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Swiftly flashed the traitor’s sword,
Swift for the throat, the bright blade sought;
Swifter still moved Avantir’s Lord,
As on the castle walls they fought.
Upon the wall did Draxon leap,
And downward did his long blade gleam.
Upward then the Sword did sweep,
And the traitor fell to Ilcaniar’s stream.
-from “The Death of Draxon” Conel of Asbaln
Rorick picked a clear path across the courtyard, but some Hygerians blundered into their way and went down in a few slashing moments. At the top of the wall, Draxon was trying to organize his men to throw javelins down into the Asbalnians. Rorick and his men attacked, and for a time all was confusion. With a part of his mind, the guardian sought to work his way toward Draxon, while still fighting with all skill.
Suddenly, the battle was over. The Hygerians were dead or dying, and Draxon stood back a few paces, sword lowered. He wore Hygerian dress and armour, probably for much the same reason that the Asbalnians had cut off the spikes from the captured helmets and shields they used. “Come, traitor, fight!”
Draxon’s lips curled. “So speaks Avantir’s pampered cub, who never knew want, never worried whether or not the crops would come in. I ruled Cair Canlon, where a good year meant only an easing of poverty. Come, then. I fear not death, but if I live, I shall be poor again.” He raised his blade and grinned. “Who knows? If any of the reports I hear are true, your Prince may award me Avantir when I have slain you, as a price for my aid. For I am of a noble family.”
Rage came onto Rorick then, and he stepped forward. A voice spoke in his mind, the voice of Beran on the practice grounds of long-gone years. “Fight with your anger, Lord, and it will slay you surely as though you fell on your sword.”
He slowed his advance, calming himself. Draxon, seeing this and guessing the reason, stepped forward to meet him. The traitor baron had misled other men with his bulk, which precluded the speed of movement he showed.
Rorick caught a blow on his shield where the Hygerian’s axe had weakened it, and it split in two. Rorick dropped it and attacked again. They traded blows, Rorick at a disadvantage with no shield, until Rorick worked himself into a position where he swung a vicious backhand stroke which ought to have caught Draxon in the right side. The baron managed to partially interpose his shield, so that the blow caught the edge of the shield. There was an audible crack as the handgrips tore away, and Draxon was without a shield.
Rorick had to dodge the next blows because the shield was caught on the Sword, but he worked it loose. Then they both fought with swords alone.
Rorick was never sure how long the rest of the fight took, but it felt as though he and Draxon took turns at holding the advantage, driving each other backward along the wall. Then Draxon, dodging a lunge, leaped up into an embrasure and struck downward at Rorick. The Guardian parried, thrust upward. This time the blow went home, and Draxon fell backward without a sound.
A little later, there was a splash from below. Rorick turned to find Beran nearby. “How many Warriors have we left?”
“We lost a little over fifty dead, possibly another fifty badly wounded. But the Dark ones lost more. The battle is nearly over.”
“Aye, this will be a great discouragement for Razak’s lords, I am thinking. Have you seen the Prince?”
“Only moments ago he was in the courtyard at the gate, where there is still fighting.”
“Well then, shall we stand here all the night while others recover our home for us? Let us go.”
Rorick had time to strike only one or two more blows for the restoration of his ancestral home, for organized resistance by the Hygerians was at an end. Some fought on, stubbornly, in corners where they were found, some escaped through the main gate, and through the lesser gates, and a few even surrendered.
Then, with dawn flaming red over the swamp behind them, Rorick found his Prince. The red crest was sheared away from Conel’s helmet, and the left cheekpiece was dented by a blow which, miraculously, had barely scratched his cheek. His sword-arm had two long gashes in it, and there was a slash across his right knee. There was no doubt that he had fought for his kingdom.
Beside him stood Donal Two-sword, with only one slight wound, a small cut on his left cheek. He was a more cheerful person now than the grim-faced warrior who had come to them at Orden.
The Prince strode forward to greet Rorick. “Ah, Rorick, that was a battle among battles. We were unavoidably late. We met a force of Hygerians at Dryx ford. They tried to spread out around our flanks, but I divided the Horsemen, bent their own flanks back, and marched the infantry through their center when they drew men back to the flanks.
“I have noticed that their infantry seem better-trained, more disciplined and ready to fight than ever before. I think we have taught them too much.”
“But you came.”
“Aye, we came. We dared not march that same day, but in the next days, I forced the march as much as I dared. We were still too far off when the signal went up. I do not quite understand this sudden decision of theirs to march out against us, but it nearly worked. Ah, well, we had accepted a risk, and it turned out well.”
“It did. And when we have rested, we must begin planning to move over the Mountains. And that will be difficult, for they will be guarded.”
“But let that be for when we have rested. May I ask hospitality of you, Lord of Avantir?”
“The hospitality of my house is always yours, King of Asbaln. I fear you shall find us in some disorder here for a few days, but we shall do what we are able. Indeed, without you, I would not be Lord of Avantir.” He turned to Beran. “Beran, can you find for me someone able to act as the part of steward? Someone well able to improvise, I think.”
“It shall be done, Milord Guardian.”