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his perch, screaming as he tumbled to the ground and vanished beneath the weight of trampling hooves.
Arnault shouldered hard against Bartholeme and knocked him ?ying as well, just as the Black Knight
pronounced his last syllable of interdiction.
There was a thunderous blast. The ?eld of Bannockburn with all its butchery vanished in a hurricane roar.
When the chaos subsided, Arnault found himself crouched on hands and knees in the midst of a far-?ung
landscape of ?re and rock, where volcanic cinder cones rumbled and smoked in the distance and the air
was harsh with poisonous fumes. But the Shard was still locked in his ?ngers-which was as well, because
Bartholeme was also there, a few yards away, likewise picking himself up to round on Arnault in fury.
"You pious meddler!" he seethed. "Lucifer's vultures shall devour your soul!"
He made a summoning gesture with his ring hand, and a great airborne shape materialized on the burning
horizon, half-bird and half-serpent, striking out across the ?re-eaten landscape with massive beats of its
leathery wings. Arnault scrambled for safety in the shelter of a nest of boulders as the monster swooped
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to attack, its fanged jaws gaping wide. A hot gust of carrion breath wafted over him as the creature
rammed its snout against the rocks.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Arnault lifted the Shard toward the creature. A blue-white radiance
blazed forth in a pure, unsullied beam.
The serpent-bird drew back with a roar, spitting bile and venom. Brandishing the Shard before him,
Arnault rose from cover and thrust the light in the monster's face.
The creature's retreat was only momentary. Rearing up to its full height, it mantled its wings and attacked.
In desperation, Arnault thrust the Shard toward it again, to fend it off.
This time, like a sword in Arnault's hand, the beam of the Shard's light sheared a slash in one looming
wing, carving shadow like substance. Each cut left behind a gaping wound, but the creature itself
remained undiminished.
He was dimly aware of Bartholeme inciting the creature to attack, with raving curses. The Shard's light
remained his only weapon, and seemed to be growing dimmer as he continued to hold the monster at
bay. Watching it ?icker and wane, Arnault could only pray for fresh inspiration.
-and was answered by the sudden image in his mind of a rough block of stone: the Stone of Destiny!
Calling upon the sacri?cial blood bond he once had shared with William Wallace, Arnault reached
beyond himself, tapping into the far-off reservoirs of the Stone's power. At once, fresh energy ?owed
back into the Shard, which shone forth brighter than ever. And then, in further inspiration, Arnault
directed the beam, not at the demon serpent-bird but at the ring on Bartholeme's hand.
The move caught Bartholeme off guard. He recoiled with a howl, but not soon enough, for the beam of
holy light lanced through the arid air of the demon realm to strike the demon-ring with a searing crack.
The demon-stone shattered in a cascading shower of crimson ?ecks that exploded outward from the
shards. Caught in the backlash, without even a chance to cry out, Bartholeme disappeared in a web of
corrosive energies that consumed him down to the bone, leaving only a shadow of ash. The ground
heaved and cracked, sulfurous smoke belching from the rifts. Then came a rumbling roar, just before ?re
roared upward with a catastrophic boom.
The infernal plain broke apart in ?ames, and Arnault found himself suddenly spinning through space.
Broken images cartwheeled around him in a dizzying whirl. Vertigo took his breath away, and darkness
overwhelmed him.
An eternity of numb, ringing silence passed. Floating weightless in a sea of night, Arnault gradually
became aware of a distant dawning light that steadily broadened, banishing the darkness to the void
whence it had sprung. Then voices began to penetrate the silence, tantalizing snatches of conversation,
ebbing and ?owing.
". English are ?eeing. Let me go after them."
"Take sixty knights, no more. don't want to risk the enemy regrouping."
". found the dwarf trampled to pulp. I doubt any of them escaped."
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Arnault drew a deep breath and smelled the familiar camp reek of cooking, wet blankets, and horse
manure. Cracking his lids, he glimpsed ordinary ?relight.
"I think he's coming round," said a voice he recognized as Torquil's. "Arnault, are you with us?"
Arnault forced a nod, raking at dry lips with a furry tongue.
"The king-?" he managed to croak.
"The king, thanks to you, is not only uninjured, but victorious," said a second voice-that of Bruce himself.
Arnault forced his eyes wide open, though it was almost too much effort. He was lying, he discovered, in
one of the hospital tents-and his right hand was still locked around the Shard. The darkness outside
suggested that many hours had passed since the Templars' encounter with their enemies
on the hilltop.
"The battle's over?" he asked.
"Not only the battle, but probably the war itself," Bruce said. "The English are utterly routed. From this
day, Scotland is once again a free nation-and if you'll pardon me, I have kingly duties to perform."
He took his leave. Arnault turned his head to Torquil. "What about our men?"
"Three killed, a dozen more wounded," Torquil supplied. "The good news is that the Black Knights have
been all but eliminated. The few that escaped are on the run. Aubrey, Flannan, and Breville have gone
after them, to see them off."
Arnault drew a deep breath, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest. "I feel as if I could
sleep for a week," he murmured.
"Rest easy then," Torquil advised. "We'll talk more in the morning."
Leaving his superior sleeping, Torquil went in search of Robert Bruce. He was told that the king had
repaired to St. Ninian's Church, where he found a dozen men from Bruce's retinue keeping watch
outside. Entering, he discovered the king kneeling in prayer beside the body of his late adversary, the Earl
of Gloucester.
"Sire?" Torquil called softly, before approaching closer.
Crossing himself, Bruce rose and greeted Torquil with a grim smile. Motioning the Templar to remain, he
gestured with his chin toward the still ?gure laid out on a makeshift bier.
"He was only twenty-three years old," he noted re?ectively, "a rash, hotblooded youth with more
romance than sense in his soul. I'm sorry he died so young. I regret that we had to ?ght this battle-but
Edward's pride and obstinacy left us no choice."
He drew a breath. "For eight long years, I have told the Scottish people that as long as but a hundred of
us remain alive, never will we on any condition be brought under English rule. I have told them that it is
not in truth for glory, nor riches, nor honor that we ?ght, but for freedom-which no honest man gives up
but with life itself. I mean to nurture and cherish that freedom as much from this day onward as ever in
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any time in the past."
Epilogue
June 25-November 30, 1314
WHILE NEWS OF BRUCE`S VICTORY AT BANNOCKBURN WAS ?ying to the ends of
Scotland, the battered and humiliated remnants of the English army ?ed south toward the Border. King
Edward's defeat was abject and total. Harried from behind by the newly knighted Sir James Douglas and
a band of Scottish cavalry, the English monarch and his escort at last reached the temporary safety of
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