alone on this day, Gerrich," the Baron replied flatly. "Whosoever inscribes my final words, today or another day, it shall not be you."

"So be it!" Gerrich snapped, eyes bright for the brief moment before he slapped down his visor. "Have at you!"

Count Gerrich may have been eager for this fight, for the chance to personally strike down Baron Alstrom, but he was not so overeager as to charge in recklessly. Sparhawk took an almost clinical assessment of the man's stance, one accustomed to the weight and balance of a broadsword, even intimately familiar with it, but perhaps not happy with it. His mail, though it did not bind him, did not quite rest easily on him. He held the sword in the manner of a man who preferred a lighter blade, and a longer one, and his shield did not fit his swordsmanship form as well as would a smallsword or perhaps a duellist's dagger.

By contrast, Alstrom held his broadsword almost like an extension of his arm. The tip of it moved steadily, smoothly, with long years of practice and comfort behind it. Yet Baron Alstrom was also undeniably the older of the two men. Sparhawk could see the difference in his speed, the way he favored his left knee at each step, the occasional tremor in his shield arm. Past his prime, weary, an old wolf fully aware of the weight of years behind. At a glance, Sparhawk was uncertain who would be the victor. Should he gain the upper hand quickly, Alstrom would likely triumph, but the longer the fight went on - the longer, even, that this initial assessment and wary standoff stretched - the more the odds would turn in Count Gerrich's favor.

Gerrich circled left, point of his sword angled slightly down; he too realized that Alstrom's age was a disadvantage. Baron Alstrom was no fool. He circled as well, resting the blade of his sword on his own shield, keeping it in striking position while conserving his strength for engagement. As Gerrich paused in his step, Alstrom shifted his weight, lifting his sword to prepare for a strike.

Count Gerrich made the first move, a feint with his sword to draw out a parry or a block. Alstrom simply sidestepped, circling again, not taking the bait. Gerrich stepped in a little closer, his forward foot set heel down, and that was when Alstrom lashed out, a rise and shallow sweep that drew from his shoulders, hips, and stance to drive the sword over Gerrich's guard. Gerrich managed to interpose the rim of his shield, but the block was off balance, and instead of deflecting the strike at an angle, the shield bore the blow square on, causing an omnious cracking sound from the oak wood. The impact rocked Gerrich on his heels, nearly taking him off his feet, but a swift slide of his back foot caught his momentum.

In a bid to regain parity Gerrich twisted his torso to deliver an overhead slash at Alstrom. Alstrom's shield work was better than Gerrich's, and instead of full impact, the strike was deflected, part of the heraldry on the face of his shield shaved away as a scraping, sliding Gerrich's blade out of line. Before Alstrom could capitalize, Gerrich sidestepped left, forcing his own shield flat against the Baron's to brace himself and regain enough of his balance to get back into guard.

Alstrom didn't give Gerrich much breathing room, though. He crowded in close, attempting to confine Gerrich's sword between them. What the Count couldn't see, that Sparhawk could, was the accompanying low slash in the shadow of his shield, aimed for his leg. Fortune wasn't with the Baron, however, because whether by luck or design Gerrich's leg angled outward, and the strike landed on the Count's knee cop rather than the bare mail on the side of his knee. Gerrich's returned strike was caught on the upper corner of Alstrom's shield, biting shallowly into the iron reinforced rim. The impact seemed to jar Alstrom a bit, and his blade returning to guard position was a little slow on the retreat.

The Count wasn't blind to the slow recovery; he seized on the opening, attempting to bind the Baron's blade and force it out of line. Alstrom twisted his body, keeping his sword in contact with Gerrich's blade while bodily forcing his way in again, bashing the upper edge of his shield into Gerrich's helm, and only a hasty turn of his face allowed the shield to strike the side of his helm rather than beneath his chin or under the lip of his visor. The blow unsteadied him, and Alstrom's follow-up stroke bit deeply into Gerrich's desperately raised shield, the sturdy oak's earlier cracking giving way into splintered wood tangled loosely in rim-iron strips and leather straps. No longer a single solid weight but a collection of smaller, unpredictable ones, Gerrich's shield was more liability than help now, and he backed away, desperately shaking the shield free in a few tugs and waves of his arm.

But Alstrom had not followed up, as he panted audibly through his helm, loud enough that Sparhawk could hear his gasping, tearing breaths. Most of his weight was off his left knee, now clearly showing both the strain of this battle and the many years which preceded it. Gerrich heard it too; he quickly stripped off the last remnant of his shield strap and drew his dirk in his off hand. Sparhawk could see the wisdom in it. Up til now, Alstrom had used his shield as effectively for offense as for defense, but in close a shield was cumbersome, heavy, and Alstrom was feeling its weight already. If Gerrich found a way past Alstrom's reach, the dagger was faster and more maneuverable than the shield, and like an awl, it would punch through the leather backed mail between the plates.

