'I've got some mail and half-plate. It ain't nysteel, but it's the best I can do. Throw it on and get back out there.'
'This is crazy!'
'Tell me about it. Only two ways it can end like this. One of you dies or Finn finds that plate. Better cross your fingers, pilgrim.'
He clocked Lucas back into the action, at a point just before he left.
Even as Irving was bringing his sword down on Lucas, Lucas appeared behind him. Before Lucas could strike Irving, another Irving appeared behind him and Lucas felt a momentary shock as Irving's sword glanced off him even as he was clocking once again. Irving had the advantage in that his armor was effectively impregnable. Lucas made up for his disadvantage in that he did not have to worry about clocking himself out or in. Hunter was at the controls. The only thing he had to worry about was that Hunter would stay on the ball. The action began to accelerate with amazing speed. There was no chance to use the weapons Hunter had brought back. He was right. In a fugue situation, the last thing you wanted to do was to fill the air with bullets, cutting through space into which you might be clocking. Given the speed with which the combat took place, it was only possible to fight with the weapons at hand.
To the outlaws and men at arms observing the action, the world seemed to have gone mad. One moment, there was one knight fighting another. The next, two knights fighting two. Three knights fighting three. Four knights fighting four.
Each of the antagonists used their PRU units to return to their respective chronoplates again and again, where quick calculations and recalibrations would be made as they fought to catch their breath. Then they would clock back into the battle, materializing on the scene in their own immediate past, seconds or minutes before they had departed. The pressures of the temporal fugue were immense. One error in calculation, one slip in concentration and it would all be over. As the cycle progressed, those not involved in the fugue were confronted with a dizzying reality. Events happened at a much faster pace for them than for the combatants. In an instant, there were suddenly dozens of green knights and dozens of Ivanhoes hacking away at each other, more appearing as others winked out as though they had never been there to begin with.
Many of those who observed the phenomenon came to a gaping halt, mesmerized by the impossibility of what they were confronting. Not a few were killed as they stood staring in shock. It was an eerie scene: the fugue combatants going at each other for all they were worth, those around them either fighting, oblivious to what was happening around them, or simply standing with their weapons in their hands, staring uncomprehendingly. Many simply dropped their arms and ran.
Finn materialized in the courtyard of Nottingham Castle. It took perhaps a moment before anybody noticed him. By the time they did, he had quickly taken stock of his surroundings and was already on the move, firing as he ran. He wasn't taking any chances. His weapons gave him a devastating superiority, but all it took was one archer who would not panic and he would become just another statistic. Fortunately, most of them did panic. They had no reference for gunpower or lead projectiles fired too fast to be seen. Some of the guards stood frozen on the battlements, watching in disbelief as the bodies of their comrades literally came apart before their eyes. Those who survived the initial burst of firing fled, screaming with terror. By that time, Finn had already aimed and thrown one of the pyrogel grenades. The courtyard became a place of havoc, filled with the sounds of submachine gun fire and men screaming in agony as they fled from a horror they did not understand. Those who had survived the blast of the pyrogel grenade, but were still near enough to catch the fury of the explosion, became wreathed in flame and were consumed in seconds. Walking corpses in a halo of fire, charred crisp as a cinder, vocal chords seared away so that screaming was no longer possible, they made several halting steps and fell into a pile of ashes on the ground.
Finn didn't waste time with the door. He hurled a grenade and dived through, rolling and firing as he came up. Those who died didn't even have enough time to draw their swords. There was a brutal simplicity to Finn's tactics. He simply had to slaughter everyone in sight before he could take time to search for the plate. He only hoped that Hunter had guessed right and that it was here. As he ran down the corridor, slipping in a fresh magazine, a group of men came running to meet him, responding to the alarm. He cut them down to the last man, then reached for another clip. He jerked as a crossbow bolt hit him from behind, entering his shoulder from the back and coming almost completely through the other side. He dropped his grease gun. Throwing himself to the side, he came up with the 9mm Browning. Three quick shots dropped the archer even as he was drawing back his crossbow to fire a second quarrel.
For a moment, all was silent, save for the sounds of running footsteps somewhere close by, echoing all around him. Finn glanced quickly at his wound. He left the quarrel where it was. Removing it meant risking a flow of blood, since it could be the only thing holding a blood vessel together. The wound didn't look fatal unless, possibly, it became infected. There was no point to worrying about that now. He didn't even feel any pain. He retrieved his SMG and loaded another clip, then took off at a run down the corridor, staying close to the wall and keeping an eye on what was behind him. He couldn't risk being surprised again. He had to clean the castle out and find the chronoplate.
It could be anywhere. He had to search the entire castle for something the size of a briefcase.
Andre ran directly to her quarters, oblivious of all the commotion around her. The castle was under attack and its commander lay dead or dying beneath her in the dungeons. She had only three things on her mind. She had to get her armor, she had to take steps to protect Marcel, and she had to find a way to dispose of Bois-Guilbert. She was what the black knight had called his 'inside man,' and her duty was to defeat the defenders of the castle from within by depriving them of their leaders.
She had resented his remark at the time he made it and she had said so, protesting that she was not at all a man on the inside and that she had no desire to be a man; then he had told her that the term was used to describe someone who attacked a force from within their own ranks, a spy, one who pretended loyalty until the time to act was ripe.
'You mean a traitor,' she had said.
'Treason is defined purely subjectively,' he had told her. 'I could have called you an 'inside woman,' but seeing as how you are a man on the outside, within the walls of Torquilstone you will… oh, never mind. You can't see the humor in it, can you?'
'I see no humor in being asked to play the part of a traitor,' she replied.
'You will be treasonous to John if you do as I command. If you do not, then you will be treasonous to me. I ask you to consider which of the two you would prefer. It seems contrary to your profession to speak of treason. You are a mass of ambiguities, de la Croix.'
'Of what?'
'Never mind. I'll make the matter of your honor simple for you. As a mercenary, your loyalty rests with your paymaster. Since I have outbid the competition, your course would seem to be quite clear. Does that satisfy you?'
'I suppose that it will have to.'
'Good, I'm so glad. Take this.' He handed her a PRU.
'What is it?'
'Where you will be going, you will encounter danger. This is a charm of sorts. Keep it with you at all times. It will protect you.'
She started to examine it.
'Do not play with it,' he said, sternly. 'It has powers you would not understand. Merely keep it on your person. Take it as a token of my concern for you.'
She stared at him steadily. 'Who are you?'
He raised his eyebrows. 'I am your king.'
'Or the devil,' she said.
'If you like.'
As she reached her quarters, she took out the charm that he had given her and, for a moment, she considered throwing it away. She wanted nothing to do with black arts, but it was too late for that. She had allied herself with a sorcerer and, king or not, he was her master. She hated him. She would kill him if she could, but could the sorcerer be killed? She had tried before and failed. Perhaps he had such a charm himself. She stared at it.
