Timeline

Looking back, he saw that Sir Charles was down, lying on the ground, not moving.

And then he saw Sir Guy prancing and wheeling around Chris’s fallen body. That would be his solution, Marek thought. He’d trample Chris to death.

Marek turned and drew his sword. He held it high.

With a howl of rage, Marek spurred his horse down the field.

The crowd screamed and pounded the railings like a drumbeat. Sir Guy turned, and he saw Marek coming. He looked back down at Chris, and kicked his horse, making it move sideways to stomp him.

"Fie! Fie!" the crowd shouted, and even Lord Oliver was on his feet, aghast.

But then Marek had reached Sir Guy, unable to stop his charge but sweeping past him, shouting, "Asshole" as he struck Guy’s head with the flat of his sword. He knew it wouldn’t hurt him, but it was an insulting blow, and it would make him abandon Chris. Which it did.

Sir Guy immediately turned away from Chris as Marek reined up, holding his sword. Sir Guy pulled his sword from the sheath and swung viciously, the blade whistling in the air. It clanged off Marek’s blade. Marek felt his own sword vibrate in his hand with the impact. Marek lashed out in a backswing, going for the head. Guy parried; the horses wheeled; the swords clanged, again and again.

The battle had begun. And in some detached part of his mind, Marek knew that this would be a fight to the death.

Kate watched the battle from the railing. Marek was holding his own, and his physical strength was superior, but it was easy to see that he did not have the expertise of Sir Guy. His swings were wilder, his body position less sure. He seemed to know it, and so did Sir Guy, who kept backing his horse away, trying to open space for full swings. For his part, Marek pressed closer, keeping the distance between them tight, like a fighter staying in the clinch.

But Marek could not do it forever, she saw. Sooner or later, Guy would get enough distance, if only for a moment, and make a lethal blow.

Marek’s hair was soaked with sweat inside the helmet. Stinging drops dripped into his eyes. He could do nothing about it. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn’t help much.

Soon he was gasping for breath. Through the slit of the helmet, Sir Guy appeared tireless and implacable, always on the attack, swinging repeatedly in a sure, practiced rhythm. Marek knew that he had to do something soon, before he became too tired. He had to break the knight’s rhythm.

His right hand, holding the sword, already burned from constant exertion. His left hand was strong. Why not use his left hand?

It was worth a try.

Spurring his horse, Marek moved closer, until they were chest to chest. He waited until he had blocked one swing with his own sword, and then with the heel of his left hand, he punched upward at Sir Guy’s helmet. The helmet snapped back; he felt the satisfying thunk as Guy’s head struck the front of the helmet.

Immediately, Marek flipped his sword over and slammed the butt of the handle against Guy’s helmet. There was a loud clang, and Guy’s body jerked in the saddle. His shoulders slumped momentarily. Marek struck again, banged the helmet harder. He knew he was hurting him.

But not enough.

Too late, he saw Guy’s sword hiss in a broad arc, toward his back. Marek felt the brutal sting like a whip across his shoulders. Did the chain mail hold? Was he hurt? He could still move his arms. He swung his own blade hard against the back of Guy’s helmet. Guy did nothing to ward off the blow, which rang like a gong. He must be dazed, Marek thought.

Marek swung again, then wheeled his horse, coming around; and he swung broadly for the neck. Guy blocked it, but the force of the impact knocked him backward. Reeling, he slid sideways in the saddle, grabbed for the pommel, but could not prevent his fall to the ground.

Marek turned, started to dismount. The crowd roared again; looking back, he saw that Guy had leapt easily to his feet, his injuries a sham. He swung his blade at Marek while he was still dismounting. Marek, with one foot still raised in the stirrup, parried awkwardly, somehow got clear of his horse, and then swung back. Sir Guy was strong, sure of himself.

Marek realized his situation was now worse than before. He attacked fiercely, but Guy backed up easily, his footwork practiced and quick. Marek was gasping and wheezing inside his helmet; he was sure Guy could hear it, and would know what it meant.

Marek was wearing down.

All Sir Guy had to do was keep backing away, until Marek exhausted himself.

Unless . . .

Off to the left, Chris obediently still lay flat on his back.

Marek swung at Guy, moving to the right with every stroke. Guy continued to move lightly away. But now Marek was driving him back  –  toward Chris.

Chris awoke slowly to the clang of swords. Groggy, he took stock. He was lying on his back, staring at blue sky. But he was alive. What had happened? He turned his head inside his black helmet. With just a narrow slit for vision, it was hot and stuffy and claustrophobic.

He began to feel sick.

The sensation of nausea built quickly. He didn’t want to throw up inside the helmet. It was too tight around his head; he would drown in his own puke. He had to get his helmet off. Still lying there, he reached up and grabbed the helmet with both hands.

He tugged at it.

It didn’t budge. Why? Had they tied it on him? Was it because he was lying down?

He was going to throw up. In the damn helmet.

Jesus.

Frantic, he rolled on the ground.

Marek swung his sword desperately. Behind Sir Guy, he saw Chris begin to move. Marek would have shouted to him to stay where he was, but he had no breath to speak.

Marek swung again, and again.

Now Chris was pulling at his helmet, trying to get it off. Guy was still ten yards from Chris. Dancing backward, enjoying himself, parrying Marek’s blows easily.