The Count clearly saw Alstrom's exhaustion as well, the slight tremor in his shield arm, the way his weight settled unevenly. Even through the slit in his visor, Sparhawk thought he could see the predatory glint in Gerrich's eyes.

Count Gerrich didn't rush. Instead, he began a series of probing strikes and feints, staying mobile, forcing Alstrom to shift his stance frequently, to put weight on his weak knee or risk being unable to keep in line. He struck out high, low, towards the shield, flicking his broadsword towards the exposed sword-side hip. Alstrom's shield and sword interchangably defended, but Alstrom's weariness was mounting, and several times, he almost fell for a feint that would have exposed him to the real attack to follow.

Above the two duellists, the ever-present overcast of Lamorkand was thickening, the clouds above darkening as though to mirror the conflict below. The nigh constant sprinkling was deepening into a full-on rain, turning the already wet earth rapidly into a slimy sludge that grasped at any foot that managed to not slip in it. A glancing blow knocked Alstrom's helm askew, a rivet spinning off with a glint to hide from sight in the falling rain, and only Gerrich's overeagerness to finish the fight stopped it from ending right there as Alstrom countered with a blind, yet intuitive bash of his shield that sent Gerrich staggering backwards. Alstrom yanked at his helm, casting the damaged piece aside to let the rain fall on his bare head. It was a necessary move, Sparhawk thought, seeing as the helm had warped from the force of what would have been undeniably a killing blow without it. Alstrom was no longer blinded or choked by it, but neither was he protected by its steel. A raw scrape, courtesy of the accompanying dent on his discarded helm, stretched from the front of his right ear out to the bridge of his nose, the rain quickly fading the slowly oozing blood to pale rivulets that washed away faster than they were renewed. Alstrom's shield arm was definitely sagging as he'd used it less and less in the last few exchanges, relying more on his sword to defend. Too much, by Sparhawk's judgement.

Alstrom staggered forward, his left knee wobbling beneath him as he raised his sword and brought it down in a strike both elegant and efficient. Gerrich managed to interpose his own in time to defend himself, and lashed out with his dirk, a viper strike aimed at the gap between the Baron's breastplate and fauld. Alstrom twisted, but too slowly, and the dirk struck sparks in the rain as it skittered down across the bands of the fauld to slip between chain and bite deeply into Alstrom's inner thigh just above and left of the knee cop. Alstrom grunted, staggering back. Blood welled darkly down his mailed leg as Gerrich wrenched the dirk free.

Gerrich pressed his advantage, throwing all his weight into his next blow, his broadsword driving down at Alstrom's face, who blocked it with a desperate upward parry, steel grating shrilly on steel. The impact jarred Alstrom's wounded leg, and his right foot slid. He buckled, shield slamming into the mud as he caught himself on one knee. Gerrich loomed over him, sword raised for the final blow-

-and Alstrom moved. Ignoring the agony in his thigh, he dropped his own sword, seized Gerrich's ankle one handed, and heaved with nigh inhuman, desperate strength; the Count toppled backward into the mud, dark droplets of muck splattering Alstrom's face. Gerrich's sword flew off behind him but he barely managed to keep a wet grip on his dirk. Alstrom hurriedly yanked his left arm free of his shield as he wiped at his face with his right hand, blinking red eyes as Gerrich rolled to his side to try and retrieve his footing. Alstrom had no intention of letting him, and he took two knee steps throwing himself atop Gerrich with crazed fervor, wrestling with him for the blade. Gerrich's free hand drove a mailed fist into Alstrom's face, smashing into his jaw with a grisly crunch even as Alstrom managed to gain control of Gerrich's dirk and drive it into the side of the Count's ribcage. In response, Gerrich seized Alstrom's gorget and yanked, headbutting Alstrom in his already brutalized face with his helm. Both men fell backward into the mud again, writhing. Gerrich held his elbow to his ribs, unable to do more than hunch on his side, while Alstrom lay on his back breathing heavily through the ruins of his shattered mouth, blood flowing freely from both his lips and his punctured thigh.

"Enough!" Sparhawk's voice cut through the sound of the rain. He pointed his sword towards the two combatants. "This is now finished. By the authority vested in the Church Knights, we declare this duel concluded. Neither side is fit to continue." He sheathed his sword and walked into the rope ring, the movement echoed by Tynian, Bevier, and Ulath as they looked over the pair.

