The Doomfarers of Coramonde Read Free

control
from some quarter, and the Prince began to wonder, between Queen and sorcerer,
who was subordinate to whom.
    She rose to her
feet, throwing back the white-furred splendor of her robe, and cried,
“Murderer! This fight was not condoned; you had not my let to brawl, either
one. The Count is beyond my retribution, but I shall visit my anger twofold
upon you.”
    Springbuck
expected to hear the order go out and see deadly shafts throw back the
lamplight on their way to the Duke’s heart.
    But instead,
Fania commanded, “Archog, slay me this man.” At this Archog, the largest of the
ogres and the captain of them, drew his huge broadsword from its scabbard at
his back and shuffled forward.
    Springbuck
watched in horror. The match between Hightower and Synfors had been one thing,
a bout between men by challenge given and taken. The assault of Archog was
something else—a deliberate, merciless executioner about to do his work. The
Prince’s impulse was to go to the Duke’s side and stand with him. Yet that
impulse was drained, and the heir of the Ku-Mor-Mai immobilized at the
ogre’s terrifying aspect. His mouth had gone dune dry and he realized that to
oppose Archog or, in his killing rage, even to impede him, would mean death.
What would it profit to die?
    But for a scant
second, Hightower tore his gaze from the creature tramping to confront him and
fixed the Prince with his eye. That look said nothing of expectation or
resentment; there was no bitterness because Hightower had come to help him only
to lose his own life. It was, Springbuck saw in that one instant, the Duke’s
way of ensuring that the Prince would see and understand. It simply said, “I am
Hightower. This is how I live, and how I can die, if it comes to that.”
    And that stark
message came through so well that the Prince lurched forward to join the Duke,
and in the impact of the moment, none noticed the sob that escaped him. But he
was seized from either side by the guardsmen and held fast in armored hands; in
a moment the eight archers had leveled unswerving arrowheads at his breast. He
stopped struggling to watch as the ogre closed with Hightower.
    The Duke waited,
perhaps bitter with himself for leaving his own liege men outside Earthfast; he
exhibited none of the confidence he had shown with Synfors. He shifted his grip
on his sword and, uttering a piercing war cry, threw himself forward at his new
enemy, swinging a savage blow.
    But Archog met
the Duke’s weapon with his own with such terrific energy that the man’s sword
broke in two. Stunned, Hightower fell back on one knee, holding the useless
quillons and stump of his blade before him as if his sword were still whole.
    With a scream
that had no message but animal anguish and loss, the Prince, beyond any care or
caution for his own life, shook his captors loose and fumbled at the ranker’s
belt for his sword. The captain should have jumped back and let the archers do
their work, which would have pleased his Queen well; but in the heat of the
moment he instead brought down an iron-girt fist and dashed Springbuck into
semiconsciousness.
    Archog advanced
and swung again, this time knocking aside the Duke’s sword stump and beheading
him.
    The ogre stood
over his victim’s body, which streamed its hot life’s blood across the floor,
and his bone-chilling gaze lifted slowly to Fania, no trace of elation or
rancor in it, awaiting further instruction.
    Fania,
whey-faced and glassy-eyed at the ghastly scene, tried to find her voice but
couldn’t. Again she turned to Yardiff Bey, and once more appeared to summon
composure from that source.
    “Take the…
remains of the traitors away,” Fania managed at last in a subdued tone.
    Archog stooped
and straightened, to move toward the portals, the Duke’s body under one arm and
the head cupped in the other gauntleted paw. Synfors’ body was carried away,
too. Finally the Prince was lifted by the two guardsmen.
    In the whirling
haze that had