Igraine the Brave (22 page)

A murmur ran through the ranks of the watching soldiers as he dismounted and drew his own sword.

In the torchlight, the blade looked as if it were made of fire. The two knights stalked stiffly toward each other. By now the sky above them was black as pitch, and only the slender moon stood in the sky over Pimpernel.

The swords clashed with terrible force, again and again. Igraine jumped nervously at each stroke. She closed her eyes, opened them again, clutched her own sword in both her hands, which felt far too weak to lift it, and waited for her heart to break with fear.

The two knights were fighting ever more fiercely. But the swords were heavy, very heavy, and soon their strokes were less certain and missed their mark. One or other of the combatants was forced down on his armed knee more and more frequently, and they both found getting up increasingly difficult each time. Their gasping and groaning rang in Igraine’s ears. There was not another sound to be heard in the night. And then, suddenly, Heartless raised his sword for a fearsome stroke. The Sorrowful Knight parried it, forced his opponent back, and drove him backward with a flurry of sword strokes, until Heartless lost his balance, stumbled, and fell. Gasping, he lay on his back, right in the middle of the tilting ground. His sword had fallen from his hand and was too far away for him to reach it — and the Sorrowful Knight put the point of his own sword to his opponent’s breast.

“We won!” shouted Igraine, so loudly that for a moment everyone turned to her. Osmund made use of that moment. He leaped up, went to the edge of his dais, and spread his fingers. Hardly anyone noticed, but Igraine recognized magic when she saw it, and she knew at once why the Spiky Knight’s sword was sliding back to him over the trampled ground. Without thinking of the promise she had made the Sorrowful Knight, without thinking of what she had promised her parents and Albert, either, she swung herself up on Lancelot’s back, galloped onto the tilting ground, and brought the horse to a standstill right above the enchanted blade. Snorting, he set one front hoof on the great sword.

“Call your squire off!” roared Osmund. “You’re breaking the rules, Sorrowful Knight!”

“You’re the one who’s breaking them!” Igraine shouted back. “Since when do swords start moving of their own accord without magic?”

Osmund did not reply.

A murmur rose among his soldiers.

The Sorrowful Knight, however, took the point of his sword away from the Spiky Knight’s breast and straightened up.

“You are defeated, Rowan Heartless,” he said. “Get up and go away with your greedy master. But first tell me where you are hiding the noble ladies who were entrusted to my care.”

Heartless rose to his feet with difficulty. His heavy armor, weighed down by all those iron spikes, made him stagger, and when he opened his visor his face was white with rage.

“You haven’t defeated me!” he shouted at the Sorrowful Knight. “No one defeats me. The little minx there has cast a spell on me; that’s the only reason why you brought her! She’s a magician like the rest of her family.”

“That’s not true!” cried Igraine indignantly. “You wicked liar! You were going to save yourself by magic. You and your greedy …”

But she got no further.

“Seize her!” cried Osmund. “Seize them both and put them in chains.”

Igraine looked around in alarm. Some of the soldiers were hesitating, but enough of them were ready to obey. They came storming onto the tilting ground from all sides, with lances, spears, and drawn swords. Lancelot pranced on the spot and threw up his head. Igraine looked desperately up at the castle. The tower was dark, the whole place was dark, she couldn’t even see Albert on the battlements.

“Flee, Igraine!” cried the Sorrowful Knight, fending off the first soldiers trying to seize him.

“Leave him to me!” roared Heartless, snatching a sword from the hand of one of the men. “Let me pass, he’s mine!”

“The knight can wait. Bring me the girl!” Osmund called to him. “Bring her to me alive, understand?”

Heartless swung around, a furious retort on his lips, but Osmund stared at him until he bowed his head.

Igraine saw him coming toward her. She struck out with her sword at every hand reaching for her, fended off spear points, kicked helmets and breastplates. Lancelot turned in a circle, neighing shrilly, kicked and bit, but however hard Igraine tried to get him close to the Sorrowful Knight she simply couldn’t do it. The stallion was far too agitated, and the milling throng around her was growing denser all the time. She had to watch helplessly as the Sorrowful Knight was thrown to the ground, and the next moment Heartless was standing in front of her.

“Well, little minx!” he cried. “And how do you like the life of chivalry? Not quite the same thing as playing on the battlements in a shiny suit of armor, is it?”

With a single blow he struck Igraine’s short sword from her hand, pulled her out of her saddle, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of beans. She tried to bite him — his fingers, his nose, his ears, anywhere — but he was protected by his chain mail and his armor. Laughing, the Spiky Knight carried her to Osmund’s dais and threw her at his master’s feet. Igraine tried to scramble up, but two of Osmund’s servants forced her back onto her knees.

“Excellent!” cried Osmund, looking down at her with a mocking smile. “And now your silly brother will bring us those books in person. He won’t be able to let the drawbridge down fast enough, if that means getting his captured little sister back. And when your foolish parents are home from their journey,” added Osmund, pulling at his beard with satisfaction, “then they won’t find a castle standing here anymore. As for their children, well, I have yet to decide what I’m going to turn you two into.”