From his side as Sparhawk approached, Gerrich coughed wetly. "He yet lives," he snarled.

"Barely," Sparhawk snapped irritably. "And you're in no state to finish it." Sparhawk knelt, lifting Gerrich's visor and examining him carefully. During one or possibly both of his falls he'd gotten mud sloshed inside his visor, and only chance had seen to it that while it had gotten all over his face, none of it was in his eyes. Gerrich spat mud to the side, glaring up at him, but Sparhawk saw no bright blood on his lips. "Doesn't look like your lung was hit," he observed drily. He looked over at Tynian, who was critically examining the stricken Baron.

Tynian looked at Sparhawk and shook his head. "He lives... but I don't give good odds for how long. His face is in ruins, and he's bleeding badly twice over."

A commotion sounded from the eastern riverbank. Kurik was riding toward them, and Berit close behind. "Sparhawk!" Kurik called out, reining in cautiously as his horse's hooves skidded slightly in the muck. "Riders! A large force, maybe two hours out before the rain started coming down seriously, bearing the colors of the Kadach garrison." His expression was grim. "Martel's with them."

"You're certain?" Sparhawk asked.

Kurik looked at Berit, who nodded. "His white hair is pretty unmistakable even at a distance," Berit interjected.

Kurik grunted. "Unless we want to stay tangled up in local politics for the next few seasons, we can't afford to be caught between this castle and Martel's patsies."

"White hair?" Sparhawk looked down at the sound of Gerrich's voice. The Count was struggling to bring himself to a seated position, face ashen but expression determined. "That treacherous bastard. Does he keep himself in the company of a brutish churl who bears more in common with a swine than a man?"

"Ah, you've met Adus," Kalten commented lightly.

"I've met Martel, though under the name Eramus, and Adus as well - both to my and my family's misfortune. My barges... the moveable bridges. Use them. My men will hold the south bank, delay Martel's pursuit under my flag of truce. He won't dare break truce while riding beneath Kadach's banner." Gerrich shot a venomous glare at the supine Baron Alstrom, who had lapsed entirely from consciousness while being tended by Tynian and Ulath. "This isn't finished, but my quarrel with him can wait, assuming he lives through the night. If he seeks to stop or delay you, then all the more reason I should see to his thwarting. Once I've healed up, I'll exact my own measure of blood and flesh from his corpse, if he dares show his face in Lamorkand again- but as you say, I'm in no condition to express my own displeasure to him in the moment."

"You'll have to stand in line," Sparhawk said darkly. "I've twelve years of grievances of my own that have been left unaddressed. If you like, however, maybe I can gift you a piece of him when I'm done."

"Maybe an arm?" Kalten added with macabre humor. "Already had a bit of practice with that recently."

"Is that so?" Gerrich asked with a grim, muddy smile. "I'll hold you to that, Sir Knight. But for now, get you hence before Martel catches sight of you and yours. Go."

Gerrich's words, rasped through pain and mud, cut through the tension like a dull knife. Go. The command echoed Sparhawk's own desperate thoughts. Time, the enemy more relentless than Martel or the Seeker, pressed down upon them. Ehlana's pale face, trapped in crystal, flashed before his eyes.

"Kurik!" Sparhawk barked, snapping back into command. "Get Sephrenia, Flute, Talen, and the packhorses onto the nearest barge – now. Berit, help Tynian and Ulath get the Baron onto his horse or a litter if they can fashion one quickly. His men will take him." He shot a glance towards Alstrom's knights, who were approaching to assist Tynian and Ulath. "Kalten, Bevier! With me. We secure the barges and cover the retreat."

He turned back to Gerrich, who was being lifted to his feet by a pair of his own knights, one to either side of him to support him as they made to half help, half carry him. "Your men know the plan with the barges?" Sparhawk asked curtly.

"They will," Gerrich confirmed, wincing. "Ventor! Signal the captains! Bridge breakdown, ready for northerly pursuit! Then, gather some men to hoist the truce banners high along the perimeter line." The knight on Gerrich's right side reluctantly left his partner - Jorvan, if Sparhawk remembered correctly - to support the Count alone, pulling from his belt a horn. He raised it to his lips, blowing a complex series of notes that cut through the drumming rain. Instantly, activity erupted along the riverbank. Soldiers began swarming onto the anchored barges, unlashing them from the posts and one another. Others started frantically shoveling mud from the piled sackcloth on the decks, dumping it expeditiously over the sides into the river. His signalling done, Ventor retrieved his standard and the flag of truce, and hurried south towards the rearguard.

