R. Salvatore - The Highwayman

"Onward!" Prince Prydae cried, and he lifted his sword high into the air and led the charge straight ahead and down the rocky slope. They swept into the gully, then turned south.

"Find defensible ground!" Bannagran ordered. He sent a couple of men up the slope in the east, farther from the battle, to ensure that no more powries could rush to join the fray. Wouldn't the Holding of Pryd bury more than a few of her menfolk if powries on ridge lines east and west caught them holding the low ground in between!

Before Prydae's forces could position themselves, the dwarves above to the west, apparently seeing the vise closing about them, began to break ranks and came charging back down the slope.

"Tight groups!" Prince Prydae cried. "See to your kin!"

Half the dwarves tumbled in their flight down the steep ground, but if that bothered the hardy, barrel-chested folk, they didn't show it. Like stones rolling, they hit the lines of the men of Pryd.

One dwarf came up before Prydae and launched an overhead swing, but Bannagran, standing beside his friend, brought his own axe across to intercept, catching the dwarf's axe just under its head and holding it fast.

Prince Prydae wasted no time but stabbed straight out through the opening, driving his sword deeply into the powrie's chest. The dwarf staggered back but did not fall.

Prydae jerked hard on the sword, then pulled it free and struck again, a fountain of powrie blood washing over his arm.

But still the dwarf didn't fall, and the vicious creature even tried to swing its axe now that Bannagran had retracted his blocking blade.

Bannagran was the quicker, though, his axe thumping hard into the dwarf beside the embedded sword. The powrie staggered backward, sliding off Prydae's blade and stumbling to the ground.

Prydae turned to congratulate his friend, but the words caught in his throat as he realized that Bannagran was in trouble: a pair of dwarves were stabbing and slashing at him, forcing him to stumble sideways. Without even considering the danger, Prydae swept past his friend, his short sword stabbing hard at one powrie and driving it back. Across he swung, his iron blade ringing against the bronze sword of the other dwarf, which snapped at the hilt.

The powrie threw the pommel against Prydae's face, but the prince only shouted all the louder and charged in, stabbing with abandon.

He felt Bannagran rush behind him to finish the other dwarf.

When both powries finally fell, Bannagran clapped Prydae on the shoulder, and the two spun, looking to see where they could fit into the continuing brawl. One group of Pryd men nearby was sorely pressed by a trio of dwarves-until the prince and his champion leaped into the fray.

Prydae paused and glanced up the slope, to see the men of Ethelbert Holding cutting the remaining dwarves into smaller and smaller groups. More and more of those powries broke and ran. "Come along then, Laird Ethelbert," Prydae muttered under his breath, for if the army of the southeastern holding didn't immediately pursue, he and his men would be even more sorely pressed.

And at first it did seem as if the men of Ethelbert would hold their defensive position on the high ground.

"Come along!" Prydae shouted in frustration, for he knew that every second of hesitation would cost a Pryd man his life. "Come along!"

Laird Ethelbert himself appeared among the ranks on the ridge line, scanning the unexpected fighting down below. He locked eyes with Prydae then. Smiling and nodding, he ordered his men down to the aid of their Pryd comrades.

Their charge shook the ground, a continual thunderous rumble amid the flashing storm. Powries broke left and right; some tried to cross the ranks of Prydae's men, all in a desperate effort now to get away.

And many did escape, but many did not, their blood running with the rainwater along the stones of the gully.

Through it all, Bannagran and Prydae kept on the move, joining wherever the human line seemed in danger of breaking, standing strong over fallen friends to keep the deadly dwarves at bay.

When it was done, Bannagran held a handful of berets out to Prydae, but the prince smiled and shook his head. "I have enough of my own this time."

Bannagran returned that smile and nodded. Between his work and that of his liege, nine powries had been sent to the otherworldly halls of their ferocious gods.

"Take the ridge to the east!" Bannagran ordered the men of Pryd. "No retreat to the west! One less gully to cross on our march to the sea!"

Those men who were able trudged up the slick eastern slope and began settling in among the many large rocks. Prydae remained in the gully, moving among the injured, offering comfort and calling for brothers of Abelle to come with their healing gemstones. He stayed with one gutted man-a boy, really, of about fifteen winters. Prydae took the boy's hand in his own and locked stares. He could see the terror there.

"I'm dying, my prince," the boy gasped, blood accompanying every word out of his mouth.

"Priests!" Prydae cried.

"Won't do no good," said the boy. "Prince Prydae, are you there? Prince Prydae?"

"I am here," Prydae yelled at the boy, who no longer seemed to be seeing in the land of the living. Prydae clutched the hand tighter and called again, desperate to let this young warrior know that he would not die alone.

"Oh, but it's cold, my prince," the boy cried. "Oh, where'd you go, then?" His hand fumbled, clasping and pulling Prydae's. Prydae tried to call back to him, to offer some words of comfort, but his voice caught behind the lump in his throat.

"My prince, it's so dark and so cold. I cannot feel my feet or my arms. It's all cold."

A shiver coursed Prydae's spine.

The boy rambled on for a short while, grabbing frantically at Prydae's arms, while the prince tried to soothe him and tried hard not to let his voice break. Then suddenly the lad quieted, and he opened his eyes wide, his face a mask of surprise, it seemed. He gripped Prydae so tightly that the prince feared he would crush his forearm, but then that grip relented, and the boy's hand fell away.

A monk of Abelle arrived then, soul stone in hand. "Too late," Prince Prydae said to him, and he placed the boy's hand on his chest.

The monk stared at the Prince of Pryd. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was tending another…" He started to point back along the gully, but Prydae stopped him-and when he grabbed the monk's arm, the prince saw that his own hand was dripping with blood.

"You could have done nothing for him anyway," he said as if it did not matter, and in his heart, Prince Prydae knew that he could not allow it to matter. "The wound was too great."

"I am sorry," said the monk, and Prydae nodded and rose. He started to walk away, but hesitated there for some time, looking at the dead boy, remembering his own past adventures a decade before, when he was more slender, when his eyes held a youthful luster, and when he thought he could conquer the whole world.

"We lost seven more, though it could go as high as a dozen," reported Bannagran, coming to his side. "And I am thinking that we should surrender that eastern ridge and pull back to the west, for we're out in front of the rest of the line."

"The southern men did not advance?"

"Laird Ethelbert retreated as soon as the last of the dwarves went out over the eastern ridge," Bannagran explained.

Prydae scanned to the west, his lips going very tight.

"And probably wise that he did," said Bannagran. "None of the other lairds saw fit to advance, and we'd all be sticking out like a spur begging to be clipped."

Prydae looked at him.

"Those powries are not fools, my liege. They could use the same twist on us that we just used against them. Sweep in behind us and cut us from our kin."