Chapter 13
It was over before Lucas realized that it had ended. The fugue had run its course and, as time caught up to them, all the Irvings and all his other selves began to disappear until only he was left, standing all alone and spinning madly, swinging his sword in all directions. As the battle raged around him, he stood alone in a cleared space as some of the outlaws looked on, jaws hanging agape, the attack on Torquilstone forgotten.
In the fury of the battle, only a few of those involved were aware of the strange scene being played out in their midst. The Saxons had broken through and were even at that moment pouring into the castle and slaughtering the Normans. Cedric and his family were being released, along with a sorrowful Isaac of York. As Lucas stopped hacking at the air and stood alone, those who had been watching began to back away, questioning their own sanity. No one approached him. No one attempted to speak to him.
What they had seen—or had thought that they had seen— had taken place in what was little more than an instant, a few moments, a brief span of unreality. Two knights had come together in deadly battle and suddenly, they seemed to have multiplied. Two became two armies and, just as suddenly, only one remained. It couldn't have been real, could it? One knight stood alone. In a brief span, surely too brief, his armor had been battered and dented, he was bloodied, he was exhausted, he was chopping at the air. They wandered away in a daze. More sophisticated men might have believed that they had succumbed to some sort of mass psychosis, but these men did not know the meaning of the word. The word would not exist in the vocabulary of men for many, many years to come. It was sorcery. They knew of only one sorcerer. They knew better than to speak of him.
Lucas let his sword drop to the ground.
"My God," he said. "I think I've won. What happened?"
Finn Delaney walked up beside him.
"It's over," he said, putting his arm around Lucas. "Irving's dead. His chronoplate's destroyed."
Lucas stared at him, his eyes slightly unfocused.
"Did I kill him?"
"No, but it doesn't matter. He's dead just the same."
Lucas looked back at Torquilstone. The sounds of battle were still coming from within its walls. The Saxons were still invading the castle.
"Forget it," Finn said. "That doesn't concern us anymore. We've done our job, Lucas. Let's go home."
"Hunter?"
Finn smiled. "He's gone. Like the man said, he's not putting his ass on the line for anybody. He popped in out of nowhere, saved our bacon, and now he's disappeared again and taken his toys with him. Back into retirement."
"Is there any way that we can keep him out of it?" said Lucas.
Finn shrugged. "What difference does it make? We'll be debriefed. We can tell them everything we know. Hunter's smart. He won't stay around here. He'll pick himself another time, another place . . . they'll never find him." He took Lucas' PRU. "I gave mine back to him. I've still got some explosive left. He can probably change the code, but what do you say we blow these anyway?"
"These?"
Finn sighed. "Yeah. Bobby's too. Hunter wasn't fast enough to save him. For what it's worth, he said he was sorry."
They stood over Bobby's body.
"It's worth something," Lucas said.
* * * *
For a moment, there was an incandescent respite. He looked up and saw de la Croix poised with sword held overhead.
"Damn," he whispered softly.
The sword—
—never came down. At the last moment, he had shut his eyes, resigned to his fate. He waited for the blow that never came. He waited . . . and he waited, then it occurred to him that de la Croix was waiting for him to open his eyes, waiting before giving him the coup de grace so that he would open his eyes, so that the last thing he would ever see was—
He sighed. Very well, then. Let it be. He would die looking his executioner in the eye. After all, it was only fitting. He opened his eyes.
And de la Croix was gone.
He blinked. He turned around. He remained on the floor, puzzled. Why? It made no sense. How ... where ...
His wounds were hurting him. The most serious was the one in his arm. Yet it was not a fatal wound. He would live.