One of the arrows raining down on the courtyard brushed past his shoulder and left behind a streak of flame on his sleeve. He could smell the pitch and feel the heat on his arm and face. Chris threw himself onto the ground, but the fire did not go out. It seemed to be smoldering; the heat became worse. He got to his knees and, using his dagger, cut his doublet open. He shrugged out of the burning coat and threw it aside. The back of his hand was still aflame, from tiny drops of pitch. He rubbed his hand in the dust of the courtyard.
The fire at last went out.
Standing again, he said, “André? I’m coming.” But there was no answer. Alarmed, he jumped to his feet, just in time to see Oliver emerge from the arsenal, leading the Professor and Marek away, heading to a far door in the castle wall. The soldiers pushed them forward at swordpoint. Chris didn’t like the look of it. He had the uneasy sense that Oliver was going to kill them.
“Kate.”
“Yes, Chris.”
“I see them.”
“Where?”
“Going into that corner door.”
He started to follow, realized he needed a weapon. Just a few feet away, a burning arrow struck a soldier in the back, knocking him face down on the ground. Chris bent over, took the man’s sword, then stood again and turned to go.
“Chris.”
A man’s voice, in his earpiece. An unfamiliar voice that he didn’t recognize. Chris looked around, but saw only running soldiers, flaming arrows whizzing through the air, a burning courtyard.
“Chris.” The voice was soft. “Over here.”
Through the flames he saw a dark figure standing motionless as a statue, staring at him across the courtyard. This dark figure ignored the fighting that swirled around him. He stared fixedly at Chris. It was Robert de Kere.
“Chris. Do you know what I want?” de Kere said.
Chris didn’t answer him. Nervously, he hefted the sword in his hand, feeling the weight. De Kere just watched him. He chuckled softly. “Are you going to fight me, Chris?”
And then de Kere started walking toward him.
Chris took a breath, not certain whether to stay or run. And suddenly a door behind the great hall burst open and a knight came out, in full armor except for his helmet, bellowing, “For God and the Archpriest Arnaut!” He recognized the handsome knight, Raimondo. Dozens of soldiers in green and black were pouring out into the courtyard, engaging Oliver’s troops in a pitched battle.
De Kere was still stalking him, but now he paused, uncertain about this new development. Suddenly Arnaut grabbed Chris by the throat, holding his sword high. Arnaut pulled him close, shouting, “Oliver! Where is Oliver!”
Chris pointed to the far door.
“Show me!”
He went with Arnaut across the courtyard, through the door. Following stairs spiraling downward, they came to a series of underground chambers. They were large and gloomy, with high curved ceilings.
Arnaut pushed ahead, panting, red-faced with fury. Chris hurried to keep up with him. They passed through a second chamber, empty like the first. But now Chris heard voices up ahead. One of them sounded like the Professor’s.
* * *
00:36:02
On the control room monitors, the computer-generated undulating field had begun to show spikes. Biting her lip, Kramer watched the spikes grow in higher and wider. She drummed her fingers on the table. Finally, she said, “Okay. Let’s fill the tanks at least. Let’s see how they do.”
“Good,” Gordon said, looking relieved. He picked up the radio, began to give orders to the technicians down in the transit room.
On the video monitors, Stern watched as heavy hoses were dragged over to the first of the empty shield tanks. Men climbed up ladders and adjusted the nozzles. “I think this is best,” Gordon said. “At least we’ll—”
Stern jumped to his feet. “No,” he said. “Don’t do it.”
“What?”
“Don’t fill the tanks.”
Kramer stared at him. “Why? What can—”
“Don’t do it!” Stern said. He was shouting in the small control room. On the screen, technicians were holding water nozzles above the fill aperture. “Tell them to stop! No water whatever in the tank! Not a drop!”
Gordon gave an order on the radio. The technicians looked up in surprise, but they stopped their work, lowered the hoses back to the floor.
