Timeline. Part 32

"Right," she said.

"I may not be able to keep this under control," Doniger said, "but I'm sure as h.e.l.l going to try."

He frowned at the gla.s.s, watching the people cl.u.s.tered outside the tunnel in the dark. "How long until they can go back in the cave?"

"Nine hours."

"And then we can mount a rescue operation? Send another team back?"

Kramer coughed. "Well ..."

"Are you sick? Or does that mean no?"

"All the machines were destroyed in the explosion, Bob," she said.

"All of them?"

"I think so, yes."

"Then all we can do is rebuild the pad, and sit on our a.s.ses to see if they come back in one piece?"

"Yes. That's right. We have no way to rescue them."

"Then let's hope they know their stuff," Doniger said, "because they're on their own. Good f.u.c.king luck to them."

31:40:44.

Through the narrow slit of his helmet visor, Chris Hughes could see that the tournament stands were filled-almost entirely with ladies-and the railings crowded with commoners ten deep. Everyone was shouting for the tournament to begin. Chris was now at the east end of the field, surrounded by his pages, trying to control the horse, which seemed upset by the shouting crowd and had begun to buck and rear. The pages tried to hand him a striped lance, which was absurdly long and ungainly in his hand. Chris took it, then fumbled it as the horse snorted and stomped beneath him.

Beyond the barrier, he saw Kate standing among the commoners. She was smiling encouragement at him, but the horse kept twisting and turning, so he could not return her gaze.

And not far off, he saw the armored figure of Marek, surrounded by pages.

As Chris's horse turned again-why didn't the pages grab the reins?-he saw the far end of the field, where Sir Guy de Malegant sat calmly on his mount. He was pulling on his black-plumed helmet.

Chris's horse bucked once more and turned him in circles. He heard more trumpets, and the spectators all looked toward the stands. He was dimly aware that Lord Oliver was taking his seat, to scattered applause.

Then the trumpets blared again.

"Squire, it is your signal," a page said, handing him the lance once more. This time, he managed to hold it long enough to rest it in a notch on his pommel, so that it crossed the horse's back and pointed ahead to his left. Then the horse spun, and the pages yelled and scattered as the lance swung in an arc over their heads.

More trumpets.

Hardly able to see, Chris tugged at his reins, trying to get the horse under control. He glimpsed Sir Guy at the far end of the field, just watching, his horse perfectly still. Chris wanted to get it over with, but his horse was wild. Angry and frustrated, he yanked hard at the reins one final time. "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, go go, will you?"

At this, the horse snapped his head up and down in two swift motions. The ears went flat.

And he charged.

Marek watched the charge tensely. He had not told Chris everything; there was no point in frightening him any more than necessary. But certainly Sir Guy would try to kill Chris, which meant he would aim his lance for the head. Chris was bouncing wildly in the saddle, his lance jerking up and down, his body swaying from side to side. He made a poor target, but if Guy was skilled-and Marek had no doubt that he was-then he would still aim for the head, risking a miss on the first pa.s.s in order to make the fatal hit.

He watched Chris jolt down the field, precariously hanging in the saddle. And he watched Sir Guy charging toward him, in perfect control, body leaning forward, lance couched in the crook of the arm.

Well, Marek thought, there was at least a chance that Chris would survive.

Chris could not see much of anything. Lurching wildly in the saddle, he had only blurred views of the stands, the ground, the other rider coming toward him. From his brief glimpses, he could not estimate how far away Guy was, or how long until the impact. He heard the thundering hoofbeats of his horse, the rhythmic snorting breath. He bounced in the saddle and tried to hold on to his lance. Everything was taking much longer than he expected. He felt as if he had been riding this horse for an hour.

At the last moment, he saw Guy very close, rus.h.i.+ng up to him at frightful speed, and then his own lance recoiled in his hand, slamming painfully into his right side, and simultaneously he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder and an impact that twisted him sideways in the saddle, and he heard the crack! crack! of splintering wood. of splintering wood.

The crowd roared.

His horse raced onward, to the far end of the field. Chris was dazed. What had happened? His shoulder burned fiercely. His lance had been snapped in two.

And he was still sitting in the saddle.

s.h.i.+t.

