Authors: Ron Miller
The page finally arrived with her armor. She had it taken to a tent where, with Marfisa’s gravely silent help, she quickly shrugged out of the hated dress and hurriedly donned her tunic, leggings, brunia and helmet. When she returned to the lists, Rashid had already begun fighting Rodomont.
Hooves pounding the ground like an avalanche, the two horses rushed at one another, their enormous heads steady, their eyes blazing like lanterns, their breaths steaming and chugging like blacksmith’s forges.
At the collision the lances shattered like icicles, the staves spinning into the air like wounded birds. The Saracen’s lance, even though it struck Rashid’s shield squarely, had little effect on steel that Vulcan himself had personally forged for Hector. On the other hand, Rashid’s lance easily pierced Rodomont’s shield—nearly four inches of steel-encased bone. If Rashid’s lance hadn’t burst into splinters at the impact it would certainly have driven on through the other’s helmet like an arrow through an apple.
The force of the impact had driven both horses back onto their cruppers. Digging their spurs into the animals’ flanks as they simultaneously drew their swords, the knights urged the stunned beasts to rise.
The swordfight was graceless, brutal and fierce. Bradamant felt every blow as though she were receiving it herself; her body jerked and shuddered in sympathy with Rashid’s; her heart thudded in syncopation and she was certain that it, too, gave off hot sparks in sympathy with every clash of the swords.
Rodomont was not wearing his old armor, which was still hanging—so far as Bradmant knew—on the rock where he had disdainfully discarded it after she had defeated him. He was therefore without his accustomed breastplate of impenetrable dragon hide nor was he wielding Nimrod’s unbeatable sword. His new armor was the best he could obtain, however, though not of course as good as his original—not that it mattered all that much, since the best steel in the world could hardly have resisted Balisard’s edge, against which neither magic, enchantment, fineness of metal nor temper were of any avail. While Rodomont was aware of this flaw, he had counted on his skill and overwhelming strength to overcome this obstacle—and was shocked to discover how quickly the other knight had penetrated his guard and drew blood.
Seeing red seeping from half a dozen gashes in his armor and the ease with which Rashid had caused this to happen and his own powerlessness at preventing it, Rodomont went mad with fury. He threw his shield away and began to rain two-handed blows onto his enemy, as though he were a woodcutter faced with felling an ancient oak before an hourglass ran out. With the tremendous, unrelenting power of a pile driver, delivered with every ounce of his tremendous weight, Rodomont forced Rashid to fall backwards, trying to shield his helmet from blows that in spite of its supernatural resistance would have split it like a melon. Twice Rashid nearly fell from his saddle; the effort to regain his balance opened him to an even more vicious pummeling as Rodomont increased the savagery of his attack, taking advantage of his opponent’s lack of balance, hoping to get in a fatal blow before Rashid could regain his wits. But as fine a sword as Rodomont possessed, it couldn’t withstand such hammering and finally shattered, leaving the Saracen suddenly and unexpectedly disarmed.
Rodomont didn’t hesitate for a moment and before Rashid, hidden behind his shield, knew anything was amiss, pounced onto Rashid like a tiger onto a tethered goat, wrapping one powerful arm around his neck. The momentum of the impact tore Rashid from his saddle and both men tumbled to the earth with a crash that Bradamant felt through the soles of her boots—it seemed to knock her breath from her.
No sooner had Rodomont fallen atop his opponent then he knelt on the stunned man’s back and by pulling back Rashid’s helmet began to strangle him with its broad leather strap.
Bradamant, with a shriek, tore herself from the hands that restrained her, leaped the barrier that marked the boundary of the lists and, sword swinging in a flaming disk above her head, charged the man who was killing her lover.