“David,” Gordon said gently. “I think we have to—”
“No,” Stern said. “We don’t fill the tanks.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’ll screw up the glue.”
“The glue?”
“Yes,” he said. “I know how to strengthen the tanks.”
Kramer said, “You do? How?”
Gordon turned to the technicians. “How much time?”
“Thirty-five minutes.”
He turned back to Stern. “There’s just thirty-five minutes, David. There isn’t time to do anything now.”
“Yes there is,” Stern said. “There’s still enough time. If we go like hell.”
* * *
00:33:09
Kate came into the central courtyard of La Roque, to the place where she had last seen Chris. But Chris was gone.
“Chris?”
She heard no answer in her earpiece.
And he had the ceramic, she thought.
All around her in the courtyard lay burning bodies. She ran from one to the next, looking to see if one of them was Chris.
She saw Raimondo, who gave her a little nod and a wave — and then he shuddered. For a moment she thought it was the heat waves from the flames, but then she saw Raimondo turn, bleeding from his side. There was a man standing behind him, hacking repeatedly with his sword, cutting Raimondo at the arm, shoulder, torso, leg. Every cut was deep enough to wound, but not to kill. Raimondo staggered backward, bleeding freely. The man advanced, still hacking. Raimondo fell to his knees. The man stood over Raimondo, cutting again and again. Raimondo fell backward, and now the man was slashing Raimondo’s face, cutting diagonally across lips and nose, sending bits of flesh flying. The attacker’s face was hidden by flames, but she heard him say, “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” with each blow. She realized he was speaking English. And then she knew who the man was.
The attacker was de Kere.
:
Chris followed Arnaut deeper into the dungeon. They heard voices echoing somewhere up ahead. Arnaut moved more cautiously now, staying closer to the walls. At last they could see into the next chamber, which was dominated by a large pit in the ground. Above the pit, a heavy metal cage hung from a chain. The Professor was standing inside the bars, his face expressionless as the cage was lowered by two soldiers who turned a winch crank. Marek had been pushed against the far wall, his hands tied. Two soldiers stood near him.
Lord Oliver stood at the edge of the pit, smiling as the cage descended. He drank from a gold cup, wiped his chin. “I made you my promise, Magister,” he said, “and I will keep it.” To the soldiers at the winch he said, “Slower, slower.”
Staring at Oliver, Arnaut growled like an angry dog, and drew his sword. He turned back to Chris and whispered, “I shall take Oliver. You may have the others.”
Chris thought: The others? There were four soldiers in the room. But he had no time to protest, for with a scream of fury, Arnaut was running forward, shouting, “Oliverrrrr!”
Lord Oliver turned, still holding his goblet. With a sneer of disdain, he said, “So. The pig approaches.” He threw his cup aside and drew his sword. In a moment the battle was joined.
Chris was now running toward the soldiers at the winch, not quite sure what he would do; the soldiers beside Marek had raised their swords. Oliver and Arnaut fought bitterly, swords clanging, cursing each other between blows.
Everything was happening fast now. Marek tripped one of the soldiers near him, and stabbed him with a knife so small Chris couldn’t see it. The other soldier turned back to face Marek, and Marek kicked him hard, so that he staggered back against the winch, knocking the men away.
Unattended, the winch began to clank down more rapidly. There was a ratchet mechanism of some kind, so it turned noisily, but it was clearly moving faster than before. Chris saw the Professor’s cage descend below ground level, disappearing into the pit.
By then Chris had reached the first of the soldiers, whose back was to him. The man started to turn and Chris swung, badly wounding him. He swung again; the man fell.
Now there were only two soldiers. Marek, his wrists still tied, was backing away from one, ducking the hissing blade. The second soldier stood by the winch. He had his sword out and was ready to fight. Chris swung; the man parried easily. Then Marek, backing in a circle, banged against the soldier, who turned momentarily. Marek shouted, “Now!” and Chris stabbed with the sword. The man collapsed.