Knight and kretch came together hard; locked in battle, they fell into the shallow water and rolled over and over until they reached the far bank where they continued to struggle in the mud. This was exactly what Sir Gilbert wanted: now the beast was being impaled on the spikes, hopefully to suffer the same fate as the worme. But, as they thrashed about, it seemed to me that he was losing the struggle.
The knight was trying to use his sword against the kretch, but he was too close to it and his blows were ineffectual against the creature’s armoured back. Sir Gilbert was no longer a young man. His stamina would be failing. Nor would the spikes on his armour be as effective against this beast as they had been against the worme. And now, to my dismay, I saw the jaws of the kretch close about the knight’s head and bite down hard. I heard the armour crumple. Its jaws were powerful and able to exert great leverage; now its teeth were penetrating Sir Gilbert’s skull. I heard groans of dismay from the knight’s men and knew that Will would be watching his father’s plight in anguish.
It was then that what I had both feared and expected happened. The witches, led by Bowker, surged out of the mist and, whooping and shrieking, ran towards the river bank, where the combatants still struggled. Most carried knives. As before, the three at the front were armed with blades lashed to the end of long poles so that they could stab and cut from a distance. The knight was facing the same fate that had befallen the lamia; the difference here was that a determined and sizeable force was able to intervene. All was not lost.
A guard called down a warning to those below, and I heard the rumble of the gate as it was opened.
‘Stay close to me and don’t attempt anything reckless!’ I warned Thorne.
By the time we reached the gate it was open and the knight’s men were already charging towards the river. Will was standing by the gate with two other men, gazing forlornly out towards the battle. As the only heir to the castle and lands, he would have been forbidden to join the fight.
We closed with them quickly, but I gestured to Thorne that we should hang back. Once the two groups came together we would be able to judge how and where to fight most effectively.
I looked ahead and saw that more witches had run from the mist on our side of the river and were racing to intercept us, brandishing their weapons. Those on the far bank had engulfed the knight and the kretch – doubtless they were attempting to put an end to him as the beast held his head in its jaws, replicating what had been done to Wynde. Twice I had been powerless to prevent a death, but there might still be time to help Sir Gilbert. They would have to remove his armour to kill him. That would take time, allowing us to rescue him.
The knight’s men came to a sudden halt. For a moment I thought they were about to turn and flee: the approaching hordes were a fearsome sight and outnumbered us many times over. But ours was truly a well-disciplined force and I heard a voice call out an order:
‘Fire!’
The eight archers bent their bows and released their arrows, which sped unerringly towards their targets. Each arrow struck a witch. I saw at least three fall and another two stagger and spin. And already the archers had nocked fresh arrows from the quivers on their shoulders and were bending their bows again.
The order to fire came again, and with a whoosh another fusillade of arrows hit our enemies to even more deadly effect. They were almost upon us now, less than thirty yards away, but a third volley of arrows broke up their attack and the witches scattered.
However, they did not flee but began to encircle us, thinning out so as to present a more difficult target. The opening volleys had been fired simultaneously, but now the order was changed to: ‘Fire at will!’
At this, each archer began to choose his own target – a less effective tactic because the witches were already using dark magic against us. They were chanting spells in the Old Tongue, and foremost amongst these was Dread. Its power was wasted on Thorne and me, for we had defences against such things, but to the archers and men-at-arms their enemies would now appear in hideous shapes, their faces twisting into daemonic caricatures, their mud-caked hair resembling writhing nests of poisonous snakes.
The spell was already working only too well: I saw the eyes of the nearest bowman widen with fear and his bow tremble violently so that he released his arrow harmlessly into the ground. I had to act quickly or all would be lost. Now I must use all my strength and carry the fight to the enemy. The kretch and the mage must die!
With a sharp blade in her hand, a witch assassin dies fighting her enemies. Why should it be any different for me?
FINGERING MY BONE necklace, I used the spell which in the Latin tongue is called Imperium, but is known as Sway by the Mouldheel clan, who always like to do things differently. It is partly an exertion of the will, and it is important to pitch the command with a certain inflection of the voice. But if it is done properly, others will obey instantly.
There was fear and chaos all around me, and that helped. My voice cut through the uncertainty and I directed it at those nearest to me: three archers, two soldiers, and Thorne.
‘Follow me!’ I commanded, pitching my voice perfectly.
They turned as one and locked eyes with me. Only Thorne showed resistance, but she would obey without the magic. The others were alert, responsive and utterly compliant.
Then I began to run towards the river, where the knight still struggled with the kretch on the far bank. The others followed close on my heels, but as I reached the first of the witches who encircled us, Thorne moved up to my right side. We fought together as one entity with a single purpose; four legs and four arms directed by a single mind. A blade was in my left hand and I swung it in a short lethal arc – and the nearest of my enemies perished. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thorne despatch another of the witches.
We were a lethal force, and broke through the thin circle with ease. But when we crossed the ford, there were at least nine witches clustered about the place of combat, stabbing downwards at the knight. Lisa Dugdale was leaning on her pole, attempting to push the blade into the join between helmet and neck, always a weakness in such armour. But there was mail beneath and Sir Gilbert was doubly protected. However, the greatest threat to his life came from the kretch, which still had his head in its jaws; the metal of his helmet had crumpled inwards. Sir Gilbert was groaning with pain and struggling to be free. His sword had fallen from his grasp but he was punching the head of the kretch repeatedly with his mailed fist.