“Here’s the other prisoner, sir!”

Igraine spun around.

Three soldiers were forcing the Sorrowful Knight down on his knees in front of Osmund’s dais. They had torn the helmet off his head.

“Osmund, you have no honor,” said the knight wearily. “You have broken your word. Nothing could be more disgraceful.”

“Oh, yes, it could. You brought an enchantress with you as your squire,” replied Osmund scornfully. “That’s truly disgraceful. You’re the knight without honor.”

“I’m not an enchantress, you dirty liar!” shouted Igraine, trying to bite Osmund on the knee, but he stepped back just in time.

“I think I’ll turn you into a gnat,” he said. “Or a yapping puppy. And your magician of a brother will make an excellent donkey.” Raising his hand, he signaled to his soldiers. “Take these two to Darkrock and throw them into the Dungeon of Despair. Her brother will have to bring me the books in person if he wants his sister back. I’m sick and tired of sleeping in a stuffy tent outside this crumbling castle.”

But just as the soldiers were hauling the two prisoners to their feet, a bright flash of lightning shot across the sky.

It came from Pimpernel, shot down from the castle battlements, ran zigzag over the tilting ground, and struck Osmund’s armchair. Colored sparks flew through the air, and all of a sudden, instead of the chair, Albert stood there life-size on the wooden dais. Blue fire dripped from his magic coat, the little bells on its hem were ringing, and three mice were sitting in his dark hair.

27

A
lbert’s big entrance struck everyone silent. Osmund was so scared that he would have dropped into his armchair, except that it wasn’t there anymore.

“Osmund, Osmund,” said Albert. “You are indeed the shiftiest and most dishonorable creature going about on two legs. Oh, and greetings from my parents. They’re just back from their journey, and they’d like your fire raisers and book robbers to know they’ll spend the rest of their miserable lives as cockroaches, scurrying around outside our castle, unless they unchain my sister and the noble knight, right this minute.”

Osmund was not the only one who turned to stare uneasily at the castle upon hearing Albert’s words. White fire was spraying down from the gargoyles’ mouths into the moat, and up on the battlements stood two figures whom none of the besiegers had ever seen before.

A few of the soldiers, their fingers trembling, began undoing the bonds that held Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight captive, but their lord and master obviously hadn’t yet taken in the gravity of the situation.

“Stop that!” thundered Osmund, in such a loud voice that the soldiers flinched back in alarm. “What are you waiting for? Grab that jug-eared beanpole!”

Albert spread his arms wide and smiled, the way he did when he’d left a big fat spider dangling over Igraine’s bed. Fire danced along his arms, over the backs of his hands, and down his fingers. Even his hair was sprinkled with tiny flames. “You’re in trouble, Osmund,” he said. “Real trouble, and if you don’t know what that means you’re about to find out.”

Igraine freed herself from her half-loosened bonds and helped the Sorrowful Knight to undo his. No one was taking any notice of them. They were all staring at Albert.

“Seize him, by Death and the Cauldron!” shouted Osmund.

But his soldiers didn’t budge.

Thunder rolled behind them, making their hair stand on end under their helmets, and another flash of lightning, followed by a third, flickered across the black sky. Two shining white globes struck the ground at Osmund’s feet, smoking hot and scattering sparks. The lightning was so bright that everyone, even Igraine and the Sorrowful Knight, had to close their eyes for a moment. When they could see again, Sir Lamorak and the Fair Melisande were standing beside Albert. Igraine’s father was carrying Sisyphus, and two Books of Magic were sitting on her mother’s shoulders.

Osmund stared at those books so greedily that they put out their tongues at him.

“Allow us to introduce ourselves, Osmund,” said Sir Lamorak politely. “I am Lamorak, also known as Lamorak the Wily or Lamorak the Witty, and this is my extremely clever and, as you can see, extremely beautiful wife, Melisande.”

“We,” said Melisande, taking a step toward Osmund, “are the parents of this jug-eared young man and the girl in silver armor there. And as I am sure you can imagine, we are not particularly happy about your treatment of our children, let alone your dishonorable behavior toward the noble knight who is facing you now. Thank you very much,” she added, giving the Sorrowful Knight her most beautiful smile, “thank you very much indeed for your truly chivalrous aid.”

The knight bowed, looking embarrassed.

As for Sir Lamorak, he turned to Osmund again.

“The fact is,” he said, “we are rather annoyed, as you will soon find out for yourself. Books, page 232, please.
Da capo, fortissimo!
”

The two books began to hum. It sounded like the angry buzzing of a couple of hornets. Igraine had never heard them sing such notes before.

Tiny flames flickered up Osmund’s dais, surrounding him with a wreath of fire and then creeping down from the platform like a burning fuse on their way over to Rowan Heartless. The Whispering Woods began to rustle so loudly that the night was filled with an eerie roar, and the water snakes slithered out of the moat and wound their way, hissing, across the tilting ground and toward the tents.