Chapter 21 - Demon Vs Legend
Artos stood over Prince Lewyn's corpse, his breath steaming in the cold air. Blood spattered his face like war paint, and the rage still burned hot in his chest. The Dornish spears around him seemed to blur together faceless enemies who had taken Hal from him, from Bert. His sword sang through the air, opening throats and piercing hearts with mechanical precision.
*Kill them all. Kill every last one.*
Another Dornishman fell, his scream cut short as steel found his neck. Then another. The snow beneath Artos's feet turned crimson, but still the rage demanded more blood.
Rick's vision cut through the red haze like a blade. Images flashed in his mind Barristan the Bold cutting through Umbers and Tallharts like wheat before a scythe. Good men dying while he lost himself to grief and fury.
The rage flickered, dimmed. Duty called louder than vengeance.
He turned to Stig, his voice hoarse from screaming. "See to Bert. Keep him alive." The words felt like ash in his mouth. He should be there, should share his friend's grief, but the battle would not wait for sorrow.
Stig nodded grimly, understanding passing between them without need for words. He knew what the twins meant to Artos what they all meant to each other.
Artos whistled sharp and low. Snow appeared through the chaos, her hooves thundering against the frozen ground. He vaulted onto her back and spurred her forward, toward the distant clash where Barristan's blade was reaping its bloody harvest.
The journey became a nightmare of steel and screaming. Enemies rose before him like waves, and he cut them down with savage efficiency. Each swing of his sword brought him closer to where his men were dying. Closer to where the legend himself was proving why songs were sung of his prowess.
Through the melee, he saw the Greatjon locked in combat with Ser Barristan. Jon Umber was a giant of a man, strong as an ox and twice as fierce, but even he was being driven back step by step. The white knight moved like water, his blade a silver blur that seemed to be everywhere at once.
Artos snatched a spear from a fallen Dornishman's grip and rose in his stirrups. "Jon! Back away!"
The Greatjon's trust was absolute. Without hesitation, he disengaged and rolled aside, knowing his friend would not call retreat without good reason.
The spear left Artos's hand like a bolt from a crossbow. It flew true and fast, but Barristan Selmy had not survived a dozen battles by luck alone. The knight twisted with serpentine grace, the spear's point barely kissing his helm before spinning it from his head. Gray-streaked hair whipped free in the wind.
Barristan stepped back with measured calm, positioning himself to face both northmen while keeping his footing sure on the treacherous ground. His pale blue eyes missed nothing not the way Artos favored his right shoulder, not the exhaustion that lined the Greatjon's face.
Artos slid from Snow's back, his boots crunching in the blood-soaked snow. The legendary knight was wounded a rent in his mail showed dark blood beneath, and his breathing came harder than it should. But Artos was no better. His shoulder screamed with each movement, the old wound torn fresh by battle's demands.
Before he could press his advantage, more royal knights came thundering through the chaos. They'd recognized the danger if Barristan fell here, it would break the royalist flank like a dam bursting.
A look passed between Artos and the Greatjon. Years of fighting together had taught them to speak without words.
"Uncle!" the Greatjon bellowed to Mors Umber. "Form ranks! Keep those bastards off our backs!"
The Umbers surged forward like a gray tide, meeting the royal knights with savage joy. Steel rang on steel as the two forces collided, but Artos had eyes only for the man before him.
"Ser Barristan." Artos raised his voice to be heard over the din. "My father always said you are the best blade in the Seven Kingdoms. He was never wrong about combat matters."
The old knight's weathered face showed something almost like regret. "Lord Rickard was a good man. It's a pity that he died as he did. It grieves me more that I must cross swords with his son."
"Aye, it's a pity." Artos drew Ice from its sheath, the Valyrian steel singing its quiet song. "Had he been granted a fair trial, you might have fought for him yourself."
Barristan inclined his head fractionally. "Perhaps."
They began to circle each other like wolves, feet sure despite the treacherous footing. Around them, the battle raged on Umbers dying with curses on their lips, royal knights falling with prayers. But here, in this small circle of trampled snow, there was only the ancient dance of steel on steel.
Barristan struck first, his blade moving faster than a viper's tongue. Artos barely got Ice up in time, the impact sending lightning through his wounded shoulder. He bit back a cry and riposted, but the white knight was already gone, flowing around his guard like quicksilver.
*Seven hells, he's fast.*
For the first time in years, Artos felt the cold touch of fear. Even wounded and weary, Barristan the Bold was everything the songs claimed. His technique was flawless, his experience vast as the narrow sea. Every movement served a purpose, every feint carried deadly intent.
They traded a flurry of blows that would have left lesser men headless on the ground. Ice's keen edge sought gaps in Barristan's defense while the white knight's sword wove patterns of death in the air between them. Neither gave ground, neither showed quarter.
But Artos could feel his strength ebbing like blood from a wound. The shoulder injury was taking its toll, making each swing agony. He'd been fighting since dawn, had dueled Prince Lewyn and carved his way through a score of enemies. Even youth and fury had limits.
Time for desperate measures.
Artos suddenly abandoned all technique, throwing himself into a wild series of attacks that used Ice's superior reach to maximum advantage. The moves were reckless, leaving him open to counters, but they were also unpredictable. His shoulder screamed in protest, but he pressed on, knowing this was his only chance.
Barristan gave ground for the first time, his eyes sharp as he read the desperation in the assault. He created space with each backward step, looking for the opening that must surely come.
It came sooner than expected. Artos feinted high, then brought Ice around in a vicious horizontal slash that would have taken the knight's head clean off. As Barristan ducked, Artos's left hand flicked forward, sending a dagger spinning toward the older man's face.
For a heartbeat, Artos thought he had him. But Barristan jerked his head aside at the last instant, the blade scoring a line across his left cheek and taking the top of his ear with it. Blood streamed down his neck, but he was very much alive.
"Seven bloody hells," Artos breathed.
The white knight came at him like an avalanche, sword work suddenly vicious as a winter storm. Artos tried to bring Ice up, but his shoulder finally failed him. The great sword slipped from nerveless fingers as agony flared white-hot through his arm.
He rolled desperately to one side as Barristan's blade split the air where his head had been. His hand closed around a fallen short sword , his left hand could still grip steel.
Barristan pulled up short, his breathing labored. "Yield, boy. You've fought with honor, but this ends now. No need to die for a cause already lost."
Artos laughed, the sound harsh as a raven's cry. "Lost? We'll see about that." He raised the shorter blade in his off-hand, the weight unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
Around them, the melee continued its deadly course. Mors Umber fell with three knights around him, but the Greatjon's roar of grief and rage took two of them down in return. Good men on both sides painted the snow red with their life's blood.
The duel resumed, but now the tide had truly turned. Artos could dual wield.Artos could fight left-handed years of training had seen to that but not well enough to match a legend. He gave ground steadily, parrying desperately as Barristan pressed his advantage with workmanlike efficiency.
Throwing daggers flew from Artos's belt, forcing brief respites. A hand axe spun end over end, making Barristan dance aside. Each missile bought him precious seconds, but they were finite. Soon he would have nothing left but steel and stubbornness.
'Buy them time. That's all you can do now.'
The realization came with strange peace. He couldn't win this fight, but he could make it costly. Every moment Barristan spent on him was a moment the knight wasn't cutting down his men. Every ounce of strength he drained from the legend was one less for the slaughter to come.
So Artos Stark fought on, parrying with desperate skill, attacking when opportunity offered the slightest chance. He bled from a dozen cuts, stumbled more than once, but did not fall. Would not fall.
Not while his men still needed him.
Not while there was still breath in his body and steel in his hand.
The dance of death continued.
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