Rodomont, glancing up at her cry, calmly continued throttling Rashid, not releasing the man until Bradamant was only a few yards away. Without changing his maddeningly fixed supercilious smile he stood, took his horse’s reins and swung the animal between himself and the charging girl. Bradamant was forced to dodge the horse, losing the momentum of her attack and also losing sight, for a moment, of her enemy. Hampered by her helmet and the perspiration that poured into her eyes, she suddenly felt panic—an emotion frightening in its unfamiliarity—even more frightening in its strangeness. It was no doubt her fear for Rashid transmogrified, though that perhaps was too subtle to occur to her at the moment.
“D’you think you can fight me alone?” the huge knight shouted.
“It’s all it took once,” she replied.
The horse wheeled, forcing her a step back just as Rodomont, still clutching the hilt of his broken sword, leaped from behind the animal and struck her helmet a ringing blow—another would have driven her to her knees had she not instinctively swung her own sword, catching Rodomont in his unprotected side. Given just this briefest respite, Bradamant was able to reestablish her position. Her intention for the nonce was merely to keep her opponent in play and at arm’s length—she wasn’t anxious to get into a close grapple with someone as large and powerful as Rodomont—he was more than a full head taller and half again as broad as she and no doubt outweighed her by twofold. He still had the pommel and guard of his broken sword and with that he was easily parrying her every feint. She could see his sides and thighs glistening with blood running from a dozen wounds; she knew he would eventually weaken enough that he would either be forced to surrender or she would be able to close enough with him to kill with a single blow.
Suddenly, Rodomont raised his fist and threw the hilt at her with all the tremendous force of his back and arm, like a stone from a trebuchet. The heavy, blunt pommel hit Bradamant on her cheek, which she heard crack sickeningly. She tottered with the shock, surprise and pain. Rodomont, seeing her about to fall, stepped forward, his hands stretched out to grasp her sword arm, but his right foot, drenched with blood, turned under him and he fell to one knee. Bradamant instinctively and immediately swung her sword into him like a batter catching a fast ball. Rodomont raised his arm to protect his neck and face and Bradamant’s following blows—made with a sword that was excellent but nowhere near the caliber of Balisard—merely glanced off the black armor with dazzling showers of sparks. Still, she hammered him with such ferocity that he could do little else but try to shield his most vulnerable joints. Little by little, however, in spite of the violence of Bradamant’s attack, the huge knight managed to rise to his feet. Seeing that Bradamant in her rage had pressed too closely, he threw himself onto her, grappling her arms, pinning them to her sides as though in the grips of a vise. He lifted her from the ground and Bradamant could hear her ribs crackling and groaning under the pressure, like the ribs of an ice-bound ship. She gasped as the breath was squeezed from her lungs and she felt black panic as she was unable to replace it. She cried out with the pain and Rodomont only laughed.
Bradamant gritted her teeth and, remembering the blood that streamed from the gaping holes in the man’s armor, kicked out against where she thought the wounds might be. With the third kick she felt her mailed toes sink deeply into torn flesh. Rodomont screamed from the pain. His grip slackened and in that moment she was able to get her knees bent and her feet against his thighs. With a powerful shove she forced herself out of his grasp, falling backwards to the earth with a thud that sent razors of pain through her tortured ribs.
Rodomont, insanely angry, picked her up from the ground by her neck and shook her as a terrier would a rat. Again she kicked out and heard a cry of agony. This time Rodomont did not release her but instead squeezed her larynx like someone trying to wring the last drop of juice from an orange. She could feel the cartilage cracking and the first black suggestion of death oozed, muddling her resolve like the cloud of ink from a frightened octopus. As Rodomont’s face began to dissolve into a crimson blur, Bradamant slammed her mailed hands against his ears with a force that would have cracked a coconut like an egg. Blood spurted from the crushed organs and she hit him again, straight-armed. full in the face, as though his nose were a walnut she was trying to pulverize. Rodomont had no choice but to drop her and she fell to the turf, nearly toppling from her feet as she gulped air that felt like molten glass pouring down her mangled throat.