"Your hospitality and aid are noted, Count Gerrich," Sparhawk said, offering a curt nod that was the closest he could come to gratitude under the circumstances. "We will not forget it." He didn't promise vengeance on Martel again; action spoke louder.

"Just be gone before that white-haired serpent slithers into sight," Gerrich grunted, waving him off with a blood-streaked hand. "And Sparhawk? Remember our bargain. A piece of him."

Sparhawk didn't reply, already mounting up and swinging Faran around. The big roan surged forward, mud flying from his hooves, Kalten and Bevier close behind. The rain intensified, turning the world into a grey, watery curtain, soaking through cloaks and plate alike, chilling them to the bone despite the exertion. They thundered towards the riverbank where chaos was rapidly organizing into purposeful motion.

Sephrenia, her face set in lines of disapproval at the violence and the worsening weather, was already being guided by Kurik towards the largest barge, Flute somberly beside her seemingly oblivious to the downpour. Talen scrambled after them, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement, helping Kurik wrestle a skittish packhorse up the wide, muddy ramp. Berit and Ulath, leveraging their strength, were maneuvering the unconscious Baron Alstrom onto a stretcher fashioned from spears and cloaks, aided by two of his grim-faced knights.

"Move!" Sparhawk bellowed above the storm, reining Faran in near the barge ramp. He scanned the eastern approach. Through the sheeting rain, he could just make out the dark mass on the horizon – Martel's approaching force. They were closer than two hours now; the rain had slowed them, but not enough. Panic threatened to bubble up, the image of Ehlana's still form sharpening. He forced it down. Action. Control what you can.

"Kurik! Status?" he yelled.

"Almost loaded, Sparhawk!" Kurik shouted back, heaving a sack of grain onto the barge deck. "The pack horses are the problem! They don't like the ramp or the rocking!"

"Get them on! Use force if you have to! Tynian! Ulath! Leave the Baron to his men and get aboard!" Sparhawk dismounted, grabbing Faran's bridle. The big horse snorted, eyes rolling white, planting his feet stubbornly in the slick mud. "None of that, you brute," Sparhawk growled, putting his shoulder into the horse's flank, driving him forward with sheer will. "Move!"

With curses, shoves, and the occasional sharp slap on a rump, the remaining horses, including the nervous pack animals, were finally coerced onto the barge. It was cramped, the deck slick with rain and the remnants of churned mud. The barge captain, a grizzled Lamork with a face like old leather, bellowed orders. Bargehands manned long poles in with coordination and slow, steady pushes, and the barge, already partially unmoored, began to swing ponderously away from the bank. Other barges were doing the same, maneuvering with surprising coordination towards the center of the river.

Sparhawk was the last aboard, leaping the narrowing gap as the ramp was hauled in. He landed with a clatter of armor beside Kalten, turning immediately to watch the shore. Count Gerrich's forces were forming disciplined lines along the south bank, truce banners held high, facing the approaching cloud of riders. The drawbridge of Alstrom's castle was rising, the portcullis clanging down. The grim tableau was rapidly shrinking as the current and the bargehands' efforts carried the barge downstream.

"They'll hold him here?" Kalten asked, wiping rain from his face, his usual levity absent.

"For a time," Sparhawk said grimly. "Long enough for Martel to realize we're not there. Then the truce won't mean a dung heap. Gerrich bought us minutes, not hours." He scanned the other barges. They were forming a loose line, staying mid-channel. "Everyone's aboard? Tynian? Ulath?"

"On the barge astern," Bevier reported, pointing. "With Sephrenia, Flute, Talen, and Berit. Kurik's with the horses amidships."

Sparhawk nodded, a tight knot of anxiety loosening slightly. They were together. They were moving. North. He looked downriver towards the grey, rain-shrouded path ahead. Lake Randera lay that way. Ehlana's possible salvation lay that way.

He turned his gaze back towards the receding south bank. The lead elements of Martel's force were just visible now, a dark wave cresting a low rise, perhaps half a league distant. Even through the rain, Sparhawk imagined he could see a flash of unnatural white hair at the forefront. Hatred, cold and sharp, cut through the chill of the rain. Martel was here, breathing the same rain-sodden air, and they were fleeing. Again.

Every league gained was a grain of sand saved in Ehlana's hourglass. Every moment Martel was frustrated, a victory, however small. He gripped the rain-slick railing, the weathered wood creaking beneath his gauntleted hand, his eyes fixed on the northern horizon hidden by mist and water.