“Hismoni told me. Why do you ask?”
“Hismoni?” Meredith raised his eyebrow.
“He could not have known, for we hurried here straight from port,” William said.
“Yet they knew. You must be mistaken.”
“Hismoni must have wanted to get rid of you this evening,” Meredith said slowly, “And used William’s name as an excuse, not knowing he had indeed returned.”
“But why? There is no need to fool me. Unless they mean to,” and Osbert said no more.
“Harm the Lord Milada,” Meredith finished his thought. “To your heels, friends! There is evil and treachery abroad tonight!”
They set off on a mad dash forward, hoping to reach the castle before it was too late; hoping to save Milada. Yet, at the same time, they knew that on foot it was too far to run. If they did make it, somehow, they would be too exhausted to fight. Still, they had hope. They believed their cause was just and that fate would intervene.
A moment passed before they came to the bend ahead. As they turned it, they ran into a cloaked man, dressed in a black robe with a hood shadowing his face. He carried the reigns of six horses, strung out on a rope. Yet when he saw them, he dropped the rope and ran. Osbert intersected his retreat into the forest, however, plunging his sword into the man’s stomach. The party stopped and mounted the horses.
“Providence or luck,” cried the Admiral, “But does it matter? I only hope, Osbert, that you have not killed an innocent man in your haste.”
“Have no fear of that. He was one of Gylain’s chief spies – he escaped me only a few days ago in this very area.”
Osbert was still on the ground; he quickly searched the dead man. He lifted a sealed scroll to show the others.
“Let us hope this carries useful intelligence, though we cannot tarry to read it now.”
He mounted the last horse as the others galloped off down the road.
Meanwhile, back in the castle, things looked grim for Milada and the Fardy brothers. With the help of their battering ram, the traitors made quick work of the stone door, as massive as it was.
“What is that noise without?” cried the blond Fardy, hearing the great booms of the ram striking the door.
“They must have a battering ram! We are done for, I fear,” said the black Fardy.
“Do not lose hope, brother. We may die in the end, but will we never be captured alive,” said the brown Fardy.
Milada, unable to handle the danger suddenly thrust upon him, was pacing back and forth in the tight stairway, his limbs dancing.
“We had best get furniture from the rooms above, to barricade the stairway and throw at them when they break through,” the blond Fardy said.
“Good idea, brother, and we can arm ourselves while we do.”
Since there was nothing they could do to keep the door upon its hinges, all of them went up the stairs to the rooms above. The first was a small armory. They each took a suit of leather armor and a sword, then continued upward. Next was Milada’s bedchamber. They moved the heavier furniture down to the beginning of the staircase, that they might hurl it down on the attackers.
At that moment, the door broke open. Hismoni and his followers charged up the stairs.
“Land ho!” cried the Fardy brothers in unison as they pushed a heavy dresser over the edge of the stairs. It charged down Hismoni, even as he charged up. With a shriek, he turned and fled, grabbing at the doorway to pull himself forward. Yet he had no fingers left on that hand. The dresser crashed into him, putting wind into his sails that knocked him across the room.
His companions, however, continued on unwounded. The Fardy brothers shut the door at the top of the steps with little time to spare, locking the attackers out.
The second door was made of wood. In a moment it, too, was forced open. The small armory was merely a foyer, and another flight of stairs reached into Milada’s bedchamber. Once more Hismoni led the charge, for his pride was not diminished in his pain. Neither was his folly. The Fardy brothers were at the top of the steps, and as soon as he came forward, they let loose a bed frame. It tumbled down the steps, rattling with every bounce. This time, though, Hismoni was quicker to react. He turned and fled safely from the steep, narrow staircase.
His companion Selmar was not so lucky. He tripped as he turned, and fell face forward to the ground. Behind him he heard the oncoming charge of the bed frame; he lifted his head instinctively, to see what came at him. Then, with a hollow knock, it struck him straight in the forehead. He died instantly.
“Forward men!” roared Hismoni, “Now is our chance!”
The remaining eight attackers dashed up the stairway with their swords drawn. Yet there was no one above to oppose them. In the bedchamber at the top, the three Fardy brothers stood in a line in front of Milada. The latter stood with a sword in his hand, but it was evident that he was too frightened to make use of it.
“Surrender or die!” Hismoni said.
The brothers were solemn, no longer rowdy or boisterous. With a calm, collected air, the three chorused together, “Die.” And that was all.
The defenders stood their ground in the corner, and the attackers slowly approached, each with his sword drawn and in position to be used.
“There is no hope, brothers,” said Hismoni, his face badly bleeding from his wounds, “Why not surrender – we only seek Milada.”
There was no answer, for the Fardy brothers would not lower themselves to speak with the traitors. Still the attackers advanced, slowly and cautiously. Still the Fardy brothers held their ground, without a trace of fear or worry on their faces. The only thing that held sway there was duty, to Atilta and to freedom.
The attackers came at last in a sudden onslaught. But the brothers were ready. The blond Fardy clashed swords with Hismoni, parrying his first blow and his second, then knocking his third into the air by twisting his blade. He took the opening that followed and thrust straight into Hismoni’s stomach. The blow was shallow, for Hismoni fell backwards. Yet for the time, he was out of the battle.
At the same time, two of the guards challenged the black Fardy. He was by far the best swordsman of the three Fardys, and at first was able to fend them off. Then, after a long grapple and several parrying exchanges, the leftward attacker gave him a blow far to his left. He held his sword sideways and kept the guard in a grapple. The rightward attacker, however, took the opening that was left on the black Fardy’s right side. He drove his sword into the black Fardy’s shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards. With his last breath of strength, he stabbed the leftward attacker and brought him down. But once more the rightward attacker had an opening, and once more the black Fardy was stabbed in the shoulder.
On the other side, the brown Fardy was also faced with two attackers. The first came at him with his sword over his head, prepared to cut him open from above. But the brown Fardy ducked to the left and stabbed his sword straight through the oncoming man. The other attacker was directly behind his freshly killed companion. He, too, raised his sword above his head to rain it down on the brown Fardy – with the latter’s sword caught in the dead man’s stomach, he thought, he could not defend himself. He was dead wrong. The brown Fardy rushed forward into the dead man’s body and forced his sword through him. Then he charged forward at the second attacker, pushing the sword into his body as well.
A third man had now come up, however, and the brown Fardy could not dislodge his sword to defend himself. There were already too many men skewered upon it to add another. The third man thrust his sword into the lower left side of the brown Fardy’s chest. A muffled clang could be heard as it pierced the leather armor. He fell limply to the ground.
Seeing his two brothers struck down, the blond Fardy let loose the full fury of his patience. His face blazed with fire and his eyes shot forth from his head like demons from hell. He flourished his blade above his head, and with a loud groan disembodied two of the guards, one to the left and one to the right. Then he raised it again – still hot with anger – and smote the man in front of him.
All were motionless on the ground, except Hismoni, one of his men, the blond Fardy and Milada. The latter was too frightened to wield his sword. The blond Fardy left himself open in his latest blow; Hismoni swung his sword hard into his stomach. The blade was turned to the broadside, yet its force knocked him to the ground. Hismoni dashed forward to Lord Milada, in whom rested the rebel’s last hope of victory.