Keeping her distance from the wounded man, Bradamant circled Rodomont like a wolf worrying an elk. She was gratified to see that his face had been transformed to a pulpy red mask. Without warning, she lunged at him, clutched him around the waist, pressing her face against his ribs and crossing her right leg over his left knee. She pushed with all the force she had remaining and the black knight fell onto his back with such violence that blood squirted in jets from every wound, like an over-soaked sponge dropped onto a floor, spraying the green grass for two or three yards in every direction. Bradamant instantly pressed her knees against his arms while one hand was at the man’s throat and the other held the point of a dagger between his eyes.
In the gold mines of Panonia or Cordova it will sometimes happen that a cave-in will so crush those whose greed brought them there that even their immaterial souls can scarcely find an opening through which they can escape. No less completely was the King of Algiers crushed by Bradamant’s weight.
She pricked the bridge of his ruined nose with the point of her dagger and watched as the drop of blood ran into one of his eyes.
“Surrender,” she gasped. “Surrender and I’ll see your life spared.”
“I’d find your mercy harder to bear than death,” he snarled in reply, struggling to rise, but failing against the steel point and the inability to raise his arms. “Kill me! Kill me rather than make me a coward!” he cried.
“You have made yourself what you are!”
He spat at her and cursed, and Bradamant was reminded of a mastiff she’d once seen struggling with the teeth of a boar-hound buried in its throat, fighting violently, twisting from side to side, its red eyes rolling vainly, bloody foam spraying from its lips—but still failing to overcome the victor’s grip, who surpassed him in strength at least if not fury.
Still Rodomont twisted and fought, thrashing about so violently that it was all Bradamant could do to maintain her place on his chest, gripping with her thighs until she could feel the man’s ribs giving way beneath them; therefore she did not see him finally manage to twist an arm free and draw his own dagger from his belt. She suddenly felt an unbearable agony in her left thigh, as though a white hot poker had been plunged into the soft flesh. Hissing from the pain she saw Rodomont’s bloody blade plunging toward her again and without another thought she raised her own dagger and with every remaining ounce of energy buried the slim blade in the black knight’s forehead. She jerked it free. As though she had lanced a festering wound a fountain of black blood gushed steaming into her eyes. A second time and a third she stabbed the snarling, hated face with all the strength remaining to her, finally leaving the blade buried to the hilt between the sightless eyes.
Released from the lifeless body, Rodomont’s angry soul, once so proud and arrogant, fell blaspheming onto the dark banks of the Acheron.
FINIS
AFTERWORD
In which we return to Melissa’s Prophecy
The author of this history would like nothing better than to report that Bradamant and Rashid lived happily ever after . . . but this was not to be. Rashid lived only seven years after their marriage, and during much of that time the couple was separated as each was called upon to join in this or that adventure. He was eventually assassinated by the pitiless and malicious Maganza clan, in revenge for the death of Bertolai at his hands and the death of Pinabel at hers. No one knew about this for some months, however, because the villains had buried him in the same remote Alpine defile where he had been ambushed. Eventually Bradamant and Marfisa discovered the truth and rode after Rashid’s murderers, even though the former was heavy with child by that time.
As much as Bradamant resented the delay, she finally had to concede to nature and look for a place to bear her child. Eventually they found themselves between the Adige and the Brenta, which flows at the foot of those same soft hills and meadows that Antenor the Trojan willingly accepted in exchange for Mount Ida, Lake Ascanius and the river Xanthus—places that he’d loved above all others—and there she bore Rashid his son, in a forest not far from the Phrygian Ateste.
She named this son Rashid, of course.
As she was lying there in that mossy bower, nursing her newborn child, the spirit of Rashid appeared to her. He named his murderers and led Bradamant and his sister to the spot where his body had been hidden. She and Marfisa then rode to the west of Frankland, where the seat of the Ganelon branch of the evil Maganza family lay, and together they so thoroughly obliterated the whole of the city of Ponthieu that forever after no one was able to find it even on the most detailed of maps. A scant remainder of that clan escaped the fate of their comrades only because Bradamant and Marfisa died before the job was complete, but young Rashid, when he came of age, assumed their task and finally eradicated the last of the Manganzese, avenging not only his father but his mother and aunt as well.