Marek watched unhappily. It was bad luck; the impact had been too glancing to unseat Chris. Now they would have to charge another time. He glanced over at Sir Guy, who was cursing as he pulled a fresh lance from the hands of the pages, wheeling his horse, preparing to charge again.

At the far end of the field, Chris was again trying to get control of his new lance, which swung wildly in the air like a metronome. At last he brought it down across the saddle, but the horse was still twisting and bucking.

Guy was humiliated and angry. He was impatient, and did not wait. Kicking his spurs, he charged down the field.

You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Marek thought.

The crowd roared in surprise at the one-sided attack. Chris heard it, and saw that Guy was already galloping toward him at full speed. His own horse was still twisting and unruly. He jerked on the reins and at that moment heard a thwack thwack as one of the grooms whipped his horse on the hindquarters. as one of the grooms whipped his horse on the hindquarters.

The horse whinnied. The ears flattened.

He charged down the field.

The second charge was worse-because this time, he knew what was coming.

The impact slammed him, streaking pain across his chest, as he was lifted bodily up into the air. Everything became slow. He saw the saddle moving away from him, then the horse's rear flanks revealed as he slid away, and then he was tilted back, staring up at sky.

He smashed onto the ground, flat on his back. His head clanged against the helmet. He saw bright blue spots, which spread and grew larger, then became gray. He heard Marek in his ear: "Now stay there!" "Now stay there!"

Somewhere he heard distant trumpets as the world faded gently, easily into blackness.

At the far end of the course, Guy was wheeling his horse to prepare for another charge, but already the trumpets had sounded for the next pair.

Marek lowered his lance, kicked his horse, and galloped forward. He saw his opposite, Sir Charles de Gaune, racing toward him. He heard the steady rumble of the horse, the building roar of the crowd-they knew this would be good-as he raced forward. This horse was running incredibly fast. Sir Charles charged forward, equally fast.

According to the medieval texts, the great challenge of the joust was not to carry the lance, or to aim it at this target or that. The challenge was to hold the line of the charge and not to veer away from the impact-not to give in to the panic that swept over nearly every rider as he galloped toward his opponent.

Marek had read the old texts, but now he suddenly understood them: he felt s.h.i.+very and loose, weak in his limbs, his thighs trembling as he squeezed his mount. He forced himself to concentrate, to focus, to line up his lance with Sir Charles. But the tip of his lance whipped up and down as he charged. He raised it from the pommel, couched it in the crook of his arm. Steadier. His breathing was better. He felt his strength return. He lined up. Eighty yards now.

Charging hard.

He saw Sir Charles adjust his lance, angling it upward. He was going for the head. Or was it a feint? Jousting riders were known to change their aim at the last moment. Would he?

Sixty yards.

The head strike was risky if both riders were not aiming for it. A straight lance to the torso would impact a fraction of a second sooner than a lance to the head: it was a matter of the angles. The first impact would move both riders, making the head strike less certain. But a skilled knight might extend his lance farther forward, taking it out of couched position, to get six or eight inches of extra length, and thus the first impact. You had to have enormous arm strength to absorb the instant of impact, and control the lance as it socked back, so the horse would bear the brunt; but you were more likely to throw off the opponent's aim and timing.

Fifty yards.

Sir Charles still held his lance high. But now he couched it, leaning forward in the saddle. He had more control of the lance now. Would he feint again?

Forty yards.

There was no way to know. Marek decided to go for the chest strike. He put his lance in position. He would not move it again.

Thirty yards.

He heard the thunder of hooves, the roar of the crowd. The medieval texts warned, "Do not close your eyes at the moment of impact. Keep your eyes open to make the hit."

Twenty yards.

His eyes were open.

Ten.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d raised his lance.

He was going for the head.

Impact.

The crack of wood sounded like a gunshot. Marek felt a pain in his left shoulder, stabbing upward and hard. He rode on to the end of the course, dropped his shattered lance, extended his hand out for another. But the pages were just staring at the field behind him.

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, "a.s.shole" 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 back-swing, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 thunk as Guy's head struck the front of the helmet. as Guy's head struck the front of the helmet.

Immediately, Marek flipped his sword over and slammed the b.u.t.t 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.