There was no wall of spears to resist them, no packed column of disciplined strength to drive them off.
It was a massacre.
Theodore’s mare trampled the first goblin under her hooves, while he beheaded another with a single stroke. The squire felt hot blood splatter his face through his visor. The scent of battle drove him on as he cut down another and guided his mare to ride over those who turned to flee.
“Fire!” Kara shouted. Five hundred carefully aimed bolts swept into the goblin mass. It was the only shot the dwarf crossbowmen would get, for they had no time to reload the bolts before the cavalry swept their enemy away.
In less than a minute, the entire goblin horde of two thousand had been put to flight. Those who had not been killed fled the field, abandoning their weapons and tearing off their armour in an effort to run all the quicker.
SEVENTY
The traitor parried Sir Pallas’s blow with ease.
“This is pathetic” Finistere spat scornfully as the old knight stumbled, breaking off his attack to catch hold of the wall for support as he wheezed heavily. “I have kept my sword arm honed, practising in secret in case I might have to fight again. You don’t have a hope.”
“Let him go, Finistere,” Ebenezer shouted. “It is murder now.”
“It was murder a long time ago,” Finistere replied.
Their swords sang as the two men exchanged several swift blows. The traitor was careful to stay away from the gate, ensuring that he was well beyond the reach of his prisoners.
“It is fortunate that I am in no rush,” the traitor mocked. “I shall let the fighting end in the city before joining the victors in a satisfying plunder of Falador. None shall be spared!”
Sir Pallas lunged desperately, and the traitor sidestepped, leaving the old knight to gather his strength again.
“Come to us, Sir Pallas” Sir Tiffy cried. “Come close in to the gate. Finistere won’t dare come so near to us.”
“I cannot,” Sir Pallas responded.
Then suddenly he grinned. “Evil must be fought, Sir Tiffy. We must all make sacrifices to that end!”
With a speed that surprised the traitor, Sir Pallas rushed him, his sword cutting a wide arc. But the traitor’s patience had ended. He didn’t even bother to parry the blow. Instead, he stepped forward, his sword darting in a single deadly thrust.
Sir Pallas gasped as the blade entered his body. He dropped his sword instantly and uttered a low moan of agony, collapsing to his knees, grasping at the traitor as if his killer would suddenly offer him a reprieve.
“Get your hands off me” Finistere said, reaching down to push the old knight away. But still Sir Pallas clawed at his killer as if his hands were weapons, tearing at his cloak and belt.
“Get away from me!” the traitor yelled, throwing the old man to the ground. He watched in contempt as the mortally wounded knight crawled with agonising slowness to the iron gate, where Sir Tiffy’s outstretched hands were reaching for him, ready to offer what little comfort they could.
“My dear friend,” he said with affection, his face dark as he observed the wound. “What could you hope to achieve by this brave act?” His hand lay on the shoulder of his friend, and he frowned as he saw Sir Pallas stretch his mouth into a pain-filled grin.
The traitor noted it, too, and was suddenly afraid.
“What are you laughing at, you old fool?” he demanded.
The dying knight smiled still.
“I have achieved a victory today, Tiffy” he gasped. “It has cost me everything, I fear, but it has been a just sacrifice to bring low a wretched enemy.”
Finistere opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so the sound choked in his throat. For Sir Pallas’s hand had fallen open, and a key dropped to the dusty stone within an inch of Sir Tiffy’s hand. It was the key to the iron gate. Sir Pallas had ripped it from his belt.
The hunter had become the hunted.
With a cry of rage Finistere kicked over his lantern and fled into the darkness as Marius put the key into the lock.
He knew he could not outrun the Squire. It was in the darkness that his salvation lay.
Sir Vyvin followed Sir Amik’s gaze north. Surely, he thought, it was time for them to begin their breakout? In the distance the goblins were fleeing as Theodore regrouped with the Imperial Guard in preparation for a second assault.
“We must go now” Sir Amik spoke for the first time to Sir Vyvin, who turned to reply, but his words were lost amongst the clamour of the Kinshra soldiers nearest the wall.
For the citizens of Falador had entered the battle. Hundreds of them lined the ramparts above the surrounded knights. Men hurled stones and bricks onto the heads of any Kinshra within range, while women emptied buckets of boiling water into the thickest concentrations.
At the same time, the knights’ leader raised his banner, and the cavalry of Falador charged the thinnest point of the Kinshra horseshoe. Sir Vyvin was at Sir Amik’s side, shouting to him in support. The great knight shouted back, urging them on, using his banner as a lance.
To the matron, who watched from the ramparts of the castle, it seemed as if the advancing enemy was simply biding their time, occupying themselves with plunder. She cast a dark look down into the courtyard. Pale, frightened faces looked expectantly up at her-injured men, unfit for battle, roused from their beds only to await the end.
“He should be here on the wall with us,” she said to herself before turning away and marching across the courtyard. She ignored the whimpering of hungry children and weeping mothers who had taken shelter in the castle’s protective walls.
She climbed the stairs and knocked upon the stout door.
“Bhuler! It is me. Open up!”
She listened at the door, expecting to hear the crackle of burning papers, the documents that Bhuler had said he would destroy to prevent them from falling into enemy hands.
“Have they come?” a voice responded. “Is it the end?”
As it spoke the matron opened the door.
“Not yet, old friend” she said, “for Sir Amik has…”
Her words died in her mouth. For sitting before her in his bed was Sir Amik Varze himself, his grey eyes regarding her coolly. He looked stronger than before, and with a gasp of sharp pain he pushed himself out of his bed and stood up.
“Where is Bhuler?” he asked calmly. “And where is my armour?”
The matron stifled a gasp as a cold realisation dawned on her. She remembered seeing Sir Amik ride out under the gate at the head of the cheering knights to face the Kinshra, and how his appearance alone had raised their spirits.
“It is Bhuler, Sir Amik!” she said. “It must have been him all along.”
Before the walls of Falador, Bhuler knew he had been right. All those years of hard work and quiet determination had been worth it. Saradomin had spared him for a greater purpose.
He urged the men on, driving into the Kinshra formation and scattering them with his ferocity. Behind him the knights charged, their sudden rush surprising the enemy who had begun to assume an inevitable victory.
Horses and men screamed as sharpened blades stabbed through armour and flesh. The knights had focused their attack intelligently, and the Kinshra line could not contain them.
Out onto the open plain he rode, the first to break through. He circled wide to keep his men in formation as
