e to atone._

The company and the ground they defended grew steadily smaller as the
sun sank toward the west side of the valley. Even knowing that every
moment he fought was another infinitely precious moment of life, Daoud
felt a leaden weariness that made him wish the battle might soon end.

He struck out with his nicked and blunted saif against yet another
French knight, who seemed fresh and full of vigor while pain screamed in
his own shoulders and his legs felt ready to give way under him. But
there were no respites now. All Manfred's men still on their feet were
fighting. All their horses were fled from the field or dead.

Daoud reminded himself that when this battle ended he would be dead, and
he thrust upward with his saif to parry a longsword whose arc would have
ended in his skull.

Manfred was swinging his sword beside him. By fighting, Daoud thought,
they held off, not only their enemies, but the despair that he felt like
a dark tide within him, and that he knew Manfred must feel too.

He wondered whether Lorenzo had gotten through to the Tartars and killed
them. And if he had, would it make a difference?

A French knight with huge mustaches that disappeared under the sides of
his helmet swung a battle axe, and the Muslim warrior standing next to
Daoud was suddenly headless. A spray of blood splashed on Daoud.

He saw mounted knights pushing through the close-packed mass of shouting
Frenchmen. One on his right wore a red-painted helmet and brandished a
mace. On his left rode a knight whose helmet was adorned with some
fantastic winged animal.

"Surrender!" the knight with the beast on his helmet shouted. "You have
fought bravely. The battle is over. You will have good terms."

Daoud had just time to recognize the face under the helmet with a
strange feeling of gladness, as if meeting an old friend.

Simon de Gobignon.

"Not till I have crushed the viper!" And that, coming from the red
helmet that covered his face, was the deep voice of Cardinal Paulus de
Verceuil. All in red, he loomed over the struggle like a tower of fire.
So hard did he drive his charger through his own French knights that
some of them were knocked to the ground. Daoud even saw one fall under
the hooves of the cardinal's horse. Others scrambled out of the way.

The cardinal's war-horse reared up over Manfred, hooves flailing.
Manfred dodged back. The hooves came down, and the charger leapt
forward. Leaning out of the